When they entered the Rooms, the spare figure of the Masterfarmer was bending over the largest of the tubs, turning the leaves of the fellis sapling. F’lar watched him with a wary expression while N’ton was grinning, unable to observe the solemnity of the moment.
As soon as F’lar caught sight of F’nor, he smiled broadly and quickly crossed the room to clasp his half-brother’s arm.
“Manora said Brekke had snapped out of shock. It’s twice a relief, believe me. I’d have been happier still if she’d brought herself to re-Impress . . .”
“That would have served no purpose,” F’nor said, so flatly contradictory that F’lar’s grin faded a little.
He recovered and drew F’nor to the tubs.
“N’ton was able to get Thread and we infected three of the big tubs,” F’lar told him, speaking in a low undertone as if he didn’t wish to disturb the Masterfarmer’s investigations. “The grubs devoured every filament. And where the Thread pierced the leaves of that fellis tree, the char marks are already healing. I’m hoping Master Andemon can tell us how or why.”
Andemon straightened his body but his lantern jaw remained sunk to his chest as he frowned at the tub. He blinked rapidly and pursed his thin lips, his heavy, thick-knuckled hands twitching slightly in the folds of a dirt-stained tunic. He had come as he was when the Weyr messenger summoned him from the fields.
“I don’t know how or why, Good Weyrleader. And if what you have told me is the truth,” he paused, finally raising his eyes to F’lar, “I am scared.”
“Why, man?” And F’lar spoke on the end of a surprised laugh. “Don’t you realize what this means? If the grubs can adapt to northern soil and climate, and perform as we – all of us here,” his gesture took in the Harper and his Wing-second as well as Lessa, “have seen them, Pern does not need to fear Thread ever again.”
Andemon took a deep breath, throwing his shoulders back, but whether resisting the revolutionary concept or preparing to espouse it was not apparent. He looked toward the Harper as if he could trust this man’s opinion above the others.
“You saw the Thread devoured by these grubs?”
The Harper nodded.
“And that was five days ago?”
The Harper confirmed this.
A shudder rippled the cloth of the Masterfarmers tunic. He looked down at the tub with the reluctance of fear. Stepping forward resolutely, he peered again at the young fellis tree. Inhaling and holding that deep breath, he poised one gnarled hand for a moment before plunging it into the dirt. His eyes were closed. He brought up a moist handful of earth and, opening his eyes, turned the glob over, exposing a cluster of wriggling grubs. His eyes widened and, with an exclamation of disgust, he flung the dirt from him as if he’d been burned. The grubs writhed impotently against the stone floor.
“What’s the matter? There can’t be Thread!”
“Those are parasites!” Andemon replied, glaring at F’lar, badly disillusioned and angry. “We’ve been trying to rid the southern parts of this peninsula of these larvae for centuries.” He grimaced with distaste as he watched F’lar carefully pick up the grubs and deposit them back into the nearest tub. “They’re as pernicious and indestructible as Igen sandworms and not half as useful Why, let them get into a field and every plant begins to droop and die.”
“There’s not an unhealthy plant here,” F’lar protested, gesturing at the burgeoning growths all around.
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 angenothree. That’s the only way to stop the infestations.
“Watch for the grubs, the Records say,” Andemon repeated and then suddenly his shoulders began to shake, his whole torso became involved. Lessa caught F’lar’s eyes, concerned, for the man. But he was laughing, if only at the cruel irony. “Watch for the grubs, the Records say. They do not, they do not say destroy the grubs. They say most emphatically ‘watch for the grubs.’ So we watched. Aye, we have watched.”
The Harper extended the wine bottle to Andemon.
“That’s a help, Harper. My thanks,” Andemon said, wiping his lips with the back of one hand after a long pull at the bottle.
“So someone forgot to mention why you were to watch the grubs, Andemon,” F’lar said, his eyes compassionate for the man’s distress. “If only Sograny’d been as reasonable. Once, so many men must have known why you were to watch for the grubs, they didn’t see a need for further implicit instructions. Then the Holds started to grow and people drifted apart. Records got lost or destroyed, men died before they’d passed on the vital knowledge they possessed.” He looked around at the tubs. “Maybe they developed those grubs right here in Benden Weyr. Maybe that’s the meaning of the diagram on the wall. There’s so much that has been lost.”
“Which will never be lost again if the Harpercraft has any influence,” said Robinton. “If all men, Hold, Craft, Weyr have full access to every skin – ” he held up his hand as Andemon started to protest, “well, we’ve better than skin to keep Records on. Bendarek now has a reliable, tough sheet of his wood pulp that holds ink, stacks neatly and is impervious to anything except fire. We can combine knowledge and disseminate it.”