Andemon stared at him. F’lar moved, grabbing a handful of soil from each tub as he circled, showing the grubs as proof.

“It’s impossible,” Andemon insisted, the shadow of his earlier fear returning.

“Don’t you recall, F’lar,” Lessa said, “when we first brought the grubs here, the plants did seem to droop?”

“They recovered. All they needed was water!”

“They couldn’t.” Andemon forgot his revulsion enough to dig into another tub as if to prove to himself that F’lar was wrong. “There’re no grubs in this one!” he said in triumph.

“That’s never had any. I used it to check the others. And I must say, the plants don’t look as green or healthy as the other tubs.”

Andemon stared around. “Those grubs are pests. We’ve been trying to rid ourselves of them for hundreds of Turns.”

“Then I suspect, good Master Andemon,” F’lar said with a gentle, rueful smile, “that farmers have been working against Pern’s best interests.”

The Masterfarmer exploded into indignant denials of that charge. It took all Robinton’s diplomacy to calm him down long enough for F’lar to explain.

“And you mean to tell me that those larvae, those grubs, were developed and spread on purpose?” Andemon demanded of the Harper, who was the only one in the room he seemed inclined to trust now. “They were meant to spread, bred by the same ancestors who bred the dragons?”

“That’s what we believe,” Robinton said. “Oh, I can appreciate your incredulity. I had to sleep on the notion for several nights. However, if we check the Records, we find that, while there is no mention that dragonmen will attack the Red Star and clear it of Thread, there is the strong, recurring belief that Thread will one day not be the menace it is now. F’lar is reasonably…”

“Not reasonably, Robinton; completely sure,” F’lar interrupted. “N’ton’s been going back to Southern—jumping between time, as far back as seven Turns, to check on Threadfalls in the southern continent. Wherever he’s probed, there’re grubs in the soil which rise when Thread falls and devour it. That’s why there have never been any burrows in Southern. The land itself is inimical to Thread.”

In the silence, Andemon stared at the tips of his muddy boots.

“In the Farmercrafthall Records, they mention specifically that we are to watch for these grubs.” He lifted troubled eyes to the others. “We always have. It was our plain duty. Plants wither wherever grub appears.” He shrugged in helpless confusion. “We’ve always rooted them out, destroyed the larval sacks with—” and he sighed, “flame and agenothree. That’s the only way to stop the infestations.