“The shuttle!” Pol said suddenly. “Did I hear it take off?”

“Yes, he made it,” Paul replied. “Ongola will keep us informed. We don’t have enough fuel for a direct flight. The shuttle’ll have to coast a week before it reaches the trail.”

“Oh, I see.” Then Pol refocused his attention on the eggs.

The crowd shifted as some people had to return to complete unfinished tasks and others moved in to take their places. Food was brought to the biologists and the leaders on their dais, and wooden benches to sit on. Wind Blossom remained standing. Food was also taken to the circle of hopeful dragon riders. The dragonets’ encouragement did not abate. Emily wondered how they could keep it up.

It was dark before there was any further movement, and then all at once a brown and two golds cracked their eggs. Marco Galliani got the brown, and Kathy Duff and Nora Sejby the two golds. There was a good deal of cheering.

The crowd at the opening thinned, while the dragonets kept their posts and continued their encouraging song. Emily was becoming weary and she could see fatigue catching up with the others. She was half-asleep when Catherine Radelin-Doyle impressed her gold.

“Do they always go female to female?” Emily asked Pol. “And male to male?”

“Since the males are expected to be fighters and the females egg-carriers, Kitti made it logical.”

“Logical to her,” Emily said, a trifle bemused. “There aren’t any blues or greens among them,” she suddenly realized.

“Kitti programmed the heavier males, but I believe they’re to carry sperm for the entire range. The greens will be the smallest, the fighters; the blues sturdier, with more staying power; the browns sort of anchor fighters with even more endurance. They’ll have to fight four to six hours, remember! The bronzes are leaders and the golds …”

“Waiting at home to be egg-carriers.”

Pol gave Emily a long look, his tired face reflecting astonishment at her sarcasm.

“In the wild, greens don’t have good maternal instincts. The golds do,” Bay put in, giving the governor an odd glance. “Kitti Ping kept as much natural instinct as possible. Or so her program reads.”

“There!” Nabhi said, leaning back from the console, his swarthy face intense with an inner satisfaction. “Kenjo wasn’t the only one who could save fuel.”

Bart stared at him, surprised and confused. “Save it for what, Nabhi?” He spoke more sharply than he meant to, but he had been wound up with tension that would not ease. It was not that he did not trust Nabhi as a pilot—Nabhi was a good driver, or Bart would not have been talked into participating in the insane venture, not for the choicest land on Pern.

“To maneuver,” Nabhi said. His mocking grin did nothing to ease Bart’s disquiet.