He had barely filled the completed score with clay to preserve the text, when he heard the first throb of the drum. He strode quickly to the small outer court of the Crafthall, bending his head to catch the summons; it was his sequence all right, in urgent tempo. He concentrated so closely on the drumroll that he did not realize that every other sound common to the Harper’s Hall had ceased.

“Thread?” His throat dried instantly. Robinton didn’t need to consult the timetable to realize that the Threads were falling on the shores of Tillek Hold prematurely.

Across the valley on Fort Hold’s ramparts, the single watchman made his monotonous round, oblivious to disaster.

—

There was a soft spring warmth to the afternoon air as F’nor and his big, brown Canth emerged from their weyr in Benden Weyr. F’nor yawned slightly and stretched until he heard his spine crack. He’d been on the western coast all the previous day. Searching for likely lads—and girls, since there was a golden egg hardening on the Benden Weyr Hatching Grounds—for the next Impression. Benden Weyr certainly produced more dragons, and more queens, than the five Oldtimers’ Weyrs, F’nor thought.

“Hungry?” he asked courteously of his dragon, glancing down the Weyr Bowl to the Feeding Grounds. No dragons were dining and the herdbeasts stood in their fenced pasture, legs spraddled, heads level with their bony knees as they drowsed in the sunlight.

Sleepy, said Canth, although he had slept as long and deeply as his rider. The brown dragon proceeded to settle himself on the sun-warmed ledge, sighing as he sank down.

“Slothful wretch,” F’nor said, grinning affectionately at his beast.

The sun was full on the other side of the enormous mountain cup that formed the dragonman’s habitation on the eastern coast of Pern. The cliffside was patterned with the black mouths of the individual dragon weyrs, starred where sun flashed off mica in the rocks. The waters of the Weyr’s spring-fed lake glistened around the two green dragons bathing as their riders lounged on the grass verge. Beyond, in front of the weyrling barracks, young riders formed a semi-circle around the Weyrlingmaster.