“Now, Master Andemon, the Harper will assist you all he can. You know your people better than we—you’ll know whom you can tell. I urge you to discuss it with your trusted Masters. The more the better. We can’t lose this opportunity for lack of disciples. We might be forced to wait until your Oldtimers die off.” F’lar laughed wryly. “I guess the Weyrs are not the only ones to contend with Oldtimers; we’ve all got re-education to do.”

“Yes, there will be problems.” The magnitude of the undertaking had suddenly burst on the Masterfarmer.

“Many,” F’lar assured him blithely. “But the end result is freedom from Thread.”

“It could take Turns and Turns,” Andemon said, catching F’lar’s glance and, as if that consoled him somehow, straightened his shoulders. He was committed to the project.

“And well may take Turns. First,” and F’lar grinned with pure mischief in his eyes, “we’ve got to stop you farmers from exterminating our saviors.”

An expression of pure shock and indignation passed across Andemon’s weather-lined face. It was swiftly replaced by a tentative smile as the man realized that F’lar was ribbing him. Evidently an unusual experience for the Masterfarmer.

“Think of all the rewriting I have to do,” complained the Harper. “I’m dry just considering it.” He looked mournfully at the now empty wine bottle.

“This certainly calls for a drink,” Lessa remarked with a sidelong glance at Robinton. She took Andemon’s arm to guide him out.

“I’m honored, my lady, but I’ve work to oversee, and the investigations I ought to conduct.” He pulled away from her.

“Surely one drink?” Lessa pleaded, smiling in her most winning way.

The Masterfarmer ran his hand through his hair, clearly reluctant to refuse.

“One drink then.”

“To seal the bargain of Pern’s fate,” said the Harper, dropping his voice to a sepulchral bass and looking solemnly portentous and amazingly like Lord Groghe of Fort.

As they all trooped out of the Rooms, Andemon looked down at Lessa.

“If it isn’t presumptuous of me, the young woman, Brekke, who lost her queen—how is she?”

Lessa hesitated only a second. “F’nor here can answer you better than I. They’re Weyrmates.”

F’nor was forced to step up. “She’s been ill. Losing one’s dragon is a tremendous shock. She has made the adjustment. She won’t commit suicide now.”

The Masterfarmer halted, staring at F’nor. “That would be unthinkable.”

Lessa caught F’nor’s eye and he remembered he was talking to a commoner.

“Yes, of course, but the loss is unsettling.”

“Certainly. Ah, does she have any position at all now?” The words came slowly from the Farmer, then he added in a rush, “She is from my Crafthall you see, and we…”