by Larry Niven
"Yeah." He leaned back in the bombardier’s seat and closed his eyes. In seconds he was asleep.
Jenny shook her head in admiration. Nothing for Jack Clybourne to do, so he rests up for the next assignment. I wish the President would do that. There’s not enough information for him to make any decisions, not here.
I wish I could do it.
The reports continued. Missiles launched against the smaller alien ships. The large alien ship remained invisible behind a screen of noise, charged particles, and chaff. No confirmation of any Soviet missile landing in the United States, and no confirmation of any cities destroyed.
Jenny leaned back in the electronic warfare officer’s seat and tried to close her eyes, but the temptation to look out the window was too much. The thick leaded glass would shield her eyes from anything that wouldn’t kill her . . .
The bomber flew on toward Colorado Springs.
* * *
The steps of the bank were cold and damp. Harry settled as near the door as he could reach, and turned on the transistor radio.
"Power failures throughout Southern California," the announcer was saying. He sounded nearly hysterical. "We have reports that something hit Hoover Dam. Laser beams, for God’s sake!"
The long blue flame sank into the east. Harry settled against the bank door. He thought of what else he could do. Steal a car. Steal a motorcycle. Break into the shop and steal his own motorcycle: Any of that might work, but it might not.
I’m not as quick as I used to be.
He tried to think of someone who’d help him, but anyone who’d believe him either wouldn’t be any use, or would already be doing something. After a while he closed his eyes and slept a little.
He woke again when someone moved in beside him: a small, pudgy man who puffed from his climb up the steps. He settled on the step below Harry. "Mind?"
"No," Harry said. "Did you see the sky? Or the news?"
"Both. The TV’s gone off, though. One of the radio people keeps saying it’s all a big mistake, but I can’t get through to New York."
Sure can’t. Or to Dighton, Kansas. Harry nodded, The pudgy man was shivering. Harry thought he should have worn more.
"I keep remembering The War of the Worlds. What are they, what do they want? They could be . . . anything."
"Not my department," Harry said, and he closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he felt grateful for his brief military stint. He had learned to sleep anytime.
And if everything went just right, it was going to be one miserable day.
* * *
He kept waking to watch the sky. "There," the pudgy man said. He pointed south. "Like—what did they call it? The high-altitude atom bomb test. Back in the fifties."
"Wouldn’t remember," Harry said. He frowned. Something came back to him. They’d blown off a nuclear weapon in the stratosphere, and mucked up the ionosphere and communications all over the world, and it had taken months for things to get right again. And that was one bomb.
There was nothing but static on the radio. Harry tuned across the band. Sometimes he heard stations but he couldn’t really make out words. He shrugged and kept tuning.
There were a lot of faintly phosphorescent smudges, north, south, and west. East was getting pink, and he couldn’t tell if explosions were there, too.
War of the Worlds
? In that movie, the aliens had landed. His random sweep picked up a news station. He listened, but there wasn’t much news. Official announcements, everyone to remain calm and stay home. Hysterical announcers with unconfirmed reports of anything you liked. Orphanage burned in Los Gatos. Dams broken. Trains derailed. Europe laid waste. But no one had been hurt in Los Angeles, and as far as Harry could tell, the announcer didn’t know about anybody who’d been hurt. Just lots of rumors. When the sky turned light a dozen were in line. Only two had thought to bring sleeping bags. One weathered-looking man brought an entire backpack, with sleeping bag, self-inflating mat, a blowup pillow, a tiny stove. He got himself settled, then made coffee and sent it up and down the line in a Sierra cup. He seemed to be having a wonderful time. So were the two Boy Scouts with him.
They talked in low voices. A thin woman’s voice kept rising into hysteria, then chopping off. Harry dozed.
The voices changed. Harry rolled over and was looking up at two blue police uniforms. He exposed his hands, then carefully reached into his sports jacket and opened his wallet. "Harry Reddington. I’m here to make a withdrawal." He didn’t bother to smile.
"Sir, why are you here?"
Harry suppressed an urge to point to the sky and giggle. "I told you, I’m here to make a withdrawal."
"The Federal Emergency Management Agency has issued orders for all citizens to stay home," the older policeman said.
"Sure," Harry said. "We always do everything Washington says, don’t we?" This time he couldn’t help the grin. "How’d they learn to deal with this situation? Experience?"
"Sir—"
The younger officer interrupted his companion. They whispered for a moment. Harry used the opportunity to take out his Baggie-wrapped letter. He held it out.
"If you’ll shine your light here," Harry said.
The older policeman moved closer. His light showed the Capitol stationery clearly.
". . . Mr. Harry Reddington, whom I have authorized to stay in my house and guard my possessions and interests . . ."
If they had read further they’d have come to the weasel words, but they didn’t, and Harry swallowed his sigh of relief.
"Yes, sir?" the officer said. This time the "sir" sounded a great deal more sincere.
Some of the crowd behind them was muttering. "Fucking pigs," someone said, not too loud. The voice sounded cultured, and not at all what you’d expect someone saying that to sound like.
Harry was tempted to take advantage of that. Instead, he spoke in a low voice. "I’ll be glad to hold a place for you," he said. "Or one of your family."
The younger policeman thought that through, then nodded. "Her name is Rosabell. She’ll he here in an hour."
* * *
Interstate 40 had been completely dark for an hour. One moment she had been trying to read an illuminated sign; the next moment there was no light except her headlights. The radio had gone dead at the same instant, and now she could only get static.
High mountains loomed to either side, as the car steadily climbed into the Chuska mountains of western New Mexico.
The gas gauge read less than a quarter full.
"Mom, I’m hungry." Melissa said from the back seat.
"There’s bread and cheese," Jeri said.
"Not any more."
"Good God, that was supposed to last a while. You mean there’s none left at all?"
"Aw, there wasn’t very—what was that?"
Overhead the sky blazed in green and blue, then a long red streak that went all across the sky and downward to earth. "I don’t know," Jeri said. She shuddered. Aliens. They were out there all the time, waiting, fifteen years, and now they’ve attacked us.
"We’re gonna need gas."
"I know. Albuquerque is ahead. We can get gasoline there."
"I don’t know, Mom," Melissa said.
"Huh?"
"Space war, aliens—you sure we want to go into a city? Lots of people running away, I bet. Traffic jams—"
"You could be right."
Her headlights picked up a reflective sign.
"Gas food ahead," Melissa said. "We could use some. Eat and run the car on the gas—"
"Very funny." Jeri watched for the off-ramp. There it was. Everything was dark over there, but she took the ramp anyway. If a town was nearby, it was invisible.
"There’s the station," Melissa said. "Somebody’s in it."
"You’re right." Jeri pulled into the station.
"Yes, ma’am?" a voice said from nowhere. The station attendant switched on his flashlight. He was a young man, certainly not more than twenty, and dark. Jeri thought he lo
oked Indian.
This is the right part of the country for it
. "Uh—I need some gasoline. Badly." "The power’s off," the attendant said. "Can’t get the pumps to work."
"Oh. But I have a long way to go, and I really need some gasoline. Isn’t there anything you can do?"
He looked thoughtful. "I have a hand pump. I suppose I could pump some out into a can. It’d be a lot of work—"
"Oh, please," Jeri said. "I’d be glad to pay you."
"Not sure money’s worth much now. Did you hear the news?"
"Yes—" If you don’t want money, what do you want?
"Guess it’ll he all right, though." He went inside the station. The flashlight flickered through the windows.
He seems nice enough. So why am! Scared? Is civilization that fragile?
Part of her kept saying Yes!
* * *
The eastern windows blazed. The television hissed and sprayed random light. The radio spoke of an explosion on Interstate 5 between Everett and Marysville.
Close. Isadore rolled to his feet and turned the TV off. The radio announcer sounded hysterical. That’s got to be the long causeway, Isadore thought. We got over it just in time . . .
All of the kids were asleep. Vicki Tate-Evans had staggered away an hour ago. Her husband George was snoring on the couch with Clara’s feet in his lap. They got along fine as long as they were both asleep.
Isadore felt punchy, twitchy, as if he should be doing something. War in the sky . . . Just in time! Clara was right, push on, don’t stop, something might happen. If we’d waited any longer for Jeri, it would have been too late.
And where is she? On the road somewhere, and nothing I can do about it.
We were near enough dead getting in last night
. He remembered the bright flashes on the highway behind them. Maybe that was the causeway. We hadn’t got to Sedro Wooley, so if we’d been an hour later—That’s cutting things close . . . They’d come in ready to collapse, to find the television set running and a dead silence in the crowd that faced the set. When the TV went blank they’d all trooped outside to watch the war in the sky.
He said, as he’d said before, "Son of a bitch."
"Yeah," Shakes said. He came in from the kitchen carrying a cup of coffee. "You were right." He looked like he would never sleep again.
"We were right." Isadore laughed, and didn’t like the high pitch of it. "Seventeen years we were right before it looked even sensible. We should be putting the shutters over the windows. We should have bricked up the windows! Is anybody feeling ambitious?"
Nobody stood up and went out to fix the metal screens in place. Shakes said, "I never thought it was real."
"So what are you doing here?"
"My whole damn family gets to use this place for only about thirty percent of what it would cost us. That’s a damn good deal for a vacation spot. I don’t even mind admitting it now. We haven’t slacked off. This place is built to keep all of us alive, and me and my family did most of it. You haven’t even seen the shelter, Izzie."
Clara suddenly sat upright. "Food. How are the food supplies?"
"The food supplies are fine," Shakes said in some irritation.
"Good. I could eat your arm off. I’m going to make breakfast," Clara said, and she stood, staggering a little, and made her way into the kitchen, veering around Jack and Harriet McCauley, who were asleep on the rug.
* * *
By eight-thirty the line ran around the corner. The original police had gone, but two other pairs had come, and one team of two had stayed.
Rosabell Hruska had come at eight. She was a slender, frightened woman in her twenties. She carried a baby girl, and she didn’t talk to anyone except one of the visiting police.
At ten Harry watched an old man in a guard’s uniform open the doors. The line behind him rustled impatiently, but he waited. When the doors opened, Harry held it for Rosabell. Two more elbowed past him before he could let go and get to a cashier.
The cashier looked nervous.
At least there is a cashier, Harry thought. He’d been worried. Would they all stay home? There were twelve windows, but only four had cashiers.
"I want to make a withdrawal," said Harry.
"We’re restricting withdrawals to five hundred dollars." The cashier was an older woman, probably long since graduated from sitting in a cage and talking to customers, now filling in. She looked defiant and afraid at the same time.
The eastern banks had been open for three hours. Harry wondered, not whether there was a rush on the banks, but how bad it was.
Two windows down, Rosabell was shouting at the younger cashier she’d chosen. "It’s our money!" she screamed.
Too bad, Harry thought. But it was no skin off Harry’s nose. He had only fifty-eight dollars in his account. He asked for it all in coins, got two twenty-dollar rolls of quarters and eighteen ones. Then he moved to the deposit boxes. His contained one Mexican gold peso and thirty silver dimes. He’d been able to keep them because of the symbolic number; if he’d spent one, he’d have spent them all.
Once there had been a lot more. He took his money and left the bank. Tap city, he thought. Tap city on my total resources.
The radio spoke of the need for calm.
12
MESSAGE BEARER
And the LORD said, Behold, the people [is] one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.
Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.
—Genesis 11:6-7
COUNTDOWN: H PLUS SIX HOURS
The Herdmaster’s family occupied two chambers near the center of Message Bearer. Space was at a premium. The sleeproom was not large, though it housed two adults and three children. It was roomier now; the Herdmaster’s eldest male child was aboard one of the digit ships that would presently assault the target world.
The mudroom, smaller yet, gave privacy. Some discussions the children might be permitted to hear, but not this one.
Herdmaster Pastempeh-keph lay on his side in the mud. He was far too relaxed for his mate’s aplomb. "It’s a thoroughly interesting situation," he said.
K’turfookeph blared a trumpet blast of rage. A moment later her voice was quietly intense. "If your guards heard that they’ll think we’ve lost our reason . . . as your Advisor has. Keph, you must dissociate yourself from him!"
"I can’t. That is one of the interesting aspects. The sleepers expected to wake as masters of the ship. They are as docile as one could hope, and no more. Fathisteh-tulk was their Herdmaster. They will not permit me to remove him completely from power, not even if they know him to be insane. They would lose too much status."
K’turfookeph sprayed warm water along her mate’s back. He stirred in pleasure, and high waves marched toward the high rim of the tub. Gravity was inconveniently low, so near the ship’s center. But any force from outside would destroy the ship before it penetrated so far.
She asked, "Then what can be done?"
"Little. I must listen to him. I am not required to obey his suggestions." The Herdmaster pondered. The War for Winterhome was finally under way, and his relaxation time was all too rare. He resented his mate’s encroachment on that time. "Turn your mind around, Mother of my Immortality—"
"Don’t play word games with me! It’s half a year until mating season, and we don’t need soothing phrases between us, not at our age."
He sprayed her, scalp to tail, making a thorough job of it, before he spoke again. "Your digits grasp the handle of our problem. The mating cycles for sleeper and spaceborn are out of phase. It makes all controversy worse. The seasons on Winterhome will be out of phase for both . . . Never mind. Turn your mind far enough to see the humor. The sleepers never considered any path but to conquer a new world. We spaceborn have spent seventy years in space. We feel in our natal-memories that we can s
urvive without a planet. We know nothing of worlds. The dissidents want to abandon Winterhome entirely."
"They should be suppressed."
"That can’t be done, Keph," he said, using the part of their name they shared in common—as no other would. "It would split the spaceborn. The dissidents may be one in four of us by now—and Fathisteh-tulk is a dissident."
"Chowpeentulk should control him better! She’s pregnant; it ought to mean something to him—"
"Some females have not the skill sufficient to control their mates."
Irony? Had she offended him? She sprayed him; he seemed pleased rather than mollified. A male as powerful as the Herdmaster didn’t need to assert himself over his mate . . . She said, "The situation cannot continue."
"No. I fear for Fathisteh-tulk, and I don’t like his clear successor. Can you speak to Chowpeentulk? Will she control him?"
She shifted uncomfortably, and muddy water surged. "I have no idea." A sleeper was not in her class; they didn’t associate.
Tones sounded. The Herdmaster stretched and went to dry himself. It was time to return to duty.
* * *
The target world already bore a name in the Predecessor language.
The species had been nomads once. The Traveler Herd had become nomads again. But when mating season came, even a nomad herd must settle in one place until the children had been born.
Winterhome.
Winterhome was fighting back. Its rulers were no longer an unknown. Despite damage and loss of lives, Pastempeh-keph was relieved.
During the long years of flight from the ringed planet, the prey had not acted. The Herdmaster and his Advisor debated it: had they been seen? Electromagnetic signals of the domestic variety leaked through Winterhome’s atmosphere and were monitored. Most of it was gibberish. Some was confusing, with pictures of enormous spacecraft of unrealistic design. What remained held no word of a real starship drawing near.
Then, suddenly, beams were falling directly on Thuktun Flishithy. Messages, demands for answers, words promising peace before there had been war: first a few, then more, then an incessant babble.