“They’re qualified,” Bay said with unexpected heat. “Someone must make the beginning.”
“Their progress must be strictly monitored,” Wind Blossom said, “so that we will know what mistakes must be avoided the next time.
“Next time?” Emily blinked in surprise and noticed that Bay and Pol were reacting similarly.
“I do not yet know if these creatures will perform on the other design levels, either natural or imposed.” Her sepulchral tone indicated that she had grave doubts.
“How can you not be encouraged – ” Pol began with some heat.
A decisive gesture of dismissal cut him off, and he stared at Wind Blossom.
“I will begin anew,” Wind Blossom informed them in a tone that almost implied martyrdom. Pol and Bay regarded her in astonishment. “With what we learned from the post mortem examinations, I cannot be sure that any of the living will be fertile or reproduce. More importantly – reproduce themselves! I must try again, and again, until success is assured. This experiment is only begun.”
“But, Wind Blossom – ” Pol began, astounded.
Come, you shall assist me.” With an imperious gesture, she swept from the room.
Neither the veterinarians nor the xenobiologists had any criteria by which to judge the health of eighteen representatives of a new species. But the dragons’ hearty appetites, the vibrant color of their suede-like hides, and the ease of their physical exertions – which consisted mainly of eating and exercising their wings – were taken as measures of well-being. In the first week of life, each had grown at least a handspan taller and had filled out; they looked considerably more substantial. And as the toughness of their transparent wings became more and more evident, those who had worried about their fragility were relieved.
Fascinated, the official medical support group watched as the two Connells bathed and oiled their ten-day-old dragons. Large shallow bathing pools of siliplas had been erected near the homes of all the dragonmates. Faranth was coyly aware of the admiring glances.
“She’s preening, Dad,” Sorka said, amused, as she poured oil on a scaly patch between the dorsal ridges. “Is that the itchy spot, Farrie?”
My name is Faranth and that is that itchy spot, Faranth said in tones that went from reproof to relief. Another is starting on my hind leg.
“She doesn’t like to be called by a nickname,” Sorka said tolerantly grinning at her father. “But jays, she takes scrubbing.” A bristle brush had been made for the purpose, firm enough to rub in oil but not harsh enough to mar the tender, smooth hide.
Suddenly everyone was drenched as Carenath, sweeping his glistening wings forward in the low bath, showered them with water.
“Carenath, behave yourself!” Sorka and Sean spoke in the same sharp tone.
I am already clean, you polka-dotted idiot, Faranth said in an excellent mimicry of one of Sorka’s favorite admonitions. I was nearly dry, and now my oiling has to be to done again.
Sean and Sorka laughed and then hurriedly explained to the drenched men that they were amused by what Faranth had said, not by Carenath’s playfulness. Sean gestured to the dragonets that perched on the rooftree, obviously watching everything below them. Almost instantly, the soaked observers had towels dropped about them.
“Handy critters, Sean,” Red Hanrahan said, drying his face and hands and mopping his clothing.
“Very useful with young dragons, too, Red,” Sean replied. “They fish constantly for these walking appetites.”
Am I that much trouble to you? Carenath sounded aggrieved.
“Not at all, pet,” Sean quickly assured him, lovingly caressing the head that was tilted wistfully. “Don’t be silly. You’re young, you have a good appetite, and it’s our job to keep you fed.”
Red was beginning to get accustomed to the sudden non sequiturs from his daughter and son-in-law, but the others were startled. Faranth butted at Sorka for reassurance and when she received it, her eyes settled to the blue of contentment.
“Can’t they be ridden yet? And hunt for themselves?” Phas Radamanth asked.
“You don’t attempt to ride a foal, even a good big one,” Sean replied, brushing oil on the rough patch on Carenath’s broad back. “Kitti Ping’s program suggests waiting a full year before we attempt it.”
“Can we wait long enough for them to mature?” Threadfall and the need to fight it was never far from anyone’s mind.
“I’ve never rushed a horse,” Sean said, “and I’m not about to start with my dragon. However, at the rate they’re growing, and if we can be sure that their skeletal structure – it’s boron-silicate, you know, which is tougher than our calcareous material – is developing properly, I think they’ll be capable of manned flight as scheduled.” Sean grinned. “Jays, what times we’ll have then, old fella, won’t we?”
The tenderness, the concern, and the deep affection in Sean’s voice were almost embarrassing to hear. Red looked at his son-in-law in surprise. So Impression had affected young Connell, as it had changed all the dragonmates. Even Sorka, who had always been caring and capable, seemed somehow strengthened and exuded a radiance that could not all be attributed to her pregnancy.
Young David Catarel had altered in the most spectacular way. Badly scarred mentally as well as physically by that First Fall and Lucy Tubberman’s tragic death, the young man had retreated into a wallow of self-disgust and needless guilt. Not even intensive therapy had broken through the stubborn facade. David fought Thread with a vindictive intensity that was frightening to watch. Only when he had seen how useful dragonets were in ground-crewing had he tolerated their wistful affection.
The renaissance of his personality had begun the moment Polenth nudged his knee. An openly smiling, ecstatic David Catarel had left the hatching sands, solicitously and deftly assisting the staggering little dragon. The changes in the other youths had been felicitous as well, though Catherine Radelin-Doyle’s tendency to giggle at some unheard comment from her golden mate could be disconcerting. Shih Eao, who had Impressed bronze Firth, also went about with smiles on his once pensive face, Tarrie Chernoff had stopped apologizing for any minor accident or inconsistency, and Otto Hegelman’s stutter had completely disappeared.
“They’re credits to you both,” Caesar Galliani said to Sean and Sorka. “Though Marco’s Duluth, if I say so myself, looks equally as well.”
Sean grinned at the Roma stakeholder. “He does, indeed. As long as they’re eating, sleeping – ”
“Being bathed, cosseted, oiled, and scratched, they have nothing to complain of,” Sorka finished, giving Faranth’s nose a final swipe. “There now, love, why don’t you curl up and go to sleep?”
Carenath’s not finished, Faranth complained even as she was moving to The sun-warmed plascrete she preferred as her couch. I like him to lean against. I’m a little hungry.
Sorka put her fingers between her front teeth and gave a piercing whistle. The dragonets instantly disappeared.
All clean, Carenath cried, hopping out of the bath. Warned by Sean, he did not shake himself all over his audience. Carefully he extended his wet glistening wings, holding them aloft in the slight breeze while Sean, with Sorka’s help, mopped his underparts dry.
“D’you need anything, Sean, while we’re here?” Red asked.
“Nope,” Sean grunted as he bent to dry the claw sheaths. The claw design was one of the few physical modifications that Kitti Ping had made from dragonet to dragon. The finger-like claws would be more useful, she had thought, for grabbing running animals than the dragonets’ pincer-type arrangement. “As soon as they’ve had their snack we’ll have one, too.”
“Amazing couple,” Phas Radamanth said, smiling up at Red. “Now if that bronze is fertile, and the gold willing, we’ll have our next generation.”