Free Dragonseye by Anne McCaffrey

of the surefire signs that there will be a Pass,” Zulaya said, obviously looking forward to the days when the dragons of Pern started the work for which they were engineered. “Have you heard that song the College sent out?”
    “Hmmm, yes, I have,” and Paulin grinned. “In fact, I can’t get it out of my mind.”
    “Clisser says they have several more to play for us tonight.”
    “Just music?” Paulin asked, scowling. “It’s a device we asked them for . . . something permanent so that no one can deny the imminence of a Pass.”
    Zulaya patted his hand encouragingly. “You can ask what progress he’s made on that project.”
    K’vin, coming up behind them, casually laid a hand on his Weyrwoman’s shoulder, acting as proprietary of her as her dragon was of her clutch. Amused, Paulin coughed into his hand and hurriedly excused himself.
    “He’s worried about that fail-safe,” Zulaya said, almost amused by K’vin’s show of jealousy but not about to remark on it.
    “You’re looking very beautiful in that new dress,” he said, eyeing it.
    “Do I? Why, thank you, Key,” she said, twisting her hips to make the skirt whirl. “Which reminds me . . .” and she held out a fold of the rich crimson-patterned brocade that she had had made for this Hatching. “Fredig suggested tapestries, hanging in every Weyr and hold, depicting the return of the Red Star—with the formulae in the borders. Make an interesting design, certainly.”
    “Colors fade and fabrics certainly deteriorate . . .”
    “We’ve some that graced houses in Landing. That Earth-Moon scene . . .”
    “Which was made, as I’ve been told, out of synthetic yams which are more durable than what we have now—cotton, linen, and wool. And even they are looking worn and losing color.”
    “I’ll have them washed . . .”
    “You’ll have them thread-worn . . . oops,” and K’vin grinned at the pun.
    “. . . which is not what is wanted, but there’s no reason, Key, not to have a hundred different reminders.”
    “Something set in stone . . .” the Weyrleader said in a more sober tone.
    “Even stones move . . .”
    “Only prior to a Pass. Only
how
to perpetuate the critical information?”
    “I think everyone’s worrying too much. I mean, here we are,” and Zulaya gestured broadly to include the Hatching Ground and the Weyr around them. “Why else have dragons? And Weyrs set apart to preserve them, if not for a very, very good reason. They’re the planet’s only sure defense.”
    A sound, subliminal, more than a real noise, alerted them. It issued from Meranath, who reared to her hindquarters, spreading her broad wings, her eyes glowing brightly green and beginning to whirl with excitement.
    “Ah, it starts,” Zulaya said, smiling in anticipation. “Oh, I love Hatchings!”
    Hand in hand the two Weyrleaders raced to the entrance and called out the news, scarcely needed, for the Telgar dragons were already reacting to the queen’s maternal croon with their deep masculine humming.
    The Weyr Bowl became active with dragons a-wing in excitement, flipping here and there on seemingly unavoidable collision courses: with the Weyrlingmaster herding the candidates forward; with parents and friends of the lucky boys and girls rushing across the hot sands to take their places in the amphitheater: hustling to get the best seating for the Impression about to happen.
    K’vin sent Zulaya back to keep Meranath company as he urged people inside, checking the nervous white-clad candidates who had been halted in a clump near the entrance until the spectators were all seated.
    “You’ve long enough to wait on the hot sands as it is,” T’dam, the Weyrlingmaster, told them. “Singe your feet, you could, out there . . .”
    All this time the humming was rising in volume: Meranath joined by all the other dragons in a chorus of tones that Sheledon—and others—had tried to imitate without quite succeeding.