Andemon looked at the Harper, his eyes puzzled. “Master Robinton, there are some matters within a Craft that must remain secret or . . .”
“Or we lose a world to the Thread, is that it, Andemon? Man, if the truth about those grubs hadn’t been treated like a Craft secret, we’d have been hundreds of Turns free of Thread by now.”
Andemon gasped suddenly, staring at F’lar. “And dragonmen – we wouldn’t need dragonmen?”
“Well, if men kept to their Holds during Threadfall, and grubs devoured what fell to the ground, no, you wouldn’t need dragonmen,” F’lar replied with complete composure.
“But dragonmen are su – supposed to fight Thread – ” the Farmer was stuttering with dismay.
“Oh, we’ll be fighting Thread for a while yet, I assure you. We’re not in any immediate danger of unemployment. There’s a lot to be done. For instance, how long before an entire continent can be seeded with grubs?”
Andemon opened and closed his mouth futilely. Robinton indicated the bottle in his hand, pantomimed a long swig. Dazedly the Farmer complied. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Why, for Turn upon Turn, we’ve watched for those grubs – exterminating them, razing an entire field if it got infected. Spring’s when the larval sacks break and we’d be . . .” He sat down suddenly, shaking his head from side to side.
“Get a grip on yourself, man,” F’lar said, but it was his attitude which caused Andemon the most distress.
“What – what will dragonmen do?”
“Get rid of Thread, of course. Get rid of Thread.”
Had F’lar been a feather less confident, F’nor would have had trouble maintaining his composure. But his half-brother must have some plan in mind. And Lessa looked as serene as – as Manora could.
Fortunately Andemon was not only an intelligent man, he was tenacious. He had been confronted with a series of disclosures that both confused and disturbed basic precepts. He must reverse a long-standing Craft practice. He must rid himself of an inborn, carefully instilled prejudice, and he must accept the eventual abdication of an authority which he had good reason to respect and more reason to wish to perpetuate.
He was determined to resolve these matters before he left the Weyr. He questioned F’lar, F’nor, the Harper, N’ton and Manora when he learned she’d been involved in the project. Andemon examined all the tubs, particularly the one which had been left alone. He conquered his revulsion and even examined the grubs carefully, patiently uncoiling a large specimen as if it were a new species entirely. In a certain respect, it was.
Andemon was very thoughtful as he watched the unharmed larva burrow quickly back into the tub dirt from which he’d extracted it.
“One wishes fervently,” he said, “to find a release from our long domination by Thread. It is just – just that the agency which frees us is . . .”
“Revolting?” the Harper suggested obligingly.
Andemon regarded Robinton a moment. “Aye, you’re the man with words, Master Robinton. It is rather leveling to think that one will have to be grateful to such a – such a lowly creature. I’d rather be grateful to dragons.” He gave F’lar a rather abashed grin.
“You’re not a Lord Holder!” said Lessa, wryly, drawing a chuckle from everyone.
“And yet,” Andemon went on, letting a handful of soil dribble from his fist, we have taken the bounties of this rich earth too much for granted. We are from it, part of it, sustained by it. I suppose it is only mete that we are protected by it. If all goes well.”
He brushed his hand off on the wher-hide trousers and with an air of decision turned to F’lar. “I’d like to run a few experiments of my own, Weyrleader. We’ve tubs and all at the Farmercrafthall . . .”
“By all means,” F’lar grinned with relief. “We’ll cooperate in every way Grubs, Threads on request. But you’ve solved the one big problem I’d foreseen.”
Andemon raised his eyebrows in polite query.
“Whether or not the grubs were adaptable to northern conditions.”
“They are, Weyrleader, they are.” The Farmer was grimly sardonic.
“I shouldn’t think that would be the major problem, F’lar,” F’nor said.
“Oh?” The quiet syllable was almost a challenge to the brown rider. F’nor hesitated, wondering if F’lar had lost confidence in him, despite what Lessa had said earlier.
“I’ve been watching Master Andemon, and I remember my own reaction to the grubs. It’s one thing to say, to know, that these are the answer to Thread. Another – quite another to get the average man to accept it. And the average dragonrider.”
Andemon nodded agreement and, judging by the expression on the Harper’s face, F’nor knew he was not the only one who anticipated resistance.
But F’lar began to grin as he settled himself on the edge of the nearest tub.
“That’s why I brought Andemon here and explained the project. We need help which only he can give us, once he himself is sure of matters. How long, Masterfarmer, does it take grubs to infest a field?”
Andemon dropped his chin to his chest in thought. He shook his head and admitted he couldn’t estimate. Once a field showed signs of infestation, the area was seared to prevent spreading.
“So, we must find out how long first!”
“You’ll have to wait for next spring,” the Farmer reminded him
“Why? We can import grubs from Southern.”
“And put them where?” the Harper asked, sardonically.
F’lar chuckled. “Lemos Hold.”
“Lemos!”
“Where else?” and F’lar looked smug. “The forests are the hardest areas to protect. Asgenar and Bendarek are determined to preserve them. Asgenar and Bendarek are both flexible enough to accept such an innovation and carry it through. You, Masterfarmer, have the hardest task. To convince your crafters to leave off killing . . .”
Andemon raised a hand. “I have my own observations to make first.”
“By all means, Master Andemon,” and F’lar’s grin broadened, “I’m confident of the outcome. I remind you of your first journey to the Southern Weyr. You commented on the luxuriant growths, the unusual size of the trees and bushes common to both continents, the spectacular crops, the sweetness of the fruits. That is not due to the temperate weather. We have similar zones here in the north. It is due,” and F’lar pointed his finger first at Andemon and then toward the tubs, “to the stimulation, the protection of the grubs.”
Andemon was not totally convinced but F’lar did not press the point.
“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 Old-timers; 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.