Footfall

by Larry Niven

  "Is everything coming in on schedule?" "No, but we're dealing with it," Gillespie said. "Maybe you've noticed, there aren't many of my Air Police here, just enough to guard the inner fences. I sent the rest over with Colonel Taylor to the Bremerton Navy Yard to put the fear of God into those bastards . . ."

  "Which sped up deliveries something wonderful," Rohrs said. "Here, let's have another round." He fished out more beer bottles.

  "We've learned a lot of security tricks," Gillespie said. "From Vietnamese, mostly."

  "Refugees?" Jenny asked.

  "Some refugees, but mostly former Viet Cong. They know a lot. Ways to hide convoys. Hollow out logs to transport steel. Tunneling. All the things they did to us."

  "Maybe you should have kept your security troops here," Jack Clybourne said. "I don't think your local sheriff is enthusiastic about your project."

  "Yeah, I know," Gillespie said. "I thought of telling him what we're doing. Maybe that would get him working."

  "Why not?" Jenny asked.

  "No. No telling what those people will do if they know what's going to power this beast." Gillespie shook his head. "The only safe place for miles around will be in the ship. Everything else will go. Somebody may think it's better that the snouts drop rock on the harbor than have fifty atom bombs go off here."

  "It's hard to believe anyone would deliberately inform," Jenny said. "But it's better to be safe. All right. What we need, then, is cover stories. What are you building if it's not greenhouses?"

  "We thought about that a lot," Gillespie said. "How do you like a prison?"

  "Prison?"

  "Secret, for political prisoners. Explains why there are so many soldiers. If anybody gets too suspicious, we let them think we've got political prisoners from Kansas. Collaborators we couldn keep in Kansas because they'd be torn apart by mobs. Deserters."

  "It might work," Jack said. "And if they don't believe that what do you fall back on?"

  "That's as far as we've—"

  "Nested cover stories. Like an onion." Jack began drawing concentric circles on a notepad. "Penetrate one and you come to the next, and you still don't have the real secret. So what's the next one?"

  "Bathyscaph?" Gillespie asked. "Underwater research facility under construction?"

  "No. Why keep that a secret? Hell, we'll come up with something. Let's keep talking."

  Jenny leaned over to look. Outside the circles Jack had printed GREENHOUSE. Inside the first, COLLABORATORS.

  They drank.

  "Snouts," Jenny said.

  "Eh?"

  "Captives. A big research facility, to study captive snouts. The aliens wouldn't bomb that, but we'd have good reason to keep it secret from our people."

  "That'll work."

  "In fact, that's why we house the collaborators here, to talk to the snouts!"

  Clybourne smiled. "So. Who do we have who can design prisons?"

  "We have the skeleton of a good story. Now we put flesh on it. What would you import? Whatever it is, we have to bring it in and show it. We're supposed to be growing food. Ships would take food out. We'll bring them in full and send them out empty." Next to GREENHOUSE he wrote FOOD and an inward-pointing arrow. Next to COLLABORATORS he wrote JAIL, JAILERS. Within the second circle, SNOUTS. GET SNOUTS. "We've got snout prisoners, but they're crazy. They go where they're pushed. They don't talk even to each other. But we can show them to people."

  Jenny grinned. It's the first time I've seen Jack get really turned on about something. Other than me—

  "Circles," Jack said. "Layers. The security system is in rings, just like the cover stories. They look like they're set up to keep you out, and they will if you're not too determined, but the real purpose is to keep you in if you do manage to penetrate — heck, we'll have a prison, not too large, maybe, but big enough to take care of anyone who learns too much."

  "It all sounds wonderful, but aren't you forgetting something?" Rohrs asked. "Sheriff Lafferty isn't going to help you do any of this."

  "We do it ourselves."

  "Yeah." Rohrs scratched his head. "But, Mr. Clybourne—"

  "Jack."

  "Jack, I don't have anybody to spare."

  Jack chuckled. "Now, how did I guess that? It's okay. First thing, we get some Army troops in here."

  "Intelligence types," Rohrs said. "Sure."

  "MPs, too. Construction engineers to build prisons. And combat troops, just in case," Jack said. "The next time we talk to Sheriff Lafferty, I want him to know he's talking uphill."

  "Did I just hear something tear?" General Gillespie asked. "It sounded like the Constitution."

  Jenny caught the look on Max's face. Interesting. He looked disgusted. A liberal general? We're fighting snouts here!

  "No." Jack Clybourne was positive. "What you hear is the sound of Bellingham being put outside the boundaries of the United States." He opened his brief case and removed a document. "I hold here a presidential order suspending the rules of habeas corpus in the Bellingham area. It's quite constitutional. I play by the rules, General."

  "Yeah, but when word of that gets out—"

  "It won't. The first thing we do when the troops get here is seal off Bellingham. No one leaves."

  "What about people from the highway?"

  "There isn't much traffic now," Rohrs said.

  "You can't see the harbor area from the highway," Jack said. "The big hill with the university on it is in the way. So we leave service stations alongside the highway, and all's well for people who go to them, but anybody who goes further into town, to the other side of the hill — they don't leave, that's all."

  "But what about—"

  There was a knock at the door. Rohrs shouted, but no one heard. He went to the door. A flood of sound washed into the room. The workman at the door shouted. "Max, turn on the radio. There's something important—"

  "Okay. Thanks!" Rohrs closed the door and the hammers and rivet guns became tolerable again.

  "What station?" Clybourne asked.

  "There's only one." Rohrs went to the radio that perched above a file cabinet.

  A voice boomed out. It sounded familiar, like a professional orator.

  "They will take the surrender of all humans,- and they will incorporate them into their herd. Those of their race who surrender become the property of the herd. Eventually they or their descendants may find status therein . . ."

  "Son of a bitch!" General Gillespie said. "That's Wes Dawson!"

  * * *

  They all stood when the President came in. He gestured impatiently for them to be seated. Reynolds stood with the rest of them. With its haphazard furniture and refreshments the room looked like the Green Room at an underfunded science-fiction convention, but it felt weirdly like the White House. Most of the Dreamer Fithp were present. Harpanet was not.

  "Commander, I understand that you have a tape?"

  The naval officer looked young for his rank. "Yes, Mr. President. It's just as we received it. We've put it through filters to clean out the noise, but nothing else."

  "Play it, then."

  "Yes, sir." The navy commander gestured.

  There was a short hissing sound, and then a voice from outer space.

  "My fellow Americans, I'm Wesley Dawson, formerly a congressman from California. I'm now a member of the Chtaptisl Fithp — which is to say the Traveler Herd. I am alive and well and I send my regards to my family. We have been well treated by their standards."

  By their standards.

  The words stood out; Dawson must have intended them to. "The human fithp aboard Message Bearer have been brought together. There are three Russians. Commander Rogachev, Lieutenant Colonel Dmitri Grushin, and Commander Rogachev's sergeant. There are six Americans in addition to me. Mrs. Geraldine Wilson and her daughter Melissa. Gary Capehart, aged nine. John and Carrie Woodward of Lawton, Kansas; and Alice McLennon, who was formerly resident in Topeka. We're all alive, in reasonable health, due largely to Alice's forethought in br
inging us dietary supplements.

  "The fithp complain that their warriors have not been well treated, and that many were killed as they attempted to surrender. The fithp regard this as barbaric." Dawson's voice registered bitter amusement.

  "The surrender gesture is easily seen. They lie on their backs, rendering themselves helpless. This gesture is deeply embedded into their psychology. One might say it is deep within their very souls. They do not surrender lightly, and when they do, the submission is total. You may believe this. It is true.

  "Their leader or Admiral—the word translates to herdmaster as closely as anything else—has asked me to speak to you in order to save slaughter. He says that he can deliver many asteroids, and drop them precisely where he wishes. They do not need to go to the asteroid belt. They can use lunar rocks. Their command of space is complete and they have begun construction of a lunar base.

  "When they first approached Earth we all wondered what they wanted. We know now. They intend to live on the Earth. They intend that all humans submit. They have come to stay. They mean to be the dominant but not the only intelligent species on Earth. They have assured me-and I believe them-that they will take the surrender of all humans, and they will incorporate them into their herd.

  "Those of their race who surrender become the property of the herd. Eventually they or their descendants may find status therein. For biological reasons humans will never be able to integrate as fithp have traditionally done, but our descendants will be their partners. The human herd will be allowed to live under man-made rules. They will study us to know what those rules shall be.

  "We will be allowed to choose our own rules so long as they do not conflict with fithp dominance, but they insist that we must live by the rules we choose. They do not tolerate rogues. We will achieve mankind's oldest dream, to be one people, with one philosophy, one set of rules for all of us. They do nothing alone. A individual's acts are taken to be the responsibility of his grout In particular, the fithp mating practices are entirely instinctual going by mating seasons, and they mate for life."

  Good-bye to individualism

  . Reynolds shuddered. A moment later, Hello, monogamy. Interesting. Dawson went on. "They intend to do what they must to rule the Earth. They regret the great loss of life from the Foot, but this will not stop them from sending another, and another, until humans understand the great power of the fithp.

  "Until you do understand, they have no wish to kill noncombatants. There is a symbol—"

  Dawson was describing a fithp on its back, Oh? We use a red cross— "

  "—urge you not to misuse the symbol. They will be watching. Using the 'harmless' symbol for military equipment or installation will result in bombardment of all the places so marked. They se more than you believe they can see. Their radars and lasers are efficient and powerful

  They would be.

  "Do understand," Dawson's recorded voice said. "The Chtaptisk Fithp mean what they say. They have crossed light-years a space to come here. They will not go home. They will be here for centauries.

  "They are a collective people who live by strict rules in herds Evolution has eliminated all the rogues from the fithp. They will give humans good treatment by their standards. They would prefer to take the Earth in good condition, but take it they must. Their large spacecraft is their world until they do."

  * * *

  "Very good," Wade Curtis said. His voice was loud in the quiet.

  Thoughts boiled in Nat's head. We should wait for the President to say something. Fuck him, he's staring at the walls. "Centauries. Alpha Centauries."

  Joe Ransom said, "They let him get away with a lot. You caught that, at the end? There's no backup. What they've got, we've seen. And they can't go home, I was right there—"

  "—Uses his tone of voice like a fine working tool. 'By their standards." Sherry mused, "I wonder if they'll want us to follow their mating seasons? And of course the fithp won't catch any of that."

  The President and the Navy men watched in evident surprise. The Dreamer Fithp were all over that speech like dogs on a stag.

  "Monogamy, anyway, Sherry. He made quite a point of it. I wonder if they saw some X-rated movie."

  "Whatever," Curtis said. "Dawson is one smart son of a bitch. Can we hear that again?"

  * * *

  The air-duct pipes narrowed. Alice felt trapped, and for a moment she thought of turning back. Then she set her jaw, hard, and went on.

  She rounded a turn. He was there.

  Wes Dawson was curled into a small ball. Fetal position. The really sick ones do that. In the movies they always go violent. The therapists would love it if they could get that much action on the closed wards.

  Dawson didn't move as she came closer to him.

  He didn't answer.

  "Wes, it's Alice—"

  "I ate shit for the sake of that Don't-Bomb-Me symbol."

  She said nothing. Didn't I used to do that? Try to blow the therapist's mind by using dirty words? And Mrs. Fitzpatrick caught me at it.

  "Well, I'm going to be famous."

  "You were wonderful! You told them all about the horrors— God, the way you used your voice! And the snouts didn't even suspect—"

  He started to uncoil. Alice moved away slightly.

  "But you already know what I was trying to do," Wes said. Half uncoiled, he still wouldn't look at her. "They won't. Wes Dawson. Now they can forget Quisling."

  "We all agreed," Alice said. "We all thought you should do it."

  "Yeah. Just like fithp. Everybody does everything together. Look, it's all right, Alice, I'll be all right." He faced her at last "Thanks for finding me. I'll be okay." He smiled, and damn, I looked real, but she'd seen so many phony smiles. "See? I'm fine."

  Maybe he is

  . He didn't look helpless now. Alice took a deep breath. I am not a freemartin! She moved closer to Dawson. Abruptly he launched himself at her. She couldn't move fast enough to get away, and he wrapped his arms around her and drove her against him. She felt panic. If I fight him now, he'll never get over this. She felt him draw her closer still. She felt smothered and wanted to flee. She tucked her head down, nose below his armpit, to breathe. She didn't struggle.

  He curled against her and was still, except for his jerky breathing. He held her, but he wasn't moving. Slowly she relaxed the tension in her muscles as she'd been taught, beginning with her toes, ankles, then calves . . .

  His tears soaked through her hair and wet her scalp. Almost without volition her arms went around him, and she held him, "It's all right," she said. "It's all right."

  "I needed a hug. My God, I needed to be hugged. Alice. Thanks."

  "It's all right."

  32

  MUD BATH

  We shall not fail or flag. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans . . . we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.

  —Sir Winston Churchill, after Dunkirk

  FOOTFALL PLUS SIX WEEKS

  Nat was measuring ingredients into a blender. He moved briskly. Lime juice, sugar, rum, scoop out half a Crenshaw melon, add ice. Low setting. The blades tended to break on the ice at higher settings. In defense against the godawful noise he moved up alongside Harpanet's head and raised his voice.

  "You're used to long wars."

  "There are records from the homeworld. The Shape Wars lasted five generations. There were others." Harpanet paused for thought, then: "I cannot comment from the loser's point of view. I never wondered until you taught me. For the winning fithp, wars are long. Losers cease to be a fithp. The Traveler Fithp did not taste war until now."

  "Was the taste to your liking?" Nat hit the button that ended the howl of the blender.

  Digits swiped at thin air: How can I know? "I fell from the sky, I lost my fithp, I tried to surrender. No human knew how to take my surrender.
You have warriors from Kansas, isn't it? Ask them."

  "They're not sane." Curtis joined the group. "Left alone too long, maybe."

  Harpanet let his digits and lower eyelids droop in the gesture they'd learned to interpret as sadness.

  Ransom held his glass out for Reynolds to fill. "I sure feel sorry for Dawson."

  Curtis nodded. "Yeah. Poor bastard risks his arse to give u some information, and a lot of nerds think he's turned traitor What worries me are the ones who think he meant it and want to take his advice."

  "Maybe we should," Sherry said. "But it wouldn't work. There are too many like you and Ransom."

  "You ought to be glad of that."

  "Hey." Reynolds moved between them. "Have a drink." Hi poured. "Sherry, you don't want to surrender."

  "No, but I don't want to fight, either!"

  "Wasn't you we asked to fight," Curtis said.

  "Enough," Ransom said. "The question is, what will the President do? He sure didn't take it very well. Maybe he'd want to quit."

  "Nah," Curtis said. "He's not my favorite choice, but he's go more guts than that."

  "Sure?"

  "He damned well better have."

  Harpanet spoke insistently. "What are you leading me to?"

  "Eh?"

  "You speak of challenging your herdmaster."

  "Naw—"

  Sherry laid her hand across Harpanet's brow. "It's not what it sounds like," she said.

  "But they said—"

  "We are the Dreamer Fithp," Reynolds said. "We say anything. But we're not going to challenge the President. Wade wasn't ever thinking that way." He put an edge to his voice. "Were you, Wade?"

  "No, of course not." Curtis grinned wolfishly. "Besides, it wouldn't work."

  Nat filled a sizable mug with what remained in the blender: about half. "Swim?"

  "Ssshure."

  "Yeah," Ransom said. "Only I want a real drink, not that slop. Wade? Sherry?"

  "Thank you, yes," Curtis said. After a moment Sherry Atkinson nodded and followed them out.

  Reynolds and Harpanet walked into the mudroom, and into the mud-filled pool, without interrupting their conversation. It faltered when they noticed the near stranger. The President of the United States floated in the warm mud with his eyes closed.