Free The Skies of Pern by Anne McCaffrey

laugh.
    “Sharra said it’s called a hernia and is not life-threatening,” she responded in a brusque tone. Then, in an abrupt change, she exhaled. “I take the point. We have to educate others to do so.”
    “Agreed, and we have to get our younger riders to educate themselves, too, for After.”
    “Well, some will have no trouble,” she said. “They don’t consider it beneath their dignity to deliver messages or transport urgently needed bulk items. Tagetarl sent us a copy of the dictionary that he copied from Aivas’s files with definitions of technical terms. Far more current than anything the Harper Hall has. Sebell said he’s got orders from every major hold, nearly all the minor ones, and most of the halls.”
    “Then maybe understanding and defining a technological vocabulary will become wider spread.”
    His facetious tone caused her to grin. “That wouldn’t hurt. But it’s the older riders, who show absolutely no interest in supportingthemselves After, who worry me. Why is it so belittling for a dragon and his rider to extend their abilities in other quite respectable pursuits? They
know
that living in Southern is not a matter of flinging up some fronds to cover a hut on the white sands and picking ripe fruit off the nearest tree. They won’t even consider helping the beastherders to keep the feline predators from causing witless stampedes into gorges and ravines even if dragons have always killed their own food. Dragons don’t share their kills, even with their riders.”
    It was F’lar’s turn to chuckle at her acerbic remarks. “If you’re hungry enough, I suppose roast feline can be tasty.”
    “Sharra said it’s tough and often tastes more of fish than flesh.”
    “We’ve sixteen more Turns of Threadfall, love,” he said, refilling her wineglass.
    “Now,” and she gave him a sly look, “if Benden’s Weyrleader should make a decision as to what he will do After?”
    He chuckled indulgently as he held Manora’s basket of delicacies out to her. The spicy odors wafted her way.
    “What is Manora tempting us with?” she wondered, unfolding the napkin.
    “They certainly smell palatable. You take your pick.”
    She did, delighting in the flaky pastry and the spicy filling. “I think,” Lessa mumbled through her full mouth, “that she plans to go from one end to the other of the recipes she had us download from the Aivas files.”
    “It’s a shame she never got down to speak to Aivas. He’d’ve liked her.”
    Lessa grimaced. “If you remember, we offered to take her many times and she refused. There was always too much to do.” She licked the last of the pastry flakes from her fingers.
    F’lar sat down and she noticed the bone-weariness evident in the slow way he settled his body in the comfortably padded chair across from her. Only with her did he have the luxury to relax. If she missed the painful stiffness that indicated his bones were aching, Mnementh would tell her and she’d make him take a dose of the medication Oldive had made to relieve the problem.
    “Is there ever enough time?” she asked.
    “There should be.” He scowled, sweeping back the forelock that was silver now. “There should be all the time in the world After.”
    “Have you decided where we’ll go After?”
    He frowned, brushing the inquiry aside. She fretted at his reluctance. They certainly should have their choice of residence, barring beautiful Honshu in deference to F’lessan’s proprietary interest in it. But what—and a dreadful thought arose from the deepest part of her mind. She did not refuse that flash of unnecessary alarm; she did hold it deep in her thoughts. What would happen if Ramoth should fail to rise to mate in the coming Turns, as Bedella’s Solth had done recently? R’mart had gratefully retired to Southern with his Weyrwoman. But somehow Lessa had always assumed that she and F’lar would remain Weyrleaders until the end of this Pass. There
would
come a time, even if it