by Larry Niven
"Their top brass travel with armed guards. Harpanet won't see anything unusual in having the President escorted by soldiers."
"Do you think I will need them, Mr. Curtis?"
"No. But I see Jack's point. If Harpanet decided to take on the President, he'd be damned hard to stop. Incidentally, if you're going to do this, do it right. None of those dinky little Mattel toy rifles. Get a couple of thirty-ought-sixes."
"And where will we find those?" Jenny asked.
"There's one in my room. Ransom's got another," Curtis said.
"That's why, Mr. President." Joe Ransom finished his presentation. The room, filled with writers and engineers and soldiers stood in silence, so that the only sound was the heavy breathing of the alien captive.
"Impressive," President Coffey said. He looked bewilderedly around the room until his eyes met those of the alien. Harpanet stood thirty feet away, as far as Clybourne could put him, with four armed combat veterans between the alien and the President.
And still too close
, Jenny thought. "What do you call him? Has he a title?" the President asked.
"Just Harpanet, Mr. President," Robert Anson said. "Any title he might have had from his own people was lost when he surrendered, and we have not yet given him one."
"Harpanet," the President said quietly.
"Lead me."
"Have you understood what was said here?"
"Yes."
"Is it true? They will drop a large asteroid on the Earth?" The alien spread his digits.
"He says he can't know," Sherry interpreted.
"But your ship was to be — mated with a foot?"
"Yes." The s sound fluttered.
"Is there anyone here who disagrees?" the President demanded. There was only silence.
President Coffey began to pace. "We'll have to warn as many people as possible. Worldwide. God, I wish they hadn't made such hash of our communications. Yes, Admiral?"
"I think we don't dare."
"Dare what? Warn the world? We'd be condemning millions! Tidal waves, storms, earthquakes, volcanoes, it'll be like a weeklong disaster movie festival!"
"And if we do issue a warning, we will certainly condemn thousands. Tens of thousands," Admiral Carrell said. "They will flee from the coasts. All the coasts."
"But it's better than doing nothing!"
"Mr. President." Robert Anson seemed to have aged ten years in months, but his voice was firm and insistent.
"Yes, Mr. Anson?"
"If you issue a warning, people will flee the coastal towns. Bellingham is a coastal town."
"But—"
"You dare not have people flee from every town except Bellingham," Anson said.
"He is certainly correct," Admiral Carrell said. "If you issue a warning, you will disrupt Project Archangel. Perhaps permanently."
"And Archangel is the only goddam chance we have," Curtis said.
The President sat heavily. His fingers drummed against the desk. After a few moments he looked up. "Thor, would you send Mrs. Coffey in, please? I'll speak with the rest of you later. Thank you for your advice."
* * *
Mrs. Carmichael had told Alice a story once. Later Alice had asked around, and everyone had heard it. The psychiatrists probably thought it did their patients good. Maybe it did.
A motorist finds himself with a flat tire on a back road, late at night. There's a fence. Someone is peering through it, not doing anything, just watching. The motorist sees a sign in the headlights. He's parked next to a mental institution.
He takes the flat tire off, putting the five nuts in the hubcap. The stranger watches. He pulls the spare tire out of the trunk. The stranger watches. Motorist is getting nervous. What's a maniac doing out so late at night? Why is he staring like that? Motorist rolls the tire around from the back and steps on the rim of the hubcap, which flips all of the nuts into tall weeds. Motorist goes after them. He finds one nut.
The mental patient speaks. "Take a nut off each of the other tires. Put them on the fourth wheel. Four nuts each. It'll get you to a gas station."
Motorist says, "That'll work." Then, "Hey, that's brilliant! What the hell are you doing here?"
Patient says, "I'm here for being crazy. Not stupid."
The air pipes were a little more than a yard across. There we no handholds. At first Alice had floundered, lost and nauseated and fighting the fear of falling. It was better now. Jeri and Melissa actually enjoyed the low gravity, and they'd shown Alice how.
Alice had always been thin. Pale face, fiery hair, slender body, vividly pretty, for whatever that was worth. Now she was gaunt. She tried to eat, but there was no appetite, and the horrors tried to foist nauseating alien plants and meat on her. The others accepted such treatment. They ate canned food and alien food, they ate the vitamins and protein powder and brewer's yeast she had supplied and they thrived.
Living wasn't worth the effort under these circumstances. Alice had slashed her wrists once, long ago, for reasons that seemed trivial now. Something sharp would presently come her way. Yet she was half sure she wouldn't use it.
After all, who would care?
The little girl, Melissa, treated her with something between fear and contempt. Jeri was nice, but she spent a lot of time with the Russians. I think she likes the big one. He does things for her. Brings her things. Got the blanket to put around the toilet pool; that was nice.
Nobody does things for me. They resent me—
With Wes Dawson it went far beyond resentment. He gave orders. He lectured. He taught the language of the horrors—and expected the women to use it. He was persuasive and smooth and condescending, like that first psychiatrist they had given her, the one who thought using Q-tips was a form of masturbation. She'd gotten along all right with the second one. Mrs. Carmichael had looked a little like Jeri Wilson. A little plumper, and not as scared, Alice thought.
The horrors were worse than Dawson. Anything short of instant obedience puzzled them. They solved the problem by prodding with their trunks or the butts of the twisted-looking guns. They wouldn't listen to anything she had to say. They treated her like a thing. If Alice McLennon slashed her wrists, it would be one less damn thing for the horrors to worry about.
This cleaning of air pipes: it was make-work, a way of keeping the prisoners busy, like picking tomatoes at Menninger's. Alice wasn't fooled. I'm here for being crazy, not stupid. The horrors were too big to fit in the pipes. What had they done before people turned up? Maybe they had Roto-Rooters, or maybe the pipes just never needed cleaning, or — she'd glimpsed something like a steel doughnut just the size of the pipe, with a glittering eye that watched her, from a distance. Robots?
And like the make-work at Menninger's, it served its purpose. They'd pushed her into the ducts when she balked. Those rubbery split trunks were irresistibly strong. She floundered in there, disoriented and nauseated, and took the great wad of cloth and the plastic bag that were shoved in after her. Then she hadn't done anything for a while. Then . . . she started to clean the pipes.
Well, there was dust and rust, and it came off. There were wads of goop and soil and feathers in the filters. And, moving around in the pipes, she began to learn a kind of skill. There were no handholds; of course not, the horrors had never expected that living things would need them in here. She learned to move in a zigzag jumping style, swiping at the sides with the cloth. It worked.
It worked, and she was getting better at it, but it was makework, and she couldn't wait to get back to the garden, with its open spaces.
* * *
Some of the plants were sprouting. Alice was afraid to touch them. Mrs. Woodward chuckled. "Rice. I might have known it would be rice. Rice likes it wet."
"What do we do now?"
"Nothing. There ain't any bugs here. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Maybe we want to block off the water pipes that feeds some of the other stuff."
Alice nodded. She pushed herself back to look at the vegetable plot.
Was that another tuft of green, where they'd planted corn and runner beans together? Alice belatedly realized that she was too far from a handhold.
It didn't bother her much. She was used to free-fall. She floated, waiting for Thuktun Flishithy's minuscule thrust to pull her someplace useful.
Something wrapped around her ankle. She jumped as if she'd been electrocuted, and looked down at a cluster of tentacles, a broad brown head, wrinkled with age, and recessed eyes. "Raztupisp-minz?"
"You have learned to recognize me? Good. How is your health, Alice?"
"I'm fine."
"Your plants are sprouting. I am pleased. I think our plants will grow in your world."
Alice held her face expressionless. Dawson had suggested if the plants grew well, Earth would become more desirable to the horrors — and she hadn't believed him. Should the plants die . . . easy enough, but she'd have to go on eating what they fed now.
"I want to explain something," the teacher said. "You may have noticed that some of the fithp are acting strangely. The mating season has started for one class of us, the sleepers, and it affects their behavior. They are not turning rogue, but do not irritate them."
"You're not a sleeper, are you? And Takpusseh is."
"Mating season goes with the females, the sleeper females are spaceborn, and so is Tashayamp. For most of the year, many days to come, you may see me as neuter."
She studied him, but there was nothing to be read in his alien face. Yet this was a teacher and a manipulator. "Can you hear thought?"
"Hear thought?" He snorted. "No! But I can see. You talk of mating with females. You shy from males when you can. You are thin in the hips, your breasts are flat. Sometimes there are fithp who are shaped like females but never come into season."
Alice leapt away, back to the seed plot, back to the company of the other prisoners. Nobody had ever suggested such a thing to her! They thought she was strange, yes, but a neuter? A freemartin? If she didn't like men, it was because men were— were—
She feared the teacher would follow, but in fact he was was speaking to another fi' — to the other teacher, Takpusseh.
She remembered, now, that men had tried to tell her that she was strange, to put her on the defensive. Fuck me to prove you're a woman.
The thought of being raped by Raztupisp-minz was ludicrous and horrible . . . mostly ludicrous, she decided. No man had ever started by telling her to think of him as a neuter.
Tashayamp took her back to the cell, with Mr. and Mrs. Woodward and Wes Dawson. They were there long enough to eat and use the toilet. The only thing that could have made that tolerable to Alice was watching how it bothered the others.
An hour's rest, then fithp came to escort them to the ducts. None of the humans had noticed that she wasn't talking. Maybe they were glad.
Alice broke away from the others as soon as she could, and let the wind carry her away, farther than she'd ever gone before. She wasn't feeling sociable. Presently she braked herself and began desultorily to clean the walls.
The wind had grown cold. It matched her mood; she hardly noticed at first. But the wall was even colder, on one side. Here was a curve to mark a side channel in the duct, but it was blocked by a hatch. She passed it. Soon the wall warmed.
Alice went back.
She didn't like taking orders, and she didn't like knowing that things were hidden from her. The goddam psychiatrists always had something they weren't telling her.
There was a slot to house the hatch. Alice got her fingers into a crack and pushed, and the door moved back against springs, enough to let her through.
The air was terribly cold and still. She followed a short duct and found a grill.
Ten yards beyond was a peculiar surface, black and nearly smooth, but with undulations in it, like very dirty ice. With her face pressed to the grill Alice could see the curve of it, like the inner wall of a cylinder.
She studied it for a time. There was a bulge in the surface . . . like an unfinished raised relief painting. . . a frieze of one of the horrors. Dirty ice? Dawson had said . . . what? The horrors liked mud. It puzzled them that humans bathed in clean water. But frozen mud?
The grill was loose in her hands.
She pushed it aside and floated in.
It was frozen mud on one side, a ceiling of painted friezes on the other. The artwork was weird, alien, sometimes beautiful. Horrors — fithp — half hidden among weird trees; she recognized some from the Garden area. Here a good representation of one of the horrors faced a block covered with alien script. And sculpted into the opposing mudbank was a similar shape. . .
She'd freeze here. Alice backed into the duct, pulled the grill after her, and set it in place.
Alice didn't like secrecy. She would have to learn more. She found an exit from the air shaft.
This part of the ship was strange, and she didn't know how to get home. It was hard, stopping one of the horrors in the corridor She said, "Raztupisp-minz," and followed it after it gave up trying to talk to her.
She was tired and she ached. The horrors on Earth had stopped her before she got around to collecting conveniences like cosmetics and liniment. Cleaning out air ducts was so much like flying! She hadn't noticed how hard she was working. She wanted Ben Gay. She wanted to curl up and wait for the pain to go away.
* * *
"Alice wants to tell you something," Melissa said.
Jeri stirred wearily. "How do you know?"
"She keeps looking at you. But she wants to see you alone. I know, Mom. I can tell. Alice is—"
"Yeah." Interesting. Can you read her mind? Or are you guessing? Or what? Jeri floated lazily over to grip the wall beside Alice.
"How'd it go?"
Words bubbled out quickly. "Jeri, I found a peculiar place. Cold enough to freeze your ass off. Locked off. Black ice everywhere, or something like it. A long way from here."
"Storage room? Anything stored there?"
"No, just ice, all along the one wall, the hull wall. Dawson said they like mud. Maybe it's their idea of a big spa. Why would they freeze their spa?"
"Let's ask Arvid."
Alice looked afraid again.
"He won't . . . he's a good man, Alice."
"Oh, all right . . ."
Rogachev frowned deeply. "Frozen solid?"
"I didn't touch it. It must have been. It was cold."
"No gravity. No spin, because we are mated to the foot. They cannot bathe in mud under those conditions, but from the pictures they showed us we know they enjoy that. They will have a place for mud, and they must keep it when there is no gravity. Da. So they froze it in place."
"That makes sense," Jeri said.
"Yeah," Alice agreed. "All right, explain this one. There was a shape in the mud, like a frieze — like one of those horrors under a blanket.
"How? As if it were lying on its side?"
"Yeah. Now, what was that?"
Wes Dawson was close enough to hear. "You're sure of this?"
"Yes."
"A frieze of a fi'?"
"I didn't say it was a frieze! I said it was like that," Alice said.
"Certainly." Dawson made his voice soothing. He made no move to come closer to her. "Arvid, what do you think?"
"I do not know."
"I think we should tell Raztupisp-minz."
"We will consider that," Arvid said. He turned to Dmitri. "You have heard?"
"Da."
They spoke rapidly, in Russian.
Jeri took Arvid's arm. "They learn languages quickly," she said. "They say they don't know any Russian."
Arvid smiled. "If they have learned rapidly enough to comprehend the accented dialect we are now speaking, nothing will defeat them." He turned back to the others. The liquid syllables continued. Finally Dmitri nodded. Arvid turned to the others. "Da. We will do it, then. Alice, you must tell your story to our masters."
* * *
The mudroom was warm enough for comfort, and the mud was thawing, by the
time Pretheeteh-damb arrived.
Raztupisp-minz had told him that the red-haired human was certified rogue. She could be hallucinating. . . The comfort that gave Pretheeteh-damb vanished as he entered. There in the ceiling was a frieze of Thowbinther-thuktun, a half-legendary priest of two eight-cubeds of years ago. Opposite Thowbinther-thuktun was an entirely similar bulge.
Some fi' must have an odd sense of humor. He must have entered the mudroom after acceleration stopped; had shaped the mud into a ribald parody of the ancient discoverer of the Podo Thuktun. But Preetheeteh-damb was beginning to shiver, and it comforted him that his octuple were all spaceborn. "Remove the mud," he told one of his fithp, "carefully. But waste no time. We resume acceleration shortly."
This couldn't have happened at a worse time. Within hours they would release the Foot. Then there would be violent maneuvers as they placed Thuktun Flishithy in position to send down the digit ships.
The Invasion of Winterhome was about to begin, and now this.
The warrior scraped away softened mud with the back of his bayonet, and Fathisteh-tulk began to take shape.
* * *
The Herdmaster waited impatiently for the call. Then Pretheetel-damb came onto the screen. There was activity behind him.
"Report."
"It is indeed Fathisteh-tulk, Herdmaster. He was drowned. We find no breaks in the skin." By now the corpse was free from the ice, visible in the screen. It rotated slowly for inspection by the octuple's physician. "There's a deep groove in Fathisteh-tulk trunk, above the nostril. It might have been made by a cord pulled very tight, but it wouldn't have killed him. Mud caked in the fi's mouth. It looks like a ritual execution. He was drowned."
"Thank you." Pastempeh-keph broke the connection. The octuple clan must be informed. The women will not be pleased. Murder. Murder was rare among the fithp. It was almost always the beginning of rebellion.
"We approach the final moments, Herdmaster," the Attackmaster said. "What shall we do?"
Run away. Drop the Foot to slow the humans. Confine them to their planet while we take the rest of their solar system, which is more valuable than the planet anyway