"Never seen anything like it," the Weyrleader was saying. "Only thirty-nine riders chosen. And the bronze trying to leave the Hatching Ground without making Impression."


 "A case in point of what I said last night," the Weyrwoman replied, "where a hatchling makes no choice because the right boy isn't there."


 "There's only Beterli and K'last's young one missing.  And there's a full wing of likely boys to choose from. . ."


 "None acceptable, apparently. Where is the creature going? He's not heading for the entrance after all.  Oh, what have we there, in the shadows?"


 Keevan heard with dismay the sound of voices nearing him. He tried to burrow into the sand. The mere thought of how he would be teased and taunted now was unbearable.


 Don't worry! Please don't worry! The thought was urgent, but not his own.


 Someone kicked sand over Keevan and butted roughly against him.


 "Go away. Leave me alone!" he cried.


 Why? was the injured-sounding question inserted into his mind. There was no voice, no tone, but the question was there, perfectly clear, in his head.


 Incredulous, Keevan lifted his head and stared into the glowing jeweled eyes of a small bronze dragon. His wings were wet, the tips drooping in the sand. And he sagged in the middle on his unsteady legs, al-though he was making a great effort to keep erect.


 Keevan dragged himself to his knees, oblivious of the pain in his leg. He wasn't even aware that he was ringed by the boys passed over, while thirty-one pairs of resentful eyes watched him Impress the dragon.


 The Weynnen looked on, amused, and surprised at the draconic choice, which could not be forced. Could not be questioned. Could not be changed.


 Why? asked the dragon again. Don't you like me?  His eyes whirled with anxiety, and his tone was so piteous that Keevan staggered forward and threw his arms around the dragon's neck, stroking his eye ridges, patting the damp, soft hide, opening the fragile-looking wings to dry them, and wordlessly assuring the hatch-ling over and over again that he was the most perfect, most beautiful, most beloved dragon in the Weyr, in all the Weyrs of Pem.


 "What's his name, K'van?" asked Lessa, smiling warmly at the new dragonrider. K'van stared up at her for a long moment. Lessa would know as soon as he did. Lessa was the only person who could "receive" from all dragons, not only her own Ramoth. Then he gave her a radiant smile, recognizing the traditional shortening of his name that raised him forever to the rank of dragonrider.


 My name is Heth, the dragon thought mildly, then hiccuped in sudden urgency. I'm hungry.


 "Dragons are born hungry," said Lessa, laughing.  "F'lar, give the boy a hand. He can barely manage his own legs, much less a dragon's."


 K'van remembered his stick and drew himself up.
"We'll be Just fine, thank you."


 "You may be the smallest dragonrider ever, young K'van," Flar said, "but you're one of the bravest!"


 And Heath agreed! Pride and joy so leaped in both chests that K'van wondered if his heart would burst right out of his body. He looped an arm around Heth's neck and the pair, the smallest dragonboy and the hatchling who wouldn't choose anybody else, walked out of the Hatching Ground together forever.