"Well, don't stand there, woman!" Sean's voice brought her back, and with an apologetic murmur, she handed her dripping husband his towel.

"You're also a very clever man," she said, then added to keep him from being too smug, "Did you know that dragons elide riders' names?"

"Sometimes, during Fall if it's especially heavy, I've heard Carenath slur a name or two," Sean said, vigorously rubbing himself with the towel. "Why?"

"It seems to have caught on, at least with some of the younger riders."

"No harm in that!"

"I do have it on very good authority that neither your name or mine, however, are ever slurred."

"I should hope not!"

By the time the southern hunting party made it back that evening—replete dragons did not go between—Torene had had a chance to calm down from the excitement of knowing the double-cratered place was going to be her Weyr. She decided not to mention her conversation with the Weyr-leaders. The other members of her group were high enough as it was from their eastern hop: the boys planning which weyr they'd make their own; Sevya and Nya figuring out just how much sand would be needed to give a good deep bedding for hardening eggs. Siglath was hopeful in a wistful way, or so Nyassa told the youngsters. Torene thought the rest of the Weyr should hear the news from Sean—once it was official. Fortunately, her bunch tended not to mouth their enthusiasms near the more conservative older riders, and Alaranth would keep her counsel. Torene grinned. Her queen took her cue from her rider. And sometimes that worked the other way round, too.

So Torene applied herself to checking her riding gear. Sean just might call a snap inspection—they had Fall the day after tomorrow. Out of several years' habit now, Torene rechecked the flamethrower tanks she used, as well as the nozzles and the carrying straps. Then she checked her safety harness and inspected the heavy plastic-coated gloves for any sign that the fingers might have spillage of the HNO3 on them. Eventually the plastic would wear through and have to be recoated. Her hands tended to sweat inside the nonporous material, but that damp discomfort was better than acid burns. She made sure her goggles were clear, too. Sometimes a fine spray was blown back before the HNO3 ignited, and she needed clear, not clouded, plasglas.

She was just about finished when F'mar—Fulmar Stone Junior—bronze Tallith's rider, swung into the queen's ready room, helmet and gloves in hand, riding jacket open.

"Hey, gal, we're back!" F'mar was grinning from ear to ear. "And boy, did we bring home the bacon!"

"Real bacon? Is Longwood curing pig so early?"

"You can be so literal sometimes, ‘Rene."

She hadn't told Sorka that was how her name had been compressed, since it was humans and not dragons who had given her that nickname.

Slapping his gloves on his leg with some irritation, F'mar went on. "No, actually, we brought back steaks and a lot of stew meat. They're culling herds for the winter down there. Or don't you remember how seasons switch?"

"I remember that much," she replied evenly. Eight years older than Torene, Fulmar Stone had been five when he and his family had Landed; he had Impressed a bronze of a Weyrleaders' clutch at nineteen. Half-trained to follow in his father's mechanical engineering specialty, F'mar had salved Fulmar Senior's shock at the idea of his son's pursuing an entirely different life's work by taking charge of all the Weyr's mechanicals. These were, however, so well designed or redesigned that they rarely needed more than a drop of oil—or so F'mar insisted.

"You should've come." Then F'mar, as tall as she was but rangier in frame and bony shoulders, leaned toward her with a friendly leer. "It was more fun than climbing about rock faces and peering in holes."

Torene grinned placidly at him. "But I like cliff climbing, and Alaranth hunted yesterday with the other queens. I'd better go help with dinner if there're steaks."

"I have to, too," F'mar said, grimacing. He didn't enjoy that segment of the additional duties that the riders assumed inside the Weyr. "In fact, Tarrie sent me to find you."

"For steak, I'm findable," she said. "Just let me wash my hands first."

"Can I help?" he asked with a second amicable leer.

Torene laughed at him, evading his half-serious interference with a direct path to the sinks.

F'mar was nothing if not persistent in his efforts to attach her. He pressed his luck whenever he had the chance, like now, trying to persuade her that he was her best possible weyrmate, just as his Tallith would be the perfect bronze to twine necks with her queen. F'mar was looking for any opportunity to prove his worth—in advance. He was also a Wingleader, which he thought gave him an advantage over others of their group.

For her part, she treated them all alike, and no one knew if she'd any experience at all. She didn't because she was romantic enough, though she knew that would surprise many, to want her first time to be very special. She wanted to really like the man. She was being too picky perhaps; then, too, she knew all the most likely men too well now to see any of them in a sexual way. Except possibly Mihall, but only because she didn't know him at all and knew far too much about his reputation. She'd become skillful in evading answers and importunities. Sometimes, to tease, she'd mention one or another of the apprentices at Telgar Hold whenever she'd been to visit her parents and sibs.

Actually, she liked F'mar best of them all, with his good humor and pleasant good looks, though she'd never give him any encouragement. He might just try joining her in her tight squeeze of a weyr. It was just as well that she was in such an uncomfortable weyr, she reflected. Everyone knew she slept right beside her queen—warmer that way, anyhow. Two human bodies wouldn't fit, and she wasn't about to be seen leaving a male rider's weyr—or caught hiding if she chose to be in one.

When they reached the kitchen cavern, Tarrie and Yashma Zulieta were supervising the carving up of the carcasses. It was much too late in the day to have spit-roasted the whole sides, which was the usual way of preparing meat in quantity. Torene knew they'd have several meals from all this mess. Good big meaty animals. Well, the grass at Longwood had produced many a fine meal for the Weyr when Fort's supplies ran short.

It was indeed a fine meal. While comestibles like flour, dried beans and legumes, and dairy produce were provided by Fort now, the dragonriders could add to the bare necessities by going between to the southern continent and returning with fruits, fresh vegetables, and herd animals. Slowly but surely, the task of provisioning the Weyr was being handled by the Holds so, one way or another, the dragonriders often ate far better than holders. That, and the glamor of being a dragonrider, were reasons why so many young people were ready to take their chances on the Hatching Ground even though their parents might have had other careers in mind for their children. In the early days, Sean and Sorka had been forced to act rather autocratically in demanding enough boys and girls to stand on the Hatching Ground, especially older boys, who would be mature enough to fly in Fall as soon as their dragons were old enough. Gradually, however, to have a son or daughter become a dragonrider became a mark of prestige for a family. Although birthrates had been high the first six years at Fort Hold, there were only so many available to stand as candidates now. Lately they'd had to include preadolescents, to be able to present enough of a choice to the hatchlings.

With eggs hardening on the Ground and Hatching quite near, the Weyr was presently hosting candidates. They were, Torene noted, the ones that came back for seconds and thirds of the juicy steaks. Not that she blamed them. She remembered her stomach rumbling far too often in the days when she had lived at home. There were not that many days when food was scarce—for a dragonrider.