The Ground was busy with riders urging their beasts down to help the weyrlings, or to escort guests of the Weyr back to their Holds. Most of the bronzes, of course, had gone with the new queen. Vast as the Hatching Ground was, its volume shrank with so many huge beasts around. Yet not even the disappointed candidates spared any interest for that one small remaining egg.

“There’s F’lar. He ought to be told, Lytol. Please!”

“He knows,” Lytol said, for F’lar had beckoned several of the brown riders to him and they were looking toward the little egg.

“Go, Lytol. Make them help it!”

“Small eggs can occur in any queen’s laying life,” Lytol said. “This is not my concern. Nor yours.”

He turned and began to make his way toward the steps, plainly certain that the boys would follow.

“But they’re not doing anything,” Jaxom muttered, rebelliously.

Felessan gave him a helpless shrug. “C’mon. We’ll be eating soon at this rate. And there’s all kinds of special things tonight.” He trotted after Lytol.

Jaxom looked back at the egg, now wildly rocking. “It just isn’t fair! They don’t care what happens to you. They care about that Brekke, but not you. Come on, egg. Crack your shell! Show ’em. One good crack and I’ll bet they’ll do something!”

Jaxom had edged along the tier until he was just over the little egg. It was rocking in time with his urgings now, but there was no one within a dragonlength. There was something frenzied about the way it rocked, too, that made Jaxom think the dragonet was desperate for help.

Without thinking, Jaxom swung over the wall and let himself drop to the sands. He could now see the minute striations on the shell, he could hear the frantic tapping within, observe the fissures spreading. As he touched the shell, it seemed like rock to him, it was so hard. No longer leathery as it had been the day of their escapade.

“No one else’ll help you. I will!” he cried and kicked the shell.

A crack appeared. Two more stout blows and the crack widened. A piteous cry inside was followed by the bright tip of the dragonet’s nose, which battered at the tough shell.

“You want to get born. Just like me. All you need is a little help, same as me,” Jaxom was crying, pounding at the crack with his fists. Thick pieces fell off, far heavier than the discarded shells of the other hatchlings.

“Jaxom, what are you doing?” someone yelled at him but it was too late.