“She’s going to blow!” Patrice’s almost triumphant shout echoed throughout the Landing.
Every head turned toward Garben, its peak outlined by the eerie luminosity from its crater.
“Launch the Parrakeet!” Ongola’s stentorian voice broke the awed, stunned silence.
The engines of the shuttle were drowned by the rumbling earth and an ear-splitting roar of tremendous power as the volcano erupted. The attentive stance of observers broke as people scrambled to complete tasks at hand, shouting to one another above the noise. Later, those who watched the peak fracture and the red-hot molten lava begin to ooze from the break said that everything appeared to happen in slow motion.
They saw the fissures in the crater outlined by orange-red, saw the pieces blowing out of the lip, even saw some of the projectiles lifting out of the volcano and could track their dizzying trajectory. Others averred that it all happened too fast to be sure of details.
Bright red tongues of lava rolled ominously up and over the blasted lip of Garben, one flow traveling at an astonishing rate directly toward the westernmost buildings of Landing.
In that dawn hour, the wind had dropped, saving much of the eastern section of Landing from the worst of the shower of smaller rocks and hot ash. The larger, devastating projectiles that Patrice had feared did not appear. But the lava was sufficiently frightening a menace.
The Parrakeet, laden with irreplaceable equipment, pierced the western gloom, her engine blasts visible, if not audible, as she drove northwest and out of danger.
At the sound of the klaxon, the dolphins began to tow heavily laden small boats out of Monaco Bay, a flotilla of vessels not ordinarily suitable for any prolonged sea travel. The dolphins had assured humans that they would get their charges safely to the sheltered harbor beyond the first Kahrain peninsula. Maid and Mayflower, which were not fully loaded, left the harbor to wait outside the estimated fallout zone until they could return for the last of their cargoes. Jim, on board the Southern Cross, shepherded barges and luggers along the coast on their long journey to Seminole, from where they would make the final run north.
Sleds and skimmers streamed between Landing and Paradise River Hold as the nearest safe assembly point. Traffic there was chaotic, as vital supplies were kept available and loads were shunted to designated areas of the beach. Landing was being cleared of all that could be reused in the new northern hold.
Thick sulfur-smelling ash began to cover Landing’s buildings. Some of the lighter roofs collapsed under the load, and observers could hear the plastic groaning and shifting. The air was almost unbreathable with traces of chlorine. Everyone used the breathing masks without complaint.
By midafternoon, a haggard Joel Lilienkamp dropped his battered sled on the lee side of the tower beside Ongola’s. He waited a moment to gather enough Strength to thumb open the comm unit.
“We’ve cleared all we can,” he said in gasps, his voice raspy from the acrid airborne fumes. “The donks are parked in the Catherine Caves until we can strip ’em down for shipment. You can leave now, too.”
“We’re coming,” Ongola replied.
Moments later he appeared, slowly angling a heavy comm package on a gray unit past the door. Jake came next, similarly encumbered. Paul followed, guiding two more components.
“Need a hand?” Joel asked automatically, though the way he slumped at the console made it hard to believe that he had any more energy to spare.
“One more trip,” Ongola said when they had positioned the equipment in his sled. “Is your power pack up to a load?” he asked Joel.
“Yup. My last fresh unit.”
As Ongola and Jake went back into the tower, Paul went to the flagstaff and, with a bleak expression on his face, solemnly lowered the singed tatters of the colony’s flag. He made a ball of it, which he stuffed underneath the seat he took on the sled. He gave the supply master one long look. “Want me to drive, Joel?”
“I got you here, I’ll take you out!”
Paul dared not look back at the ruins of Landing, but as Joel veered east and then north in a wide sweep, the admiral saw that he was not the only one with tears coursing down his cheeks.
A stiff nor’easterly wind kept the Kahrain cove clear of ash and the acrid taint of Garben’s eruption. The gray pall spread over the eastern horizon as the volcano continued to spew lava and quantities of ash. Patrice and a skeleton team remained to monitor the event after Landing was abandoned.
“We hunt this morning,” Sean said to the other riders.
They had found a quiet cove up the beach from the main evacuation camp. None of the dragons sprawled in the warm sun had a very good color, and privately Sean worried that their maturing strengths had been overtaxed. He decided stoutly that there was nothing wrong that a good meal would not restore. He looked around for fire-lizards and swore under his breath. “Damn them! We need all we’ve got. Four queens and ten bronzes can’t possibly catch enough packtail to feed eighteen dragons! Surely they’ve seen volcanoes erupt before.”
“Not on top of them,” Alianne Zulueta replied. “I couldn’t reassure mine. They just left!”
“Red meat would be better than fish—more iron,” David Catarel suggested, his eyes on his pale bronze Polenth. “There’s sheep here.”
“Hold it,” Marco Galliani said firmly, raising both hands in restraint. “My father’s shipping them on to Roma as soon as sleds are free. Prime breeding stock.”
“So are dragons.” Sean rose, an odd grin on his face. “Peter, Dave, Jerry, come with me. Sorka, you run interference—if there is any.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Sean,” Marco began, dual loyalties in conflict.
Sean grinned slyly, laying a finger along his nose. “What the eye doesn’t see, Marco, the heart won’t grieve.”
“It’s for your dragon, man,” Dave muttered as he passed him.
An hour later, several dragons disappeared in a westerly direction, skimming the treetops. The other riders were so conspicuous in their efforts to keep the crew struggling to organize the chaos on the beach that no one would have noticed that the riders were not all present at any one time. By noon, seventeen brightly hued, sated dragons lolled on the strand. One sat patiently on the headland while fire-dragonets dove into the sea, fishing for packtail.
Caesar and Stefano Galliani, taking a poll count as their sheep were loaded, discovered that the tally was short by some thirty-six animals, including one of the best rams. Caesar called on the dragonriders to search the area and herd the missing sheep back to the shore.
“Useless things, always wandering off,” Sean agreed, nodding sympathetically at the frustrated and puzzled Gallianis. “We’ll give a look.”
When Sean reported back an hour later, he suggested to Caesar that the sheep must have dropped into” some of the many potholes in the’ area. Reluctantly the Gallianis took off with the depleted flock. The big transport sleds had schedules to keep, and shipment could not be postponed.
As the last of the sleds departed, Emily came over to Sean. “Are your dragons fit for duty?”
“Anything you say!” Sean agreed so amiably that Emily shot him a long look. “The fire-lizards worked hard all morning to feed the dragons.” He gestured toward the cove where Duluth was accepting a packtail from a bronze.
“Fire lizards?” Emily was momentarily baffled by “lizards,” then remembered that Sean tended to use his own name for the little creatures. “Oh, yes, then your fairs have returned?”
“Not all of them,” Sean said ruefully, and then added quickly, “but enough of the queens and bronzes to be useful.”