Footfall

by Larry Niven

  General Toland came in. "All ready at my end," he said.

  Not that the Army has much to do — unless the snouts start dropping rocks at random!

  "Good." Carrell stood at the balcony window, his eyes fastened on the screens below. After a moment, General Toland sat at one of the desks.

  One screen faded, then was replaced by a map of the South Atlantic. A bright red line rose from the ocean and arced toward Johannesburg.

  "God, what if it really hits?" Toland said to no one.

  "It won't," Carrell said.

  Other lines arced upward from the South Atlantic. One rose straight up: the EMP bomb. Then a bright blue ring sprang up to surround that area.

  "We've lost communications with Ethan Allen," Jenny reported. "The Nathaniel Greene is launching now." The EMP bomb bloomed into a red patch, wide of Earth's arc. More lines sprang up, this time from farther south, almost directly below the Cape of Good Hope. After a few moments a blue circle appeared there, too.

  "No communications with Nathaniel Greene," Jenny said. "Or anywhere else for the next few hours. We got our electromagnetic pulse." The room seethed with static.

  The office door opened. Jack Clybourne ushered the President in. General bland stood. Jenny saw him, but remained seated.

  "Good afternoon," President Coffey said. "Continue with your duties." He sat at the large desk in the middle of the room.

  "Actually, we have very little to do," Admiral Carrell said. "The tough work was planning this. Now it either works or it doesn't."

  Reassuring bullshit

  , Jenny thought. No battle plan ever works. Seventeen digit ships destroyed in the war. We can't find three. Assume one destroyed, unreported, and two on the ground in Africa, where they can't rise in time. Can we get that lucky? Another of the battle screens flashed to show Georgia and South Carolina. A network of red lines leaped upward toward the digit ships patrolling in low orbit.

  Ten minutes went past. The red lines began rapidly to wink out. Red blotches appeared south of Atlanta.

  "They're damned fast," Toland muttered.

  "Yes. Too fast," Admiral Carrell agreed. He turned to the President. "We'd hoped to keep them distracted for half an hour or more."

  "When does Michael go up?" the President asked.

  "In eighty minutes," Admiral Carrell said.

  "God help the people in Bellingham," President Coffey muttered.

  God help us all.

  * * *

  "God, Miranda, we can't keep this up. I'm supposed to be on duty!"

  "So you are." She made a point of buttoning her blouse as she moved away from him to the passenger door of the squad car, and pretended to be interested in the sparse scenery of the Lummi Indian Reservation. "All right, you'll just have to take me home —"

  "Well, but not just—" He rolled over in the seat, prepared to follow.

  "All units, all units, proceed with Big Tango, proceed with Big Tango," the radio blared.

  Leigh sagged back, stunned.

  "What is it?" Miranda demanded. His look frightened her.

  "I don't even know where to start!"

  "Start what, damn you?"

  He was buttoning buttons, fumbling it. "It's — we're supposed to evacuate the city. Everybody within five miles of the harbor."

  "Five miles?"

  "Your place isn't in the zone," Deputy Young said. "You're almost six miles out. But the Rez is." He leaned forward and started the cruiser. "And I guess you're riding with me. Miranda, how the hell do I get a bunch of Indians to leave their homes?"

  "Tell them why. Tell me why, Leigh!"

  "I don't know! They told me that when Big Tango started we have one hour, one frigging hour to get everybody out of their houses and away." He put the car in gear. "So here we go, not that it will do any good."

  It didn't look like an Indian reservation. It looked more like a rural slum punctuated by occasional suburban houses. There was only one paved road. Leigh drove along it and spoke at intervals through the loud speaker mounted on top of the police car.

  "Hi! This is Leigh Young. I have bad news. The aliens going to bomb Bellingham. You have about half an hour to the hell out of here. Drive, ride bikes, run, walk, do anything you can, but get the hell away from Bellingham Harbor." He drove around the paved loop.

  There was a numbness in Miranda's brain. John Fox expected something, something he wouldn't talk about. What can I do? Give Leigh half an hour to get the Indians moving, but then he damned well better take me home so I can tell Dad!

  They were at the end of the loop. There were speedboats in the harbor, all racing southwest and away. Headed for Port Angles? Escaping. Escaping what?

  Leigh was driving back into the loop. "Run for the hills," his amplified voice blared. "Get out any way you can: foot, horse, car; don't take anything you don't value more than life. Don't look back because the glare will burn your eyes out."

  Already there were cars moving the other way. "Some of them listened," Miranda said. "Leigh, we have to go warn Dad if the snouts are going to bomb us!"

  "They're not going to bomb us."

  "Huh?"

  "I made that up," Leigh said.

  "Then why are we doing this?"

  "Damfino."

  "Ask the Sheriff."

  "Miranda, I already asked him, and he wouldn't tell us."

  "Ask now! He has to tell us now!"

  "Well . . ."

  Miranda took the microphone from its hook and handed it to him. "Go on, ask. What harm can it do?"

  "Well, all right." Leigh keyed the microphone.

  "Dispatcher."

  "Is the Sheriff there?"

  "He's busy."

  "I have to talk with him."

  "One moment."

  "Sheriff Lafferty here. That you, Young?"

  "Yes, sir. Sheriff, I'm on the Rez. Most of the Indians are moving on, but some aren't. Isn't there anything I can tell them that'll make them move out?"

  "Tell them they'll get killed if they stay."

  "I did. I said the snouts are going to bomb Bellingham."

  "Snouts bomb us! That's a good one. Leigh, we're going to bomb ourselves, there's going to be atom bombs . . ."

  The radio dissolved in static.

  "What the hell?" Leigh tuned up and down. "Buzz saws. Like we were being jammed."

  "Maybe we are," Miranda said.

  "What?"

  "Leigh, what did he mean, bomb ourselves?"

  "I don't know."

  "I don't know either, but why would the Army jam your radio? Leigh, I'm scared."

  * * *

  So far, so good.

  Jenny watched the big wall screens with satisfaction. "M minus fifty-five minutes, and counting," she announced. "Thank you," Admiral Carrel! acknowledged. "Melon daiquiri," President Coffey muttered.

  "Sir?" Carrell asked.

  "Nothing. Admiral, I have a good feeling about this."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You don't."

  "Mr. President, they say that Admiral Jellicoe at Jutland was the only man in the world who could have lost World War One in a single afternoon."

  "Oh. And we . . .?"

  "Can lose something more than that," Carrell said.

  "Of course you're right." The door opened to admit a mess corporal with a tray of coffee. Outside the door were half a dozen military personnel, plus Jack Clybourne, who was doing his best not to look through the door and across the office so that he could see the big battle screens on the floor below. The President grinned. "Mr. Clybourne?"

  "Sir."

  "Let Sergeant Mailey's people act like doorkeepers. Come in and watch the action."

  "Sir?"

  "Come in. You've earned a ringside seat."

  "But . . . well, thank you, sir." Clybourne stood against one wall.

  He blends into it. Like wallpaper

  , Jenny thought. She turned to wink at him. There was a buzz in her headset. "Control. Gimlet."

  "Gi
mlet, this is Harpoon. We have a security breach. We have a security breach. This went out on police radio air four minutes ago. I play the tapes now . . ."

  "Launch now," General Toland said.

  "There are people in Bellingham," the President said. "A lot of them."

  "All right, so it's hard on Bellingham! Launch! Colonel, tell them to prepare."

  "Yes, sir." Jenny spoke into the microphone. "Prepare for launch in five minutes. Launch in five minutes."

  More sirens blared on the floor below.

  "Admiral?" the President asked.

  Admiral Carrell put his fingertips together and looked across their tops at the situation maps. "Give me a minute."

  "Not much more than that," said the General.

  "All right. First, the timing is terrible. We'd be launching straight up at Bogie Two, and we didn't hurt those digit ships enough."

  "If they drop rocks on Michael, we've had it!" Bland shouted.

  "Yes." Carrell glanced at his watch. "What are we afraid of? A laser can't hurt Michael. A meteor takes time . . ."

  "It could be on its way now—"

  "And ready to hit atmosphere. All right. I say we . . . wait. Get ready to launch on ten seconds notice. Wait the full hour if we can, but if Gillespie sees a light in the sky he'll launch. A meteor would flare at fifty miles up, and come in at a slant at five to six miles per second. We'd be twenty seconds in the air when it hit. Michael would survive."

  "Michael can blow Bogie Two out of the sky," the General said. "It's all alone. We won't see another digit ship for an hour."

  "We have a plan," Admiral Carrell said.

  "And if we stick with it, we lose! Mr. President, you're betting everything on this."

  "General, I'm aware that it's important."

  "We have to fight the damn digit ships anyway! Go now."

  "And kill everyone in Bellingham," President Coffey said.

  "Better Bellingham than the whole damn human race!"

  "Oh, Jesus." President Coffey stared at the situation screens. "Admiral Carrell, you're my naval expert. Take command."

  "Yes, sir. Colonel Crichton, get me direct communications with General Gillespie."

  "Sir." The first three lines she tried were filled with static. "General Gillespie, sir."

  "Ed, this is Thor Carrell."

  "Yes, Mr. Secretary?"

  "There's been a possible security leak. Your local sheriff used his radio."

  "Is that why there's jamming? We can't talk to our own MPs."

  "That's it. General, you're to make ready for instant launch. Watch the skies. The first glimmer up there, and you go. It's your ship, as of now."

  "Acknowledged."

  President Coffey looked significantly at the Admiral.

  "Mr. President," Carrell said.

  "I won't take your time," Coffey said. "Godspeed, General."

  The sirens were still wailing on the floor below.

  General Toland was still frowning. "All right, God damn it, we'll do it your way." He turned to Jenny. "Colonel, get me the MP commander in Bellingham. I want that sheriff's ass in a sling."

  "General."

  "Yes, Mr. President?"

  "Have your MPs do what they can for the people in Bellingham. They're Americans too."

  "Yes, sir."

  * * *

  John Fox heard it first.

  There was high wind with a few raindrops in it. Fox was turning the compost heap. He'd managed to make this his own territory; nobody else would fool with it. His pitchfork probed, and he worked around the denser mass he sensed, to keep Roger hidden. Bones showed suddenly, not clean yet — a foot. Fox grimaced an picked up a pitchforkful of compost.

  He stopped, cocked his head. There was a sound in the wind. Motors.

  Fox placed his forkful to cover the bones deep. Then he moved briskly toward the house. He opened the door and shouted at the first human figure he saw. "Navy coming back. Alert everyone. I'll be at the gate."

  The Navy had come twice before, first for the CBs, then for Roger Brooks. Both times they had come in force — but not like this. You could hardly hear the wind for the roar of motors, and they were only just pulling up! Armored trucks lined the road. It must be a nuisance for them, John Fox thought. All that gasoline. But they know we've got guns, and somebody might do something stupid if there was just a truckful of them. He counted eight trucks, and more vehicles behind them. New cars, old cars, decrepit civilian trucks, a score of them thinning out of sight into the rain.

  Four men climbed out of the third vehicle and came up to the gate. They looked nervous. One was the sheriff, old Ben Lafferty. Three were Navy, and Fox had seen one of them on their second visit: Commander Arnold Kennedy. Kennedy stepped forward an said, "You know we're coming in. We've been through this before. John Fox's worries were growing. Nobody had come out the house to join him; what did that mean? Were they getting ready to shoot it out?

  Two more came up. Miranda Shakes, and that deputy sheriff she dated.

  "It's all right, John," Miranda said.

  "What is it this time? Who the hell are they?" Fox waved back down the road.

  "Your neighbors," Sheriff Lafferty said.

  "Civilians seeking refuge," Commander Kennedy said, "and you will by God give it to them. We're prepared to shoot the top off your house. What we want is the use of your bomb shelter for about two hours."

  Fox nodded. Orion, he thought. Now. "How many are there?"

  "About three hundred."

  "You're crazy. Even elbow to elbow—"

  "And on top of each other too. This is serious. You tell the rest of 'em in there, this is serious. If they start shooting we'll take the house off the top of the shelter. It'll go anyway. Now, you and I are going up to the house."

  They walked around the greenhouse and up to the front door. Kennedy rang the bell.

  The invaders trooped through the house and through the "secret" door and down.

  There were storekeepers and Navy and Indians, grandparents and children and infants. Two old men and a heavy middle-aged woman had to be lifted from wheelchairs, carried inside, and deposited in the three decks of bunks. The wheelchairs stayed in the living room, along with everything else, suitcases, briefcases, picnic baskets, even heavy overcoats. The living room looked like a rummage sale. The rug was a swamp. Clara was too angry to scream, but Bill Shakes raged.

  "We'll have to tear up the floor to get rid of all they've trucked in! We've got one — count 'em, one — bathroom down there, and we'll have to pack people in that too. We'll have to fumigate — Commander, who's going to pay for all this? What are you laughing at?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Shakes. You submit a bill for damages. I guarantee you it'll be honored, but you'd better wait an hour before you add up that bill, Mr. Shakes!"

  George Tate-Evans felt his insides turning to water. What were we supposed to do, conduct a point defense against the Navy? We've got enough firepower here to get us all killed dead, and not even Jack lost his head quite that bad. Thank God. But they . . . none of them thought it through . . . The Navy searched us when they came for the CBs, so they knew we had a bomb shelter. Half of Bellingham is trooping through our basement because we've got a bomb shelter, a bomb shelter! "Commander, what happens in one hour?"

  "That's still classified."

  "Are you out of your—"

  "You had a fuck of a lot of radio equipment, and I'm not sure in my heart that we got it all, and the sheriff used his car radio to try to alert the populace! You almost died then, Mr. . . . Tate Evans. I'll tell you when I can. Really."

  "But what do we prepare for? How long will we be in there?"

  "Hours, not days. Without us it would have been days," Kennedy said. "We've got decontamination equipment parked outside ready."

  "Decontam—"

  Up the stairs came a riot of noise. People were jammed in the stairwell, all the way to the thick iron trapdoor. "Something I think we'd better do," Isadore said. "Pas
s out all the booze. I mean it Bill. You heard the commander, the Navy'll pay for it. But that's a supercooled riot in there, and something awful's about to happen and we'll want them tranquil."

  "Right. Medicine too," George said. The living room held only Navy men and the legitimate owners. "Commander, get your men to carrying booze. I'll get the medical kit. We'll set up on the stairs. Force the rest of those carpetbaggers down to leave the stairs clear. And then I'll offer you a drink."

  "Not for—" The Commander checked his watch. "We've got twenty minutes. And then I'm prepared to drink a toast."

  * * *

  There were no windows on Michael. The control room was buried deep in Michael's heart, between the water tanks, with the tower to shield it too. For Harry and the others there was nothing by TV screens.

  Somewhere outside, there were still people to talk to Gillespie. "Nothing from the President. If anything comes, it'll be a messenger. We've got a tight phone to the gate."

  Gillespie said, "If a digit ship changes course anywhere, I want to know it."

  And the tinny response: "We're getting some action from the ships we attacked, but nothing aimed here."

  "How long?"

  "Eight minutes."

  There were cameras everywhere, inside and outside Michael. One camera on the wall of the dome showed all of the great ship: the Shell, the placement guns protruding under the rim, six towers around the base; the Brick standing above them, its flat sides hung with smaller spacecraft, shadowed by the overhang of the nose. The dome that had swarmed with activity, day and night, for months, now looked deserted, silent, empty.

  Gillespie turned toward the repair crew. "Five minutes. Close your faceplates now." Then, by intercom, "Testing. Can you all hear me?"

  They responded.

  "All personnel outside Michael, get to the shelter. And thank you all."

  A dozen crash couches covered the floor. Harry and Rohrs and Gamble and the others were strapped down like mental patients; the only difference was that they could pull their arms free. An umbilical carried oxygen from the wall, and made a cold spot on Harry's chest. Harry was feeling claustrophobic. And elated! Here's Harry the Minstrel in a by-god space suit, waiting for launch!