Mende's angry voice roused him, and startled, he tried to throw back the covers, thinking he'd over-slept. But he couldn't move, so firmly was he tucked into his bed. And then the constriction of a bandage on his head and the dull sickishness in his leg brought back recent occurrences.


 "Hatching?" he cried.


 "No, lovey," Mende said in a kind voice. Her hand was cool and gentle on his forehead. "Though there's some as won't be at any hatching again." Her voice took on a stern edge.
Keevan looked beyond her to see the Weyrwoman, who was frowning with irritation.


 "Keevan, will you tell me what occurred at the black-rock bunker?" asked Lessa in an even voice.


 He remembered Beterli now and the quarrel over the shovel and . . . what had Mende said about some not being at any hatching? Much as he hated Beterli, he couldn't bring himself to tattle on Beterli and force him out of candidacy.


 "Come, lad," and a note of impatience crept into the Weyrwoman's voice. "I merely want to know what happened from you, too. Mende said she sent you for black rock. Beterli-and every WeyrUng in the cavern-seems to have been on the same errand. What happened?"


 "Beterli took my shovel. I hadn't finished with it."


 "There's more than one shovel. What did he say to you?"


 "He'd heard the news."


 "What news?" The Weyrwoman was suddenly amused.


 "That... that... there'd been changes."


 "Is that what he said?"


 "Not exactly"


 "What did he say? C'mon, lad, I've heard from everyone else, you know."


 "He said for me to guess the news."


 "And you fell for that old gag?" The Weyrwoman's irritation returned.


 "Consider all the talk last night at supper, Lessa," Mende said. "Of course the boy would think he'd been eliminated."


 "In effect, he is, with a broken skull and leg." Lessa touched his arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. "Be that as it may, Keevan, you'll have other Impressions.  Beterli will not. There are certain rules that must be observed by all candidates, and his conduct proves him unacceptable to the Weyr."


 She smiled at Mende and then left.


 "I'm still a candidate?" Keevan asked urgently.


 "Well, you are and you aren't, lovey," his foster mother said. "Is the numbweed working?" she asked, and when he nodded, she said, "You just rest. I'll bring you some nice broth."


 At any other time in his life, Keevan would have relished such cosseting, but now he just lay there wor-rying. Beterli had been dismissed. Would the others think it was his fault? But everyone was there! Beterli provoked that fight. His worry increased, because al-though he heard excited comings and goings in the passageway, no one tweaked back the curtain across the sleeping alcove he shared with five other boys.  Surely one of them would have to come in sometime.  No, they were all avoiding him. And something else was wrong. Only he didn't know what.


 Mende returned with broth and beachberry bread.  "Why doesn't anyone come see me, Mende? I haven't done anything wrong, have I? I didn't ask to have Beterli tuffed out."


 Mende soothed him, saying everyone was busy with noontime chores and no one was angry with him. They were giving him a chance to rest in quiet. The numbweed made him drowsy, and her words were fair enough. He permitted his fears to dissipate. Until he heard a hum. Actually, he felt it first, in the broken shin bone and his sore head. The hum began to grow.  Two things registered suddenly in Keevan's groggy mind: the only white candidate's robe still on the pegs in the chamber was his; and the dragons hummed when a clutch was being laid or being hatched. Impres-sion! And he was flat abed.
Bitter, bitter disappointment turned the warm broth sour in his belly. Even the small voice telling him that he'd have other opportunities failed to alleviate his crushing depression. This was the Impression that mattered! This was his chance to show everyone, from Mende to K'last to L'vel and even the Weyrieader that he, Keevan, was worthy of being a dragonrider.