Ramoth dipped her wings suddenly and disappeared from sight. Mnementh followed. A cold instant later they were wheeling above Telgar’s chain of brilliant stair lakes, startlingly blue in the early morning sun. Ramoth was gliding downward, framed briefly against the water, sunlight unnecessarily gilding her bright body.

She’s almost twice the size of any other queen, F’lar thought with a surge of admiration for the magnificent dragon

A good rider makes a good beast, Mnementh remarked voluntarily.

Ramoth coyly swooped into a high banking turn before matching her speed with her Weyrmate’s. The two flew, wingtip to wingtip, up the lake valleys to the Smithcraft. Behind them the terrain dropped slowly seaward, the river which was fed by the lakes running through wide farm and pasture lands, converging with the Great Dunto River which finally emptied into the sea.

As they landed before the Crafthall, Terry came running out of one of the smaller buildings set back in a grove of stunted fellis trees. He urgently waved them his way. The Craft was getting an early start today, sounds of industry issued from every building. Their riders aground, the dragons said they were going to swim, and took off again. As F’lar joined Lessa, she was grinning, her gray eyes dancing.

“Swimming, indeed!” was her comment and she caught her arm around his waist.

“So I must suffer uncomforted?” But he put an arm around her shoulders and matched his long stride to hers as they crossed the distance to Terry.

“You are indeed well come,” Terry said, bowing continuously and grinning from ear to ear.

“Fandarel’s already developed a long-distance glass?” asked F’lar.

“Not quite yet,” and the Craft-second’s merry eyes danced in his tired face, “but not for want of trying all night.”

Lessa laughed sympathetically but Terry quickly demurred.

“I don’t mind, really. It’s fascinating what the fine-viewer can make visible. Wansor is jubilant and depressed by turns. He’s been raving all night to the point of tears for his own inadequacy.”

They were almost at the door of the small hall when Terry turned, his face solemn.

“I wanted to tell you how terribly I feel about F’nor. If I’d only given them that rackety knife in the first place, but it had been commissioned as a wedding gift for Lord Asgenar from Lord Larad and I simply . . .”

“You had every right to prevent its appropriation,” F’lar replied, gripping the Craft-second’s shoulder for emphasis.

“Still, if I had relinquished it . . .”

“If the skies fell, we’d not be bothered by Thread,” Lessa said so tartly that Terry was obliged to desist from his apologies.

The Hall, though apparently two-storied to judge by the windows, was in fact a vast single room. There was a small forge at one of the two hearths that were centered in each end. The black stone walls, smoothed and apparently seamless, were covered with diagrams and numbers. A long table dominated the center of the room, its wide ends deep sand trays, the rest a conglomerate of Record skins, leaves of paper and a variety of bizarre equipment. The Smith was standing to one side of the door, spread-legged, fists jammed against the wide waist belt, chin jutting out, a deep frown scoring his brow. His bellicose mood was directed toward a sketch on the black stone before him.

“It must be a question of the visual angle, Wansor,” he muttered in an aggrieved tone, as if the sketch were defying his will. “Wansor?”

“Wansor is as good as between, Craftmaster,” Terry said gently, gesturing toward the sleeping body all but invisible under skins on the outsized couch in one corner.

F’lar had always wondered where Fandarel slept, since the main Hall had long ago been given over to working space. No ordinary craft cot would be spacious enough to house the Craftmaster. Now he remembered seeing couches like this in most of the major buildings. Undoubtedly Fandarel slept anywhere and anytime he could no longer stay awake. The Smith thrived on what could burn out another man.

The Smith glanced crossly at the sleeper, grunted with resignation and only then noticed Lessa and F’lar. He smiled down at the Weyrwoman with real pleasure.

“You come early, and I’d hoped to have some progress to report on a distance-viewer,” he said, gesturing toward the sketch. Lessa and F’lar obediently inspected the series of lines and ovals, innocently white on the black wall. “It is regrettable that the construction of perfect equipment is dependent on the frailty of men’s minds and bodies. I apologize . . .”

“Why? It is barely morning,” F’lar replied with a droll expression. “I will give you until nightfall before I accuse you of inefficiency.”

Terry tried to smother a laugh; what came out was a slightly hysterical giggle.

They were all somewhat startled to hear the booming gargle that was Fandarel’s laugh. He nearly knocked F’lar down with a jovial slap on the shoulder blades as he whooped with mirth.

You give me . . . until nightfall . . . before . . . inefficiency . . .” the Smith gasped between howls.

“The man’s gone mad. We’ve put too much of a strain on him,” F’lar told the others.

“Nonsense,” Lessa replied, looking at the convulsed Smith with small sympathy. “He hasn’t slept and if I know his single-mindedness, he hasn’t eaten. Has he, Terry?”

Terry plainly had to search his mind for an answer.

“Rouse your cooks, then. Even he,” and Lessa jerked her thumb at the exasperating Smith, “ought to stoke that hulk of his with food once a week.”

Her insinuation that the Smith was a dragon was not lost on Terry, who this time began to laugh uncontrollably.

“I’ll rouse them myself. You’re all next to useless, you men,” she complained and started for the door.

Terry intercepted her, masterfully suppressing his laughter, and reached for a button in the base of a square box on the wall. In a loud voice he bespoke a meal for the Smith and four others.

“What’s that?” F’lar asked, fascinated. It didn’t look capable of sending a message all the way to Telgar.

“Oh, a loudspeaker. Very efficient,” Terry said with a wry grin, “if you can’t bellow like the Craftmaster. We have them in every hall. Saves a lot of running around.”

“One day I will fix it so that we can channel the message to the one area we want to speak to.” The Smith added, wiping his eyes, “Ah, but a man can sleep anytime. A laugh restores the soul.”

“Is that the distance-writer you’re going to demonstrate for us?” asked the Weyrleader, frankly skeptical.

“No, no, no,” Fandarel reassured him, dismissing the accomplishment almost irritably and striding to a complex arrangement of wires and ceramic pots. “This is my distance-writer!”

It was difficult for Lessa and F’lar to see anything to be proud of in that mystifying jumble.

“The wallbox looks more efficient,” F’lar said at length, bending to test the mixture in a pot with a finger.

The Smith struck his hand away.

“That would burn your skin as quick as pure agenothree,” he exclaimed. “Based on that solution, too. Now, observe. these tubs contain blocks of metal, one each of zinc and copper, in a watered solution of sulfuric acid which makes the metal dissolve in such a way that a chemical reaction occurs. This gives us a form of activity I have called chemical reaction energy. The c.r. produced can be controlled at this point,” and he ran a finger down the metal arm which was poised over an expanse of thin grayish material, attached at both ends to rollers. The Smith turned a knob. The pots began to bubble gently He tapped the arm and a series of red marks of different lengths began to appear on the material which wound slowly forward. “See, this is a message. The Harper adapted and expanded his drum code, a different sequence and length of lines for every sound. A little practice and you can read them as easily as written words.”