She frowned, took a quick breath, and then let it go, shrugging.

“Go on,” he encouraged her.

“Well, isn’t it possible that our conviction about the imminence of the Threads could stem from one of us coming back when the Threads are actually falling? I mean . . .”

“My dear girl, we have both analyzed every stray thought and action—even your dream this morning upset you, although it was no doubt due to all the wine you drank last night—until we wouldn’t know an honest presentiment if it walked up and slapped us in the face.”

“I can’t dismiss the thought that this between times ability is of crucial value,” she said emphatically.

“That, my dear Weyrwoman, is an honest presentiment.”

“But why?”

“Not why,” he corrected her cryptically. “When.” An idea stirred vaguely in the back of his mind. He tried to nudge it out where he could mull it over. Mnementh announced that F’nor was entering the weyr.

“What’s the matter with you?” F’lar demanded of his half brother, for F’nor was choking and sputtering, his face red with the paroxysm.

“Dust . . .” he coughed, slapping at his sleeves and chest with his riding gloves. “Plenty of dust, but no Threads,” he said, describing a wide arc with one arm as he fluttered his fingers suggestively. He brushed his tight wher-hide pants, scowling as a fine black dust drifted off.

F’lar felt every muscle in his body tense as he watched the dust float to the floor.

“Where did you get so dusty?” he demanded.

F’nor regarded him with mild surprise. “Weather patrol in Tillek. Entire north has been plagued with dust storms lately. But what I came in for . . .” He broke off, alarmed by F’lar’s taut immobility. “What’s the matter with dust?” he asked in a baffled voice.

F’lar pivoted on his heel and raced for the stairs to the Record Room. Lessa was right behind him, F’nor belatedly trailing after.

“Tillek, you said?” F’lar barked at his wingsecond. He was clearing the table of stacks for the four charts he then laid out. “How long have these storms been going on? Why didn’t you report them?”

“Report dust storms? You wanted to know about warm air masses.”

“How long have these storms been going on?” F’lar’s voice crackled.

“Close to a week.”

“How close?”

“Six days ago the first storm was noticed in upper Tillek. They have been reported in Bitra, Upper Telgar, Crom, and the High Reaches,” F’nor reported tersely.

He glanced hopefully at Lessa but saw she, too, was staring at the four unusual charts. He tried to see why the horizontal and vertical strips had been superimposed on Pern’s land mass, but the reason was beyond him.

F’lar was making hurried notations, pushing first one map and then another away from him.

“Too involved to think straight, to see clearly, to understand,” the Weyrleader snarled to himself, throwing down the stylus angrily.