“Go on,” F’nor urged when she broke off. “What kind of a sensation?” Was Wirenth about to rise? Brekke seemed to remain untouched by so many disturbances, a serene competent personality, tranquilly keeping the Weyr going, healing the wounded. For her to admit to uncertainty was disturbing.

As if she caught his thoughts, she shook her head, her lips set in a fierce line.

“No, it’s not personal. It’s just that everything is going awry—disorienting, changing…”

“Is that all? Didn’t I hear you suggesting a minor change or two? Letting a girl Impress a fighting dragon? Handing out fire-lizards to placate the common mass?”

“That’s change. I’m talking about a disorientation, a violent upheaval…”

“And your suggestions don’t rank under that heading? Oh, my dear girl,” and F’nor suddenly gave her a long, penetrating look. Something in her candid gaze disturbed him deeply.

“Kylara pestering you?”

Brekke’s eyes slid from his and she shook her head.

“I told you, Brekke, you can request other bronzes. Someone from another Weyr, N’ton of Benden or B’dor of Ista…That would shut Kylara up.”

Brekke shook her head violently, but kept her face averted. “Don’t keep foisting your friends on me!” Her voice was sharp. “I like Southern. I’m needed here.”

“Needed? You’re being shamelessly exploited and not just by Southerners!”

She stared at him, as surprised by the impulsive outburst as he was. For one moment he thought he understood why, but her eyes became guarded and F’nor wondered what Brekke could want to hide.

“The need is more apparent than the exploitation. I don’t mind hard work,” she said in a low voice and popped a piece of meat into the brown’s wide-open mouth. “Don’t rob me of what fragile contentment I can contrive.”

“Contentment?”

“Sssh. You’re agitating the lizards.”

“They’ll survive. They fight. The trouble with you, Brekke, is that you won’t. You deserve so much more than you get. You don’t know what a kind, generous, useful—oh, shells!” and F’nor broke off in confusion.

“Useful, worthwhile, wholesome, capable, dependable, the list is categoric, F’nor, I know the entire litany,” Brekke said with a funny little catch in her voice. “Rest assured, my friend, I know what I am.”

There was such a bitterness in her light words, and such a shadow in her usually candid green eyes that F’nor could not tolerate it. To erase that self-deprecation, to make amends for his own maladroitness, F’nor leaned across the table to kiss her on the lips.

He meant it as no more than a guerdon and was totally unprepared for the reaction in himself, in Brekke. Or for Canth’s distant bugle.