by Larry Niven
"I wish you would not mock Marina," he said. "And you are wrong. This has nothing to do with a return to Moscow. Resides, when we do go back, I will take you with me. All Russians want to live in Moscow."
"I do not want to go. I want to stay here, with you. Your wife is not so careful here. In Moscow she would be concerned, lest her friends learn her husband has a mistress."
That was true enough, but it hardly mattered. "None of this is important." he said. "Not now. Things will change soon. Sooner than you know. Great changes, for all of us."
She frowned. "You are serious."
"I have never been more serious."
"Changes for the better?"
"I do not know." He stood and took both her hands in his. "But I promise you there will be changes beyond our power to predict, as profound as the Revolution."
Pavel Bondarev studied the papers he had been given, but from time to time he looked past them at the man who had brought them. Dmitii Parfenovich Grushin, a Lieutenant Colonel in the KGB despite his seeming youth. Grushin wore a suit of soft wool that fit perfectly, obviously made in Paris or London. He was of average height, and slender, but his grip had been very strong, and he walked with an athletic spring to his step.
The papers told him what General Narovchatov had already said. "I see," Bondarev said. "I am to go to Baikonur."
"Yes, Comrade Academician." Grushin spoke respectfully. It was difficult to know what the man was thinking. He seemed perfectly in control of his face and his voice.
He brought a letter from General Narovchatov, inviting Marina and the children to Moscow, and enclosing the necessary travel permits. Marina would be pleased. "There is much unsaid here," Bondarev said.
"Yes. I can explain," Grushin said.
"Please."
"General Narovchatov has become First Secretary of the Party." Grushin said carefully. He paused long enough to allow the full weight of that to wash across Bondarev. "This will be announced within the week. The Politburo finds this alien ship a matter of some concern. Many of the marshals of the Soviet Union do not believe in aliens."
"Then they think—"
"That this is a CIA trick," Grushin said. "It cannot be."
"I believe that. So does Chairman Petrovslciy."
"And Comrade Trusov?"
Grushin shrugged. "You will understand that I do not often see the Chairman of the KGB—however, I am informed that the vote of the Defense Council was unanimous, that a civilian scientist should command the preparations for receiving the aliens. You, Comrade."
"So I was told. I confess I am not especially qualified."
"Who is? I am trained as a diplomat. Yet—what training is there, to meet with aliens from another star? But we must do what we must do."
"Then you have been assigned as my deputy?" That would be common enough practice, to have a KGB officer as chief of staff to a project of this importance. Certainly the KGB would insist on having its agents high within the control organization.
"No, another will do that," Grushin said. "My orders are to proceed to Kosmograd."
"Ah. You are a qualified astronaut?"
"No, but I have been a pilot." Grushin’s smile was thin. "Comrade Academician, I have been ordered by your father-in-law to trust you, to tell you everything I can. This is unusual. Stranger yet, Comrade Trusov himself instructed me to do the same."
Strange indeed. So. The Politburo did take this alien craft seriously. Very seriously. And General Nikolai Narovchatov had said, "You will trust the man sent by KGB. As much as you trust any man from KGB." What that could mean was not obvious.
"So," Bondarev said. "What is there that I must know?"
"The military," Grushin said. "Not all will cooperate, and not all will be under your command. You will need great skills at Baikonur to learn which marshals trust you and which do not. I need not tell you that this will not be easy."
"No." It was safe enough to say that much. Not more.
"It is also vital that the Americans do not learn the extent of our mobilization."
"I see." I see a great deal. Some of the marshals are out of control. They mobilize their forces regardless of the wishes of the Kremlin. The Americans can never be allowed to know this! "What else must I know?"
"The crew aboard Kosmograd," Grushin said. "Who is there now, and whom we shall invite."
"Invite—"
"Americans. They have already requested that we allow their people aboard Kosmograd when the alien ship arrives. The Politburo wishes your advice within three days." He paused. "I think, though, that they will invite the Americans no matter what you say."
"Ah. And if the Americans wish this, other nations will also." He shrugged. "I do not know how many Kosmograd can accommodate."
"Nor I, but I will tell you when I arrive there. As I will advise you of the personnel aboard. Of course you will also receive reports from Commander Rogachev."
"A good man, Rogachev," Bondarev said.
Grushin’s smile was crafty, like a peasant’s, although there was little of the peasant about the KGB man. "Certainly he has a legend about him. But he is not everywhere regarded as you regard him."
"Why?"
"He is a troublemaker when he feels his mission is in danger. A fanatic about carrying out orders. Make no mistake, technically he is the best commander we have for Kosmograd."
"But you doubt—doubt what? Surely not his loyalty?"
"Not his loyalty to the Soviet Union."
"Ah." There had been an edge to Grushin’s voice. Rogachev had not always shown proper deference to the Party . . . In what way is he a trouble-maker?"
Grushin shrugged. "Minor ways. An example. He has aboard Kosmograd his old sergeant, the maintenance crew chief of his helicopter during the Ethiopian conflict. This man lost both legs in the war. When it came time for this sergeant to be rotated back to Earth, Rogachev found excuses to keep him. He said that no better man was available, that it was vital to Kosmograd that this man remain."
"Was he right?’
Grushin shrugged. "Again, that is something I will know when I arrive there. Understand, Comrade Academician. I am to be only a Deputy Commander of Kosmograd when I board. Thtsikova will be First Deputy. But I will report directly to you. If there is need, you may remove Rogachev from command."
Bondarev nodded comprehendingly. Inside he was frightened.
I command this space station, but there are many technical matters. I will not know which are important and which are not. I require advice-but whose advice can I trust? He smiled thinly. That would be the dilemma faced by Chairman Petrovskiy and First Secretary Narovchatov. It is why I have been given this task.
It will be a great opportunity, though. At last, Pavel Bondarev thought, at last I can tell them where to aim the space telescope. And be able to see the pictures instantly.
It was a bright clear spring day, with brilliant sunshine, the kind of day that made it worthwhile living through Bellingham’s rainy seasons. The snow-crowned peaks of Mount Baker and the Twin Sisters stood magnificently above the foothills to the east. The view was impressive even to a native; it was enough to have Angelenos gawking. They stood near the old Bellingham city hail, a red brick castle complete with towers and Chuckanut granite, and alternately looked out across the bay to the San Juan Islands, then back to the mountains.
When Kevin Shakes saw a uniform coming toward them he wondered if something was wrong. His eyes flicked toward the truck—had he parked in the wrong place? A city kid’s reaction. In a small town like Bellingham you could park nearly anywhere you liked.
The uniform was brown, short-sleeved, decorated with badges and a gun belt. The man wearing it was three or four years older than Kevin’s eighteen. He was grinning and taking off his hat, showing fine blond hair in a ragged cut. "Hello. Miranda," he called. "Is this the whole clan?"
"All but Dad and Mom." Miranda was smiling, too. "Leigh, meet Kevin and Carl and Owen. We were just doing some shopping."
Kevin said, "Well, maybe Miranda told you. we, don’t own the ranch all by ourselves. There are three other families, and they each own a fifth, and they’re all coming up for a vacation."
"Won’t that be crowded?"
Kevin shrugged. Miranda lost a little of the smile. "Yeah. We’ve never done this before. The idea was to take turns, one week Out of five, a vacation spot, you know? But it never seems to work out that way. We’ve lucked out a lot. This time, well, maybe it’ll work out. The other families aren’t as big as we are. But I don’t know them very well."
Miranda and the cop drifted away, and Kevin let them have their privacy. Later, when they were in the truck, he asked, "Who is he? How did you meet him?"
"Leigh Young. He was at the club and we played some tennis. He’s not very good, but he could be."
"You like him?"
"Some."
"I think Dad would approve of your dating a policeman. Useful."
Miranda smiled. "It doesn’t hurt that he’s got good legs, either."
Kevin looked back to be sure his younger brothers were settled inside the truck with the mounds of groceries before he started the truck. "Sure going to be crowded."
"Yeah."
"Randy, what do you think about all this? Is Dad right?"
She shrugged. "I didn’t used to think so. All our friends laugh at George, old Super-Survivor. I think Dad used to laugh at him, too."
"You never know with Dad," Kevin said. Miranda was only a year older than Kevin, and they’d become good friends as well as brother and sister. They both knew about their father’s half smiles.
He also kept their home computers busy analyzing the cost of everything they did. William Adolphus Shakes hadn’t wasted a nickel in years.
". . . Gee, Kevin, there really is an alien spaceship."
"Yeah. And Mrs. Wilson says it’s been hiding for a long time. Claims she was out at some lab when—when something happened. But nobody knew it was the aliens, then. Why would they hide out that long?’
"I don’t know." She opened the glove compartment. "At least it’s pretty here," Miranda pushed a tape into the player, and the stereo crashed out with the sounds of a new group. "Glad we have the tapes," she shouted.
"Yeah." There sure wasn’t anything on radio up here.
* * *
William Shakes and Max Rohrs walked back toward the house, across the concrete apron Rohrs had poured last week. It felt dry and solid beneath their feet. Rohrs was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man. William Shakes felt like a dwarf beside him, though there wasn’t that much difference. Rohrs said, "Looks like we’re finished. If it gives you any trouble, you know my number."
"Yeah. Thanks. I guess I’ll be seeing you."
"I hope so. You’re good for business," Rohrs said. "The way you’ve been planting pipe, I wonder if you’re planning to open up a hotel." When Shakes didn’t react he said, "Just kidding."
"Well, I’m not laughing. It’s going to feel like a hotel. We’ve got three more families coming up. I expect we’ve finally got enough septic tanks to keep everyone happy, and I know we’ve got enough beds."
"That’s still a lot of elbows to be taking up your elbow room."
Shakes nodded. A secretive smile lived just underneath his blank expression. Rohrs had built the septic tank last April. He’d been told that the second septic tank on the other side of the house was too old, too small. It was neither. Rohrs had just finished pouring this concrete apron; but he had no way of knowing that there was a second concrete apron under it, covered with rock and dirt. And under that, a roomy bomb shelter that nobody knew about.
William Shakes’ smile showed in Max Rohrs’ rearview mirror as Rohrs drove away.
Jack and Harriet McCauley had invited them into the Enclave six years ago. The Shakes had known pretty well what they were getting into. Jack and Harriet, and several others, were survivalists, perpetually prepared for the end of civilization. They collected news clippings on Soviet encroachments and economic failures and the national collapse of law and church and patriotism. They were bores on the subject.
Why had they picked on Bill and Gwen Shakes? Was it only because they lived in the neighborhood, or because they could afford the expense? Or because they were good listeners and never called the McCauleys fools? In fact neither Bill nor Gwen thought that any man was a fool to prepare for disaster. But disasters couldn’t be predicted. The Enclave was preparing for something far too specific. Reality would fool them when it came.
So the Shakes had not jumped at the chance. They had talked around the subject . . . until Bill realized what the Enclave group had in mind.
They joined. They paid their dues, a moderately hefty fee. They bought and maintained equipment as they were told to. Guns and spare food were good to have around anyway. They stored the pamphlets and books and even read some of them, and taught the kids firearms safety. At the Thursday meetings they argued strongly for buying a place of refuge in some near-wilderness area, preferably near some small agricultural village. Ultimately they found such a place, and when the rest of the Enclave agreed, the Shakes had paid 20 percent of the costs.
Bill enjoyed such games. It wasn’t as if he were cheating anyone. The Enclave was getting exactly what it had paid for. But Bill and Gwen Shakes now owned a vacation site for a fifth of what it would normally have cost them.
In dollars and cents—and Bill Shakes always thought in dollars and cents—it was more like 30 percent. The place wasn’t just being repaired, it was being turned into a refuge, and that cost in time and effort and money. But Bill and Gwen both liked working with their hands, and so did the boys. When they had the leisure they would drive the truck up to Bellingham—Miranda and Kevin were old enough to spell Bill at the wheel—and make order out of chaos, and play at turning the huge, roomy old house into a fortress. It backed onto a woods, with enough grounds for a garden. There was work to do, but also plenty of time out for goofing off and sailing their twenty-five footer in the San Juan Islands, some of the greatest sailing water in the world. By all odds the end of civilization would never come, or would come in some form the Enclave could never predict. Meanwhile the Shakes used the place more often than the rest of the Enclave families put together.
But this vacation hadn’t been planned.
When Bill got home two evenings ago, Gwen and the kids could talk about nothing but the approaching alien spacecraft. The eleven o’clock news featured fanciful sketches of what an interstellar craft might look like, reminding Bill of equally fanciful cartoons of the late forties: varying designs for a nuclear-powered airplane. That one had certainly come to nothing. But this . . .
When the telephone woke him at one in the morning, he had felt no surprise whatever. Gwen had said nothing, only turned on her side to listen while George Tate-Evans ordered the Shakes family to Bellingham.
I don’t take orders worth a damn. Bill thought, but he didn’t say it. He was already thinking, muzzily, of how his boss would react to Bill’s taking a sudden week or two off. Because George was right, and this was what the Enclave was for.
It was still a game, but they were playing for points now. Bill wasn’t sure how the kids were taking it. Miranda and Kevin were into the social scene; Carl and Owen were having trouble adjusting to a new school. They should never have been shifted this close to the end of the school year. But they all did their stints working in the vegetable garden and shopping for masses of groceries.
Bill tried not to resent the expense, the disruption. He couldn’t take this Star Wars stuff as seriously as the kids . . . or George and Vicki for that matter. Neither did Gwen, although she wasn’t so sure. "Vicki is really worried," Gwen had said.
"Thin
k of it as a fire drill," he’d answered. "Get the bugs out of the system. If something real ever happens, we’ll know how to do it right."
At that level it made sense.
* * *
What Max Rohrs told his wife that night was, "I think I make Shakes nervous."
They were in bed, and Evelyn was reading. It wasn’t a book that took concentration. She said, "You said he was little?"
"Yeah." Max Rohrs was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, blond and hairy. He liked the occasional fight, and some men could see that. "Bill doesn’t quite reach my shoulder. His wife’s just his height, and a little wider, and his sons tower over him. Even so, he’s hiding something."
"Bodies?"
She wasn’t all that interested, she was just being polite. Max, recognizing this, laughed. "No, not bodies—but there’s too many pipes. Too much plumbing. They keep adding to the septic tanks, and it doesn’t look like they’d have to. I think they’re survivalists. That house"— he rolled over onto his elbow —"it’s twice as big as it looks. Any angle you see it, it looks L-shaped. but it’s an X. Count on it, they’ve got guns and food stores and a bomb shelter, too. I bet it’s under that tennis court I poured them. In some of the big cities there are bookstores just for survivalists." He frowned. "They’ve sure been frantic the past week or so."
"I heard from Linda today," Evelyn said.
"Linda? And why are you changing the subject?"
"Gillespie. She’s back in Washington. The President sent Ed and Wes Dawson to Houston. They’ll train together. Wes Dawson finally gets to space—"
Max felt a twinge of envy. "That’ll be nice."
"Linda’s at Flintridge. Her kid sister —you remember Jenny?— had something to do with discovering the alien ship."
"Oh. Hey, that’s what set Shakes off! Sure, those guys are survivalists." He knew his wife was smarter than he was, and by a lot, It didn’t bother him. What was amazing was that she was so obviously in love with him, and had been since the night they met in Washington. He’d been a sailor on liberty with no place to go, and somebody suggested a social club in a church up near the National Cathedral. There’d been girls there, lots of them, and all pretty snooty. All except Evelyn and her friends Linda and Carlotta. They were college girls, but they weren’t ashamed to be seen with a petty officer—