by Larry Niven
* * *
The Dreamers' Workroom was a chaos of tables, blackboards, maps, papers, and personal computers. One of the tables had been cleared of all such junk. A cloth was thrown over it, and an impressive array of bottles, glasses, mixers, and ice stood there.
Jack Clybourne had the bourbon. Jenny held out her glass for a refill.
"It was the ancient Persians. It's in H—Herodotus." Sherry Atkinson wanted to talk faster than her memory would serve her, and it caused a stutter. "There have been plenty of cultures that wouldn't implement a decision they'd taken when drunk until they'd discussed it sober. Only the Persians wouldn't do anything they'd decided sober until they'd discussed it drunk." She poured herself another large glass of white wine, and drank half of it.
Her colleagues nodded in sage agreement. "Interesting philosophy," Reynolds said.
Carol laughed. She was enjoying her role as the only fan in an endless science-fiction convention.
"We can discuss it all to death. The problem is, we don't have any decisions," Curtis muttered. "Not a goddam thing we can do but wait." He was working on his fourth tall drink. His wife had long since gone to bed in disgust.
"Volunteer for Africa if you're so eager to fight," Sherry said.
Curtis laughed and poured another drink. "Hah." He jerked his thumb toward Jenny. "The Colonel there is the only one they let out of here."
"They don't let me anywhere near Africa." Jenny was about to say something else, but the door opened. Admiral Carrell came in. It took Jenny a moment for that to register through the bourbon. Then she jumped to her feet. After a moment Jack Clybourne stood as well.
Curtis looked at Carrell, then pointedly looked at his watch. "Off duty, Admiral, but we could sober up in a hurry. Something we're needed for, I hope?"
"Not really. This is a social visit. May I come in?"
Curtis looked up and down the table. "I see no objections. Come in. This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard. What'll you drink?"
"Scotch, thank you. And don't drown it." Carrell sat heavily at the table, then raised his glass. "Cheers."
The others responded.
"Hope there's something to be cheerful about," Curtis said.
"Very little, I'm afraid. Angola just surrendered, and we're pretty sure Zaire will when their eight-day ultimatum is up."
Joe Ransom took a globe from another table and set it on theirs. Idly he spun it. "South Africa, Botswana, Lesotho, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Angola — when Zaire goes they'll have just about everything to the equator."
"There was a sizable Cuban mercenary army in Angola," Curtis mused.
"Yes. They'll work for the Invaders now," Admiral Carrell said.
"Divide and rule," Sherry said.
"Surrender with conditions," Ransom said. "They do learn."
"Learn too damn fast," Curtis agreed.
"I don't know." Reynolds poured another drink. "What did you think of the message they sent last week?"
"Not a lot," Curtis said.
"Wade, if you knew just how alien the whole idea of surrender terms is to them," Sherry said.
Carol laughed. "Alien," she chuckled.
"Sure. It shocked Harpanet," Curtis said. "So they've got themselves a Ruth Benedict."
"Eh?" Clybourne asked.
"Ruth Fulton Benedict," Sherry explained. "Anthropologist. She tried to explain Japanese culture to the U.S. War Department in World War II."
"How'd she do?" Jack asked.
"Pretty good."
"Trouble was, there wasn't much anybody could do with the information," Curtis added.
"They've done something with theirs," Sherry said. "Governments surrender, and now they've got human diplomats talking to other governments, and some of their tame politicians broadcasting to the rest of the world . . ."
"Like Lord Haw Haw," Ransom said.
"What gets me is some of the bastards buy it," Curtis said.
"Sticks and carrots," Jenny blurted. Three large bourbons had left her light-headed. "They've taken to promising electricity from space. Industrialization powered from space satellites. All you have to do is surrender."
"A big deal for the undeveloped countries," Reynolds said.
"It could be a big deal for us one of these days," Ransom said. "How far are we from being an undeveloped country?"
"And getting closer all the time," Reynolds agreed.
There had been no more big rocks since the Foot, but innumerable smaller ones still fell. Their targets were carefully chosen, although there was a random element to the bombardment.
Transportation, factories, crossroads, big ocean vessels: you never knew what would be hit or when. America was slowly becoming a loose-knit chain of semi-independent feudalities, and there was nothing you could do about it.
"They hit another one today," Jenny said. "In Chicago. An eighteen-wheeler truck carrying military uniforms. Moving. About a block from a hospital, two blocks from a big grain elevator. The center of the crater was fifteen feet from the truck. Shredded it, of course."
"Show-offs," Reynolds said.
"Impressive, though," Ransom said.
"Perhaps what we need is another pep talk," Admiral Carrell said. "The President too. What's depressing is the stories we get out of Africa. There are people in their puppet governments who like the way things are."
"Quislings," Curtis said. "Vidkun Quisling was an ideologic convert to the Nazis."
"Yeah, but what's attractive about the snouts? Why would anybody want them in charge?" Clybourne demanded.
"Africa's so divided you can find a group to cooperate with anything if it will put them on top," Ransom said.
"Unity," Sherry said. "They'll unite us—"
"—even if it kills us," Reynolds finished.
"Here's to Unity!" Sherry lifted her glass in a toast.
Curtis raised a clenched fist and sang off-key. "And the Inter-nation-ale unites the hu-man race."
Reynolds leaped on it. "More than the human race. All the sapient races. Thinkers of the galaxy, unite! You have nothing I lose but your chains."
"Down with arboreal chauvinism!" Sherry shouted.
"And you want these guys to cheer up the President?" Jack Clybourne's voice was dull and serious in the general laughter. "They don't care who wins!"
"Hey!" Ransom protested.
"You didn't see it," Clybourne said. "I did. A huge cargo barge stuffed full of people. Just ordinary people from Kansas. Men, women, kids. Dogs. Dolls. All mashed into jelly. If you'd see it, you wouldn't talk like this!"
"We've seen it," Joe Ransom said.
"They've seen your ship," Carol said. "Your ship, and the bodies in Kansas, they've all of them seen all of that."
"Films? If you'd been there, if you'd smelled it, you'd hate the snouts with your minds and guts!"
"Come off it," Curtis said.
"Hey, we're all on the same side," Carol said. "Come on. Have a drink."
"Maybe we've all had too much," Sherry said.
"You don't really think we'll surrender?" Ransom asked.
"I won't," Clybourne said.
"Well, we won't either. Our problem is that we're in here. Outside we might have something to do, some way to help rebuild the country. In here we're useless."
"They also serve," Curtis muttered, "who only stand and wait. That's our problem, Jack. We're supposed to plan for failure. What can we do if Archangel doesn't work? And every damn one of us knows that Archangel is it! Damn right all our eggs are in that basket. There isn't another basket and there won't be more eggs. So here we sit, waiting . . ."
"And the longer we wait," Ransom said, "the longer it takes to finish Archangel, the better the chances the snouts will find out about it. Or drop a rock on Bellingham for the pure hell of it." He raised his glass. "Here's to you, Mr. Clybourne. I just hope you got all the CBs."
"There's another problem," Admiral Carrell said.
"Yeah?"
&n
bsp; "That message inviting us to discuss surrender terms. It was received here fine."
"So? —" Ransom prompted.
Jenny felt the beginnings of a chill at the base of her spine.
"It wasn't heard ten miles away," Admiral Carrell said.
"Tightbeam!" Reynolds said.
"Tightbeam, direct to here," Curtis added. "It took you a week to find out?"
"Direct to here?" Clybourne looked puzzled. "A message for the President sent here—"
"And nowhere else," Ransom said.
"We've got to get the President out of here!" Clybourne shouted.
"In due time," Admiral Carrell said. "However they got their information—"
"Quislings," Curtis muttered.
"Perhaps. However they learned, they have had a week and more to act on their knowledge. They have not done so."
"But we're safe here," Carol protested. "Aren't we?"
"Against what?" Curtis demanded. "Nothing's safe from another Foot."
"They won't do that," Sherry protested.
"How do you know?" Clybourne demanded.
"Harpanet. They don't attack the top leadership of a herd. If humans surrender . . ."
"Which we won't," Ransom said. He raised his glass. Curtis clinked glasses with him.
"If we did," Sherry continued. "The President would probably become a high official, an advisor to their herdmaster. It's the way they work. They won't kill the President if they can help it. It would be like starting a court trial by shooting the other fellow's lawyer. They just don't do things that way."
"They don't offer conditional surrender terms, either," Curtis said. "They're learning."
* * *
This was the heart of Michael. The bridge looked like an unfinished Star Trek movie set. Around the walls were large viewscreens and control consoles, with acceleration couches made of webbing at each station, and two large command chairs in the center. Scattered through it all were wooden desks, tables, and drafting tables, nearly all covered with blueprints.
Some of the wall screens were split, blueprint at the bottom and camera view of that area at the top. As Harry watched, one of the screens flashed, and a new drawing appeared at its bottom.
"Done, by God!" Max Rohrs stood. "Harry, break out the champagne!"
"Right on!"
General Gillespie rose from his seat at one of the wooden desks. "Are we really done, Max?"
"Well . . . Ed, we both know this ship won't ever be finished, we'll be making changes right up to launch time, but yeah, we're done. You can tell the President that as of tomorrow noon we can launch on twenty-four hours notice."
Harry retrieved champagne from a small portable refrigerator. It would have to go, along with the desks and tables and file cabinets. It was good champagne, Mum's. There were a dozen crystal glasses in the refrigerator too. "How many glasses, General?" Harry asked.
"Three just now," Gillespie said.
Harry worried the cork out and let it fly to the ceiling. He poured and handed glasses out, then lifted one. "A willing foe, and sea room."
Gillespie made a face. "I'd as soon the snouts weren't willing at all. I just want to win."
Max Rohrs said, "Ed, we've just worked a miracle." He went over to the calendar and drew a ring around the date. "A real live one hundred percent miracle." He lifted his glass. "So God bless us, there's none like us. You too, Harry. You were a damn big help."
"Thanks."
Gillespie poured Harry's glass full again. "Lot to do yet," Gillespie said. "First, we have to bring in the ferryboats. Tomorrow morning we'll send all the dependents, and everybody but the launch and flight crews, over to Port Angeles."
Harry dropped into one of the command chairs, dodging TV screens. "What about the rest of Bellingham?"
"We wait on that one."
"Yeah, if the snouts see there's nobody here . . . going to be tough, though. What do we do?"
"We don't do anything," Gillespie said. "We'll give the sheriff as much notice as we can. You don't need to worry, Harry. We've got speedboats for the last-minute crew."
"Sure — how far away would you have to be?"
"A couple of miles if you have shelter. At Hiroshima the damage at five miles wasn't too bad. Of course we're setting off a lot more than one bomb." Gillespie drained his glass.
"Of course the safest place is in the ship," Max Rohrs said.
"That'll be all military people—"
"Well, but some will be more military than others," Rohrs said. "I'm going."
"You?" Harry almost laughed.
Max didn't laugh. "Yes. Chief Warrant Officer Maximilian Rohrs, Damage Control Officer, at your service. Who else knows as much about the way this ship is put together?"
"Well, Harry does," Ed Gillespie said.
"Hey, wait a minute!"
"He does, doesn't he?" Rohrs came over and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Don't I remember you doing some entertaining in the Chuckanut? Something about it wasn't your regular line of work, your regular work was hero?"
"Something like that," Gillespie agreed. "So. Want to take up your regular occupation again?"
Harry tried to stand up, but Rohrs' heavy hand was on his shoulder. "Now hear this. I am not an astronaut."
"Neither am I," Max Rohrs said.
"I didn't tell you to go! And, Max, you and the General designed this ship. If—"
"Have some more champagne, Harry."
"A pleasure. Look, I've met most of the crew. You're not really filling it out at the last second, are you?"
"No. I thought this over fairly carefully," General Gillespie said. "What is it that those kids don't know? That stuff shouldn't be allowed to get warm, Harry."
Harry drank. Gillespie said, "They know the ship. They know what's most likely to happen to it. They're dedicated. They know how to be tired and hurting and still keep going because we taught them that, pretty much the same way I was taught. But, Harry, it was us making them hurt, and they knew we could make it.
"Harry, you had a back problem. You got yourself a book of back exercises, and you used it while you crossed the country on a motorcycle, and got beat up on by the fithp, and lost two women and you still kept going, and all to keep a promise. And you hadn't even promised to do that! I want my dedicated astronauts and want you too. I don't know who'll fall apart up there."
"And what is it I want?" Harry inquired politely.
The General half closed his eyes. He seemed in no hurry to answer. Rohrs finished his glass and poured again. He was watching the screens.
The screens hadn't changed in several minutes. One, from a camera on the dome wall, showed Michael in full. Two great towers stood on the curve of the hemispherical shell, with cannon showing beneath the lip, aimed inward. Four smaller towers flanked them. A brick-shaped structure rose above them. The Brick was much less massive than the Shell, but its sides were covered with spacecraft: tiny gunships, and four Shuttles with tanks but no boosters. The Brick's massive roof ran beyond the flanks to shield the Shuttles and gunships.
Rohrs said, "The biggest spaceship ever built by Man. Done by God."
"And I'm done too," Harry said.
Gillespie said, "If we win this. If. We'll kill a lot of snouts and the rest will surrender. Thousands of snouts, all trying to join what our Threat Team has started calling the Climbing Fithp. Thousands of snouts — sane snouts, mostly — all learning to be human. Who will want to learn the name of the man who first captured a snout?"
"Pour me some more of that," said Harry.
40
THY DASTARDLY DOINGS ARE PAST
Neither their silver nor their gold
shall be able to deliver them in
the day of the LORD'S wrath . . .
—ZEPHANIAH 1:18
A fire devoureth before them; and behind them a flame burneth.
—JOEL 2:3
COUNTDOWN: M HOUR
Jenny winked at Jack, then went into the balcony office. The Situatio
n Room down below was crowded. Every console held a group, all the regular duty-crew plus most of the Threat Team, and anyone else who could think of a good reason to be there.
"Come in, Colonel," Admiral Carrell said. "Your station is here." He indicated a table facing the big screens beyond the glass wall. The table held a small switchboard and computer terminal. Jenny put on the headset with its microphone and single headphone, and pushed buttons.
"Operations, Colonel Walters."
"Control here, communications test."
"Roger. I read you five by five." Another button.
"Dreamer Fithp here," a voice said.
"Control here. Communications test."
"Fine."
She pushed other buttons. Finally she nodded to Admiral Carrell. "Communications checked out, sir. The link with Michael has a lot of static."
"It will probably get worse. All right." Carrell went to the door. "Mr. Clybourne, please tell the President that everything is ready, and he can join us whenever he likes. Colonel, begin Operation Moby Dick."
"Yes, sir." Jenny touched another button. On the floor below a siren wailed and red lights flashed. "Harpoon, this is Gimlet. Let fly!"
They could hear the cheers through the glass wall. Then the Situation Room fell silent. Crews hunched over consoles.
One of the situation screens showed the locations of the Invader Mother Ship and all the digit ships they could locate. The mother ship and sixteen digit ships were in geosync over Africa. They posed no danger yet. The moon was just setting; snout installations there would see nothing. Africa was wrapped in night. For whatever it was worth, the Invaders would start from their sleep to find themselves attacked.
Eight digit ships were in twelve-hour orbits, evenly distributed around the Earth, and three of these passed to east, center, and west of the United States every twelve hours. One would be passing over the South Pole when Michael launched. The others would have to be distracted.
Another screen showed all the effective missiles remaining under U.S. control. Lights blinked and colored lines flowed across the screens as the main battle computer matched missiles with Invader targets.