Footfall

by Larry Niven

  Solar-electric panels splayed out around the other end of the corridor. Dawson guessed there was a nuclear plant too, well isolated from the crew quarters. Why else would the joining corridor be so long? Though it would help the Sovs maintain spin gravity.

  At the center of rotation, opposite a fourth tank that served as a free-fall laboratory, was the main airlock. A line ran from the airlock to the hovering shuttlecraft. And behind it all, a great blue ball was slowly traversing a deep black sky.

  Orbit! Free-fall! He’d done it! But what a strange path he’d traveled,

  There was a boy who had wanted to be an astronaut.

  A young man had watched that hope dwindle as he matured. Men had landed on the Moon in July of 1969, after eight years of effort. In 1980, a NASA official had stated that "the United States could not reach the Moon again ten years from now, no mailer what the effort." The space program had been nearly dismantled. The United States had reached the Moon . . . and come back . . . and stopped.

  The Soviets, beaten in the Moon race, dropped out; but when the United States rested, the Soviet space program began anew, this time systematically developing capabilities, each new exploit a bit more difficult than the last; none of the spectaculars of the early days, but plenty of solid achievement.

  An angry man had grown into politics. Partly through Wes Dawson’s efforts, the U.S. space program began again, led by the Shuttle and continuing toward industries in space, but too slowly.

  The cold war began again, with all its implications. Editorials in U.S. papers and on television: why challenge the Soviets in space? Nothing was there. Or, alternatively: the Soviets are so strong that they cannot be challenged. Or: why begin a race no one can win? A drumfire of editorials, threatening to drown the American space effort.

  Then had come a speck in the night sky; and a powerful, determined politician in the best of health now looked across thirty meters of line at a Soviet space station to which he had come as visiting dignitary.

  It was a way into space; but he’d have had to be crazy to plan it that way. . .

  "Do you feel all right, Congressman?’ The Soviet crewman waited outside, clinging to a handhold on the airlock door. He floated easily, his whole posture a statement: for Soviets this is easy. We have the experience to make it easy.

  He couldn’t see the expression behind the darkened glass of Ed Gillespie’s helmet. Gillespie waited.

  "I’m fine! Fine!" Wes stayed uncertainly in the airlock. Space was wonderful, but there was so much of it! He felt bouncy, happy; he sounded that way too.

  "Good." The cosmonaut pushed into Dawson’s glove a device vaguely resembling pliers; the business end was already closed around the line. "If you will move out of the airlock—"

  Wes grasped the line grip and moved out of the airlock door. Ed Gillespie came up beside him. Gillespie said nothing, but Wes was grateful: someone familiar, in this strange and wonderful place.

  The airlock cycled again, and Greeley emerged. The cosmonaut handed him a line gripper. "Remember, there is no way to get lost. You need only jump. When you near the airlock, squeeze the handle and friction will slow you." The Russian’s accent was noticeable even through the electronics of the suit radios.

  "Fine." They’d showed him most of it in briefings, but it wasn’t the same.

  "You’re on your own, then," Ed Gillespie said. "See you in Houston." He clapped Wes on the shoulder and climbed into the airlock.

  "Right. My regards to Linda." he spoke automatically. He was watching the Soviet cosmonaut. Dawson took a deep breath.

  The Russian jumped.

  Dawson waited until the Soviet was across before he moved. It took nerve, for a man who was already falling. A good jump maybe a bit too hard . . . airlock coming up fast . . . he wasn’t slowing at all! Dawson braked too soon, left himself short of the airlock.

  Greeley thumped into him from behind. Greeley was massive:

  an Air Force Captain who had earned his letter in football as a halfback. His cheerful voicewas a bit tinny in Wes’s earphones. "No sweat. Sir, if you’ll just ease up on the clamps—" Wes relaxed his grip, releasing the line, and let Greeley guide him into the airlock.

  Several people waited beyond the airlock. One was a woman in her forties. A legless man floated toward Wes and deftly helped him to remove his helmet. No one spoke.

  "Hi!" Wes said.

  "Hello." The woman spoke grudgingly.

  The airlock opened, and the Soviet cosmonaut entered. The legless man assisted him in opening his helmet. The cosmonaut grinned. "Welcome to Kosmograd. I am Rogachev."

  "Ah! Thank you," Wes said. "I hadn’t expected the commander himself to assist me—"

  "I enjoy going outside," Rogachev said. "I have all too few opportunities."

  The others seemed friendlier now.

  "Allow me to introduce you, but quickly," Rogachev said. "When we have removed these suits, you can be more properly Welcomed. This is First Deputy Commander Aliana Aleksandmvna Thtsikova. Deputy Commander Drnitri Parfenovich Gru shin. Station Engineer Ustinov."

  These three were lined up, Tutsikova closest to Wes. They all looked typically Russian to Dawson’s untrained eye. There were three more in the crowded corridor, including the legless man, but Rogachev made no move to introduce them.

  It would be difficult to shake hands in zero gravity, and Wes didn’t try. The airlock door opened again, to admit Captain Greeley. The legless cosmonaut went to help remove his helmet. Rogachev was already leading the way down the corridor, and Wes had no choice but to follow.

  "In here," Rogachev said. "Mitya will aid you with your suit. He will then show you where we will await you." His tone changed. "Nikolai."

  "I come," the legless man said, and launched himself after Rogachev.

  The compartment Vies was led into was small, but larger than he had expected. It had some gravity; hardly enough to notice, but sufficient that objects settled to one deck, and Wes could lie on that deck to allow his suit to be removed.

  Mitya did not look like the others. He was small, almost tiny, and his face was very oriental, almost pure Tatar. He talked constantly as he assisted Dawson in getting out of the pressure Suit. Vies couldn’t understand a word, although Mitya seemed to understand English.

  When they had the pressure suit off, Mitya produced a pair of dark blue coveralls. On the left breast was the name DAWS0N, in both Roman and Cyrillic letters. There was also a patch, with the stylized hammer-shaped symbol of Kosmograd. The station’s image was marked with a Red Star and the Soviet CCCP.

  That’s why they said I needn’t bring my own clothes. They want me in their uniform. Wes grinned and reached inside his suit. There was a small pouch there. Wes took out a bright U.S. flag pin, and pinned that above the Kosmograd patch. Then he looked directly at Mitya.

  The Soviet was grinning. He said something incomprehensible, then waited for Wes to put on the coveralls.

  * * *

  Sergeant Ben Mailey was accustomed to shepherding VIPs, but he’d never seen a group quite like this one. Idly he listened to the chatter behind him. They’d put five passengers in a helicopter built for many more. The trip from the Colorado Springs airfield to Cheyenne Mountain wasn’t very long. Civilians were talkative anyway, but they rarely tried to compete with the roar of a helicopter motor. These were winning; though half of what they said didn’t make sense.

  He had his share of tall this trip. Sergeant Mailey tended to notice that. Five feet five, wide and round, he dreaded what he would look like without the Army exercises they made him take. You’d want to roll him down a bowling alley. But three of his passengers were six feet or taller, and two of those were women. He glanced at the passenger list. That tall man playing tour guide was Curtis, of Hollywood, California. It was easy enough to hear him, even over the helicopter motors. "That’s the Broadmoor Hotel. One of the world’s top hotels, and not built because of the Air Force Academy or NORAD or anything else. Remember the old Penrose mac
hine? One of the younger sons got too rough even for that crowd, and they sent him out here about the turn of the century as a remittance man. Had nothing to do, so he built the world’s best hotel in the shadow of Pikes Peak."

  Which was interesting. Mailey had never heard that story before. Unfortunately, the guy knew more, and now he was revealing too many of the secrets of Cheyenne Mountain for Mailey’s comfort. How the hell did he ever get Inside? Because he’d sure been there.

  Not that it mattered. They were all going inside, and maybe it wouldn’t be so easy to get out again . . .

  Four of them had come in pairs, but the dark-haired woman had come alone, If you’d put her in Playboy—she was that pretty— you’d have had to use the centerfold. She was that tall. When Curtis shut up she said, "What I meant is, we ought to be the ones to greet the aliens!"

  "Maybe we will. But, Sherry, Wes Dawson’s up there, and he’s a science-fiction fan. I mean serious. He was at the first Saturn flyby. You were there. Don’t you remember him? Congressional candidate in a baseball cap."

  "No."

  "Well, he was watching the screens instead of making speeches. That any help?’

  "I—"

  "In the meantime, if you were a government, who would you get to tell you about aliens? Us! I’d like to know who thought of it."

  The silver-haired woman’s laugh was a pleasant silvery tinkle. Her husband wasn’t in uniform, but from the ID he’d shown Mailey he could have bean, although it would make him the oldest lieutenant in the Navy. He had a head like a bullet and a mustache like a razor’s edge. The sheet on Mailey’s clipboard named them:

  Robert and Virginia Anson, Santa Cnn. They looked too old to be part of—whatever was going on here. All Mailey was sure of was that there was a direct order from the President concerning this new advisory group, and Mailey had never seen anything like that before.

  They were to report directly to the National Security Council. Not even to General Deighton, who commanded NORAD and had taken up residence inside.

  Anson leaned forward in his chair, and Mailey noticed that the others stopped talking and turned toward him. "We’ll see enough," he said.

  "Sure," one of the others said. "Bob, we trust hell out of you, but can’t you tell us what we’re doing here?"

  "Ten minutes." Anson looked up at Mailey. "That’s about how long it will take to get Inside?"

  Mailey nodded "Yes, sir." Another one who’d been in the hole. They had that distinctive way of pronouncing the word. Inside. If you’d been there, you knew.

  "Anyway," Anson said, "we’ll learn as much, and as quickly, as anyone in the United States. Admiral Carrell assured me of that."

  The grins on the others were unmistakable, although some of the wives didn’t seem so happy about it.

  "Sounds good," someone said. "And an audience that wants to be told what to do, and can do it! Who could ask for more?"

  Virginia Anson laughed in silver. Robert Anson leaned forward again, and again everyone else fell silent. I’ve seen generals get less respect than that, Mailey thought.

  "What have you done with Nat Reynolds?" Anson asked Curtis. "I thought you two went everywhere together."

  "We have since his divorce," Curtis said. "But he’s got a convention in Kansas. Yeah, I thought of that too, but where is he safe?"

  He’d be safe Inside, Mailey thought. If there’s one safe place in the world, this is it.

  The motors changed pitch and the helicopter descended.

  * * *

  Jenny watched the group climb out of the helicopter, and hid her misgivings. She got the passengers loaded into the station wagon for the short drive from the helipad to the entrance.

  She’d only been Inside a few times, and it was still an awesome experience. The station wagon drove through doors the size of a house, then on into the mountain— And on, and on. Eventually it stopped and they entered an elevator that had no difficulty holding all of them, with room for the station wagon if they’d wanted it.

  No one was talking much. People didn’t, the first time.

  * * *

  The buildings sat on coil springs as tall as people. Except for the springs, and the granite walls overhead and everywhere, the buildings might have been standard military barracks and offices.

  Jenny gave them an hour to get settled. Most of them were in the briefing room in half that time. She waited the full hour. The inside of the conference room was set up like a movie theater, with folding chairs in rows. Army men ushered them to seats, a little warily, as if they didn’t quite know what to make of their guests.

  The army troopers stood when she came in. So did Robert Anson, although Jenny had the impression that it wasn’t the gold leaves he stood for.

  They waited while she went to the blackboard.

  Then one of them said, "I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve asked you here," and everyone laughed. Which made it a lot easier.

  "I suppose you are wondering," Jenny said. "Admiral Carrell has assembled an intelligence group to advise the National Security Council. You are part of it."

  "Makes sense. Who else knows about aliens?"

  She looked at her seating chart. Curtis. She nodded. "The first thing is to explain why you are here, rather than at the Academy with your colleagues and the anthropology professors. You are the Threat Team. The others will assume the aliens are friendly. Our group will examine the possibility that they will be hostile."

  Everyone looked thoughtful. Then a hand was raised. Jenny consulted her chart again. "Yes, Ms Atkinson?"

  "Do we have a choice in the assignment?"

  "Not now," Jenny said.

  "Too bad."

  "I thought it valuable to have you with us, Sherry," Anson said. "The rest of us are paranoid. You are not. It seemed reasonable to have one intelligent but trusting person on this team."

  Sherry Atkinson melted back into her seat.

  "I’m afraid things will be a bit hectic," Jenny said. "You will have a series of intensive briefings—"

  "There that much to know about the aliens?"

  "Actually, Dr. Curtis, there is very little to know about the aliens. However, you are to be briefed on U.S. and USSR strategic weapons systems. One of the possibilities Admiral Carrell intends to examine is that the aliens make alliance with the Soviets. Against us."

  * * *

  Academician Pavel Bondarev sat at his desk. His large leather chair was swiveled toward the window, with its view of the Black Sea. The weather outside was pleasant. It was pleasant inside the office as well. His secretary sat on his lap. Slowly she unbuttoned her blouse.

  This was far better than he had expected! He had more power and prestige than he had ever imagined possible. To add to his joy, Marina and his grandson had vacationed on the shores of the Black Sea and were now on an airplane to Moscow.

  It couldn’t last, of course. Soon the aliens would come, and things would change. He could only guess at how they would change.

  He may have been the proper man for this task. I know few who could have done it, and of those, two are not reliable . . .

  On his desk lay thick reports from the Soviet military leaders. The largest was the report of the Strategic Rocket Command. Bondarev had always known that the Soviet Union possessed thousands of intercontinental nuclear-tipped missiles; now he knew the location and targeting of every one of them.

  He also knew their reliability, which was not high. Despite the full alert, nearly a quarter of the missile force was not in readiness, and the generals did not expect more than two thirds of those remaining to launch on the first attempt.

  The reports contained information on which missiles could be retargeted and which could not. Of those, some could be aimed at objects in space, and some could be targeted only toward other points on the Earth, because their warheads could not be detonated until after re-entry. He had turned so that he wouldn’t have to look at those reports. Could he not keep his mind on Lorena for these few pre
cious moments? But his mind ran on—

  He had a large force that could be used to engage the United States, and a small force that could fight an enemy in outer space if that became necessary. It was not possible to estimate what that force could do because they knew nothing of the onrushing alien spacecraft. What defenses did it have? How thick was its hull, and how close would it come to Earth?

  All probably unnecessary. They will not attack. But if they do, I have forces to engage them with. Some forces. I should determine more precisely what I have available.

  That would not be easy, because it was no simple task to combine the targeting information with the figures on readiness and reliability. The result would only be a probability. It is well that I am doing this. Few military officers would know how to do the mathematics. Nor would I be able to in time except for—

  He glanced at the table next to his desk. An American IBM home computer stood there. It was an excellent machine, simple to use, and it had come with a number of probability and statistics programs that he had adapted to this purpose.

  "You have no need of that machine at this moment," Lorena said firmly. She took his hand and guided it to her breast.

  He had been expecting the telephone, but it startled him anyway. Pavel Bondarev disengaged his hand from within his secretary’s blouse. The ringing phone was on a secure line, permanently attached to a scrambler. He had been told that not even the KGB could listen to calls on that line. Pavel didn’t believe that, but it was well to act as if he did. He lifted the receiver. "Academician Bondarev."

  "Narovchatov. The Voice of America announces that the Americans are aboard"

  "I heard. There was no jamming."

  Narovchatov chuckled. "So long as they do our work, why should we interfere? But it is a good sign. They are not upset by our mobilizations."

  "I trust not," Bondarev said. "I have done much to keep such matters under control

  "You are now satisfied with the preparations?’

  "I believe so. Grushin reports that all is well aboard the spacecraft. The Strategic Rocket Forces are alerted, the Fleet is at sea, but the Air Force remains grounded and visible to the American satellites. This was not achieved without cost. Colonel General Akhmanov proved uncooperative, and has been replaced by Genera] Tretyak. The transfer of power was accomplished without incident, and Akhmanov has been promoted to the General Inspectorate of the Ministry of Defense."