Footfall

by Larry Niven

  So Mike tried to track them, and we kept our distance.

  We set up an ambush and bided our time.

  As they came in closer, I picked out the last one

  And sighted my "H.K." to make his life mine.

  Charley cut loose with AK-47,

  An old souvenir from that old Asian war.

  The rest of us fired on time from position.

  These snouts wouldn't push us around anymore.

  The snouts fired back, as was to be expected,

  But two tumbled over and thrashed in the wheat.

  Grenades came a-flying and I picked up shrapnel

  That peppered my right hand and both of my feet.

  Pacific Northwest. Rains all the time. Cloud cover. Railroad goes there. Old seaport. Goddam, it's perfect. They're building something there, something they want hidden under cloud cover. It flies, why else have an astronaut general there? Something that flies into space.

  I rolled to a culvert just under the roadway,

  I was lucky I did as we fired last round;

  'Cause they called on their buddies that waited in orbit,

  Called for support and laid hell on the ground.

  Green fire came humming and cracking and burning,

  Scorched out our positions and killed every, one,

  Left me in the culvert, a-wounded and bleeding,

  And one living snout that had started to run.

  It came to my refuge and looked up the pipe there,

  Then reached in and grabbed me and pulled me outside.

  Its trunk gripped my rifle as it pulled me from safety,

  But I put a .45 slug through its eye.

  Now out from Garfield, police came a-riding

  On horses to look around after the fight.

  They found me and patched me and gave me some bourbon,'

  And took me towards home in the quiet twi-light.

  So raise your glass slowly to memories around us,

  And drink to those boys who have gone on their way,

  They died fighting bravely for freedom and Kansas

  Against enemies of the U S of A.

  Something they want to hide, too big to hide in a factory building, something BIG that flies into space. God damn!

  Carlotta had listened politely. "Harry's a hero, not a bard."

  "Yeah," Roger said. "He's better than the writer, though. It could be improved with an axe. . . How's Linda?"

  "I haven't seen her in months."

  "You said—"

  "Harry! That was great." Carlotta stood. "But it's getting pretty late."

  "Max and Evelyn moved to Bellingham." I'm pushing it. Maybe too hard. But I have to know. . . "Is Linda with them?"

  "Roger, it's really late. Tim, it's time-Lucille, you have work to do tomorrow morning."

  "Yes, ma'am-can't I stay?"

  "No. Come along."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Roger watched Carlotta lead Tim and Lucille out of the restaurant. "Hasn't changed a bit. Still gives the orders."

  "Except to Wes," Harry said.

  "Yeah, guess so. Harry, you look like a man who could use another drink."

  "Reckon I could."

  "Dessert?"

  "Roger, there's only apple pie, and I have had enough of that to last me."

  "Good pie?"

  "Not bad, if you don't eat it every night for a month."

  "Getting tired of the Springs, Harry?"

  "Not really—well, maybe."

  "You have gasoline. For what?"

  "Motorcycle—"

  "Harry, how would you like to be a reporter for the Capital Post?"

  "Take you where?" Harry demanded.

  "Can't tell you. Long way," Roger said. His head reeled. They'd had far too much corn whiskey.

  Harry moved unsteadily to the men's room.

  "Where are you going?" Rosalee whispered fiercely. "I'm coming with you!"

  "Not on a motorcycle."

  "But—"

  "I'll be back," Roger said. "Rosie, this is a big one. I can feel it. Big. Maybe the biggest thing I ever got wind of."

  "What are you talking about-that Dawson woman! She told you something."

  "Rosie, do you love me?"

  "Why ask?"

  "I love you. But—"

  "But you smell a story." Roger nodded helplessly.

  She took his hands in both of hers. "I can't come?"

  "It's a long way, Rosie. I might get there on a motorcycle. No way in a car. Three on a motorcycle won't work, even if Harry would try it, which he won't—"

  "What makes you think he'll take you?"

  "Come on. The role of retired hero isn't a very attractive one. He's getting fat again, and he hates it, and he doesn't know what else to do. Too old for the Army. .

  "Why him?"

  "He probably knows the way. He has a gas ration card. Know anyone else who does?"

  "But-Oh, God damn it, Roger. Come back? Please?"

  "I will. I promise."

  * * *

  Sarge Harris pulled out a big bandana and wiped his face. "Thai the last of it."

  "Good," Ken Dutton said. He went over to the pool edge inspect. Sarge and his crew had shoveled the last of the mud out "Let's hope the new wall holds."

  Sarge laughed. "It will."

  "But—"

  "Come on! It's a good wall. So was the old one. It just wasn't designed to live through a giant meteoroid impact."

  Patsy Clevenger looked up from the pool bottom where she been scooping the last of the mud into a bucket. "The dinosaur weren't either. Ken, we're lucky the house didn't slide down the hill."

  "You're right there."

  Footfall had triggered earthquakes. Houses fell, freeway over passes collapsed. Power lines went down. Ken Dutton had heard it was much worse in San Francisco and through Northern California. In Los Angeles the quakes had merely been annoying compared to the mudslides three months of hard rain had produce Now, maybe, the worst was over, with three swimming pools cleared of mud and ready to fill.

  The encampment across the street was growing. Part of the golf course was covered with aluminum-framed plastic greet houses filled with young tomatoes and beans. Chickens clucked in the pens he'd built in what had been his neighbor's cabana.

  Patsy climbed out of the pool where she'd been working. "Lot of all you survey," she said.

  "Something like that," Ken admitted.

  "You love it," she accused.

  "That's not fair—"

  "I don't mind," Patsy said. "I didn't used to like you very much. You tried everything and weren't very good at anything Now-now it's like you found what you do best. I'm glad some body can cope."

  "Thanks, but I'm hardly the only one. I hear about people all over the valley. Greenhouses, cornfields-one chap came by the other day hoping to borrow an olive press. I never thought of that one. There are lots of olive trees in Los Angeles." Ken looked up at the sky. It was partly overcast, but there were patches of blue

  Los Angeles was supposed to be a desert. One day it might be again. Nobody really knew. "Anyway, we have another place to store water. Come on in, I'll spring for coffee."

  "Real coffee?" Sarge asked. "Why not?"

  "Damn, I'm for that!"

  The sink worked fine, now that Sarge had rigged up pipes. They'd have running water as long as the rains filled the swimming pool up On top of the hill above them. The house that stood there had been one of the first to go. Fortunately it had gone down the other side of the hill . . .

  Ken watched Cora carefully measure out water into the kettle.

  "Coffee," Sarge Harris said wistfully. "I think I miss not having morning coffee more'n anything. Sure wish we could have another Stove Soup Party—"

  "I already put out the invitations," Ken said. "The next time there's enough sunshine. Or if the gas comes back on."

  Cora carefully lit the bottled gas stove. "Which it won't. I keep hoping we can save up, get a bottle or two ahead,
but we can't, not with all those kids to cook for."

  "It works out," Sarge said. "Or has so far."

  "Just barely," Ken said. Cora was watching the kettle, ready to turn it off the second it was hot enough. She didn't look up. Ken felt relieved. Cora was the only one who knew how well he'd done by taking in city orphans. It hadn't been as much trouble as he'd thought, with Sarge and his wife to help. They put the kids into two empty neighboring houses, and Sarge got them organized like a military outfit with their own leaders and everything. Ken hardly saw them.

  And it had paid off nicely. Not only were there enough ration coupons and gas bottles to trade for a few luxuries, but everybody knew about the kids and his increased ration tickets, so the local ration wardens didn't come searching his place. Hoarders weren't highly regarded . . .

  Ken had known food would be scarce. But who'd have thought that heat to cook it with would be the hardest thing to come by? No sun!

  Cora was just beginning to bulge. I suppose I'll have to marry her. Maybe not. Either way, she's going to make me send Patsy away. Unless I can get somebody to marry Patsy? Somebody hungry who'll act jealous?

  They took the coffee into the front room. Anthony Graves was in his usual place by the big front windows. They faced southeast and got just enough sun to grow tomatoes in pots if somebody would spend enough time taking care of them. Graves was glad to do it. There wasn't a lot else for somebody his age.

  Randy Conant was there, too.

  Sarge gave Anthony Graves a quarter cup of his coffee. Ht liked Graves. He carefully ignored Randy Conant. "Get much written, sir?"

  "Some," Graves said. He grinned. "I never expected to write my magnum opus long after I retired."

  "I think it's great," Sarge said.

  Randy Conant mumbled something.

  "What?" Cora asked.

  "I said it was shit."

  "Enough, Sarge," Ken said. Sarge Harris hadn't moved, but his face told it all. "Randy, why don't you go turn over the compost heap?"

  "Fuck all, let somebody else do some of the work!"

  "Sarge, I said that'll do! Randy, we all work. Now get going before I forget you're my sister's kid—"

  "Don't do me any favors, Uncle Ken."

  "Maybe I'll take that advice."

  "Whew," Patsy said. "It gets thick—"

  "Hey, I'm sorry," Randy said. "I get upset, that's all. All this work, and what for?"

  "What for?" Sarge demanded.

  "Yeah, what for? We're gonna lose anyway. Just like that Dawson guy said, they can keep dropping rocks on us until we have to give up. Why don't we do it while we've got something left?"

  "Peace in our time.' Thank you, Neville Chamberlain," Graves chuckled.

  "You're gonna fight the snouts with quotes?"

  "Sure. Have another. 'Some folks win by winning, some folks win by losing.' I think you get off on looking stupid, Randy."

  "There's a lot of people think like I do!"

  "Bullshit!"

  "Sarge, you won't hear it," Patsy said. "But he's right. I hear them down at the market. Nice people. They just want things the way they were before the war started." -

  "That's what they won't get," Graves said. "Whatever else, they won't have that. Look what happened after World War II. Everything changes after a war. Win or lose."

  "It'll be worse if we lose," Sarge insisted.

  "Sure. People don't tame very well."

  "I don't want us to surrender," Cora said. "But-well, would it be so awful? That congressman, Dawson, he said they'll let us live under our own laws, live the way we always said we want to—"

  Monogamously. You'd like that.

  Ken thought. "That's what the commies always said!" Sarge shouted.

  "True enough," Graves said.

  "I'd rather have them than snouts," Patsy said.

  "What difference does it make, what you'd rather have?" Randy demanded. "Nothing we do makes any difference! They're up there and we can't hurt them!"

  "The Army's doing something." Sarge was positive.

  "What? Just what can they do?"

  "I don't know, but they're doing something. You heard the President! He sounded good, confident—"

  "And you really believe in politicians. I mean, you really trust them! Hell, you hate President Coffey!"

  "A lot of people hated Roosevelt," Graves said. "A lot more than you'd think. But he won the war."

  "It's different now," Randy said. "Don't you see, it's different. If there was something we could do, some way we could fight, but there's nothing, we just sit here and let them drop rocks on us, nothing we can do, and they'll get bigger and bigger. They'll kill us all and we can't do anything about it." He laughed. "Shit, we sure can't do anything. We can't even surrender."

  "We can hang on," Graves said. "Stay alive and be ready to put things back together."

  35

  THE WASHING OF THE SPEARS

  An assegai has been thrust into the—belly of the nation. There are not enough tears to mourn the dead.

  —King of the Zulu, after the battle of Rorke's Drift

  "We are winning." Attackmaster Koothfektil-rusp's image blurred slightly, and his voice hissed.

  African night lay below Message Bearer. The dark cloud coy flared with chains of wild power surges. The Herdmaster's nerves screamed at the sight, but he couldn't look away. Repair the broken lines, lest the ship die! He waited for the atmospheric electric discharges to end. They came less frequently now. When the fithp had landed in the first weeks after the Foot, they had been near constant.

  The image solidified. "We have captured wonderful machine which make electrical power, and transportation devices, machines that make other machines. We have slaves. The land is wide, and it is ours. We eat the native food—"

  "We must learn if poisons are present or nutrients are missing. Ship samples to Message Bearer for chemical analysis."

  "We will, on the next launch. Herdmaster, Chintithpit-mang wishes to return for the mating season. We will miss him sorely but he has surely earned the privilege."

  "Yes, I remember your reports." Yet Chintithpit-mang is a dissident, of the Year Zero Fillip! What have they found, that the look so far? "Can you truly spare your best warriors? You continue to lose fithp."

  "Yes, Herdmaster. We will always lose warriors until we have culled out the rogues from among these humans. Fistarteh-thuktun was correct. This is a race of rogues, rogues everywhere, they may be more rogues than normals. The acolytes are studying this, to see how it could have come about. Herdmaster, we may have come just in time to save these humans. As if it were meant to be. Herdmaster, we gain a new domain, a wide domain. We stand on high places and we cannot see the bounds of our territory!"

  "Your domain grows large and the fithp grow fewer. The warriors sicken of slaughter."

  "It will not always be so. The true humans learn. We kill rogues only. It is the, task of warriors to kill rogues."

  The Herdmaster suppressed an urge to trumpet. "How are you sure there are what you call true humans?"

  "I will show you." The Attackmaster gestured and stepped aside. Two stepped into camera view: Breaker-One Raztupisp-minz, and a dark human male covered with drab cloth, as the important ones always covered themselves. He stood half out of camera view, for fear of standing too close to the Breaker.

  "This one is called Botha. He held high rank in the Afrikaans tribe. He knows little of our speech, but I will give you his words. He is eager to end this war."

  The human spoke at length. His voice went up and down, now a mumble, now a whine. Pastempeh-keph heard it as a plea.

  "He speaks strangely," Tashayamp said.

  Pastempeh-keph turned to her. "Is it not English?"

  "Yes, Herdmaster, but not as I have learned it."

  The Breaker spoke. "He says that the war destroys, and both humans and fithp lose. He says that he would do what he could to end the fighting and let humans and fithp live together. This he calls peace. He
says that now he can do nothing. We took his surrender in a ceremony broadcast to all the humans here, and because they have seen my foot on his chest, many will no longer obey him."

  The Herdmaster trumpeted in rage. "Then why seek leaders at all? Must we take surrender from each? We have not enough feet for every human!"

  "No, Herdmaster. We allow them to gather. They have gatherings, much as we do, where the eldest speak for all. Their decisions are binding. These humans do nothing without meeting and talking. We will allow these eldest to meet and take their surrender. They will name this Botha as leader. He will then command the human warriors to keep order and enforce our domain."

  Something had changed in the African fithp—it was visible even in the monitor screens-and the Herdmaster began to see why. "Was this peculiar approach your own idea, Breaker?"

  "Herdmaster, the human fithp always want to discuss terms before they surrender. From curiosity I began to discuss 'conditional surrender' with small human fithp—"

  "Over my objection," Attackmaster Koothfektil-rusp put in. "I was mistaken. When a human fithp surrenders under agreed terms, the members tend to honor their surrender."

  "Not all, surely."

  "Some fight on, Herdmaster, but those are rogues, known to all to be rogues, in defiance of their own leaders. We kill the rogues. The humans will aid us in this. Then we will have one herd again."

  * * *

  Colonel Julius Carter tried once more. "I've got three wounded men. One of them will die if we move him. Man, I'm only asking for shelter!" The Afrikaners turned us away. I hadn't expected it, but they did. But this one is English!

  The farmer spread his hands helplessly. "I can't."

  "He—he's a white soldier. Blanqui! Not black like me."

  Brant Chisholm laughed bitterly. "Do you think that matters now? Great God, man, don't you think I want to help?"

  Carter let his voice grow cold with menace. "If you don't help us, we'll kill you and burn your place."

  The farmer nodded wearily. "I expected that. Will you kill my wife and children too? And my neighbors, and their women, and all their children?"