Dragonriders of Pern #12: The Chronicles of Pern: First Fall by Anne McCaffrey

Author:Anne McCaffrey [McCaffrey, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Adventure, Science Fiction, Epic, Fiction, General, Pern (Imaginary Place)
ISBN: 9780345368997
Google: PONqPwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0345368991
Publisher: Del Rey
Published: 1993-01-01T23:00:00+00:00

“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

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