“You come early, and I’d hoped to have some progress to report on a distance-viewer,” he said, gesturing toward the sketch. Lessa and F’lar obediently inspected the series of lines and ovals, innocently white on the black wall. “It is regrettable that the construction of perfect equipment is dependent on the frailty of men’s minds and bodies. I apologize…”

“Why? It is barely morning,” F’lar replied with a droll expression. “I will give you until nightfall before I accuse you of inefficiency.”

Terry tried to smother a laugh; what came out was a slightly hysterical giggle.

They were all somewhat startled to hear the booming gargle that was Fandarel’s laugh. He nearly knocked F’lar down with a jovial slap on the shoulder blades as he whooped with mirth.

“You give me…until nightfall…before…inefficiency…” the Smith gasped between howls.

“The man’s gone mad. We’ve put too much of a strain on him,” F’lar told the others.

“Nonsense,” Lessa replied, looking at the convulsed Smith with small sympathy. “He hasn’t slept and if I know his single-mindedness, he hasn’t eaten. Has he, Terry?”

Terry plainly had to search his mind for an answer.

“Rouse your cooks, then. Even he,” and Lessa jerked her thumb at the exasperating Smith, “ought to stoke that hulk of his with food once a week.”

Her insinuation that the Smith was a dragon was not lost on Terry who this time began to laugh uncontrollably.

“I’ll rouse them myself. You’re all next to useless, you men,” she complained and started for the door.

Terry intercepted her, masterfully suppressing his laughter, and reached for a button in the base of a square box on the wall. In a loud voice he bespoke a meal for the Smith and four others.

“What’s that?” F’lar asked, fascinated. It didn’t look capable of sending a message all the way to Telgar.

“Oh, a loudspeaker. Very efficient,” Terry said with a wry grin, “if you can’t bellow like the Craftmaster. We have them in every hall. Saves a lot of running around.”

“One day I will fix it so that we can channel the message to the one area we want to speak to.” The Smith added, wiping his eyes, “Ah, but a man can sleep anytime. A laugh restores the soul.”

“Is that the distance-writer you’re going to demonstrate for us?” asked the Weyrleader, frankly skeptical.

“No, no, no,” Fandarel reassured him, dismissing the accomplishment almost irritably and striding to a complex arrangement of wires and ceramic pots. “This is my distance-writer!”

It was difficult for Lessa and F’lar to see anything to be proud of in that mystifying jumble.

“The wallbox looks more efficient,” F’lar said at length, bending to test the mixture in a pot with a finger.

The Smith struck his hand away.