“I know, you know, and he knows, but we have had enough of insecurity today. The basement rock will not shift. As you know, I have given my opinion to Paul, Emily, and Patrice.” Telgar looked beyond the big miner to a distant view that only his eyes saw. Cobber and Ozzie exchanged meaningful glances. The set, pained look on Telgar’s face meant that he was remembering something about Sallah.
Cobber nudged Ozzie and leaned conspiratorially toward Telgar. “Are we all to go look at some basement rock now, Telgar?”
The next morning a rumble of a different kind finally roused Paul as Ju reached across him for the handset.
“For you,” she mumbled sleepily, dropping it on the bedsack and rolling over again.
Paul fumbled for it and cleared his throat. “Benden.”
“Admiral,” Ongola said urgently, “they’ve begun reentry, and Nabhi’s on a bad course.”
Paul pulled loose the fasteners of the bedsack and sat bolt upright. “How could he be?”
“He says he’s green, Admiral.”
“I’m coming.” Paul had an irrational desire to slam the handset down and go back to sleep beside his wife. Instead he dialed Emily, who said she would join him at the met tower. Then he alerted Ezra Keroon and Jim Tillek.
“Paul?” Ju asked sleepily.
“Sleep on, honey. Nothing to worry you.”
He had tried to keep his voice low and was sorry to have disturbed her. In the second semester of a new pregnancy, Ju needed more sleep. They had stayed up late talking, regretfully aware that they must set the example and close down their stake. The constant drain of Threadfall was having a devastating effect on supplies and resources. Joel particularly fretted over the dwindling efficiency of the power packs. According to Tom Patrick, the psychological profile of Landing’s population was, in the main, encouraging, although therapy and medication were increasingly required to keep distressed people functioning. Somehow Paul could not bring himself to hope that Nabhi Nabol and Bart Lemos had brought back something as vital as encouragement.
Yesterday Ezra and Jim had produced the latest analysis of the eccentric’s orbit. It was as wayward, in Jim Tillek’s phrasing, as a drunken whore on a Saturday night at a space facility in the Asteroid Belt. What had looked to be a reasonable, predictable elliptical orbit through Rukbat’s system proved to be even more bizarre, at an angle to the ecliptic. The planet would wobble into the vicinity of Pern every two hundred and fifty years, though Ezra had made extrapolations that provided some variations of its course, due to the effect of other planets in the system. During some of it orbits, it looked as if the eccentric and its cloud of junk would miss Pern.
“The most singular planet I’ve ever tried to track,” Ezra had said apologetically, scratching his head as he summed up his report.
“Natural orbit?” Jim had asked, with a sly grin at the astronomer.
Ezra had given him a long scornful look. “There’s nothing natural about that planet.”
Although Thread had shifted five degrees to the north in the current—third—round of Falls, the admiral no longer held much hope for Ezra’s theory that the Falls were deliberate, a softening-up procedure by some sentient agency. If that had been the case, he argued, the Falls ought to have accelerated in frequency and density after the wild planet swung to its nearest spatial point to Pern. But Thread had continued to drop in mindless patterns, each consistent with the northern shift. Mathematical calculations, checked and double-checked by Boris Pahlevi and Dieter Clissmann, concurred with Ezra’s depressing conclusion. The eccentric would swing away from Pern and the inner system, only to swing back again in two hundred and fifty years.
The fax Bart had flashed back to Pern had shown the trail of debris to be endless.
“All the way to the edge of the system,” Ezra declared in total capitulation. “The planet pierces the Oort cloud and drags the stuff down with it. Hoyle and Wickramansingh’s theory has been vindicated in the Rukbat system.”
“Aren’t we lucky?” Jim added. “The junk could still be just ice and rock. We won’t know for sure until we see what Bart Lemos scooped up out there.” Jim was not at all happy that his theory was right. He would almost prefer a sentient intelligence somehow surviving on the eccentric planet. You could usually deal with intelligence. His theory made it tough on Pern.
In the cold light of a new morning, Paul dressed quickly, toeing his feet into his boots and closing the front of his ship-suit. He combed his hair neatly back and then stumbled into the predawn light. He used the skimmer—it would be quieter than him puffing and jogging down to the tower. He tried to practice what he preached in matters of conservation, but that morning he did not wish to be heard passing by.
The last few days, with the Moth overdue, had been hard on him. Waiting had never been his forte: decision and implementation were where he shone. Emily had proved once again the staunch, unswerving, resolute governor of herself and her subordinates. She was the best sort of complement to his strengths and flaws.
He saw lights over in Irish Square and, through the lines of dwellings, he caught a glimpse of fluttering wings as the young Connells gave their dragons the early morning meal. In the next square, Dave Catarel was up, too, feeding his young bronze.
At the thought of those young people committed to survival on Pern, Paul felt a sudden surge of confidence that he and Emily would bring everyone through. By all that was holy, they would! Had he not gone through bleaker days before the Battle at Purple Sector? And Emily had been blockaded for five years, emerging with a healthy functioning population despite a shortage of raw materials.
The tower was still dark as Paul parked his skimmer behind it. The windows were shuttered, but the main door was ajar. He went up the stairs as quietly as he could. Lately, with the dormitories so crowded, off-duty communications personnel slept on the ground floor. All of Landing was crowded—with refugees, Paul made himself add. People had even begun to make homes out of some of the Catherine Caves. That may have originated from some atavistic urge, but caves were Thread proof, and some of them were downright spacious. Caves might be a good place to lodge the fast-growing dragons, too.
As he reached the top floor, his eyes went immediately to the big screen, which showed the Moth’s position above Pern, relayed from the moon installation.
“He has not corrected his course once,” Ongola said, swinging his chair toward Paul. He motioned for Jake to vacate the second console chair. The young man’s eyes were black holes of fatigue, but Paul knew better than to suggest that Jake stand down until the shuttle was safely landed. “He ought to have fired ten minutes ago. He says he doesn’t need to.”
Paul dropped to the chair and toggled in the comm unit. “Tower to Moth, do you read me? Benden here. Moth, respond.”
“Good moring, Admiral Benden,” Nabhi replied promptly and insolently. “We are on course and reentering at a good angle.”
“Your instrumentation is giving you false readings. Repeat, you are getting false readings, Nabol. Course correction essential.”
“I disagree, Admiral,” Nabhi replied, his tone jaunty. “No need to waste fuel! Our descent is on the green.”
“Correction, Moth! Your descent is red and orange across our board and on our screen. You have sustained instrument malfunction. I will give you the readings.” Paul read the numbers off from the calculator pad that Ongola handed to him. He was sure he heard a startled gasp in the background.
But Nabhi seemed undisturbed by Paul’s information, and he did indeed report readings consonant with a good reentry.