Footfall

by Larry Niven

  He ran a couple of steps, realized that wasn’t practical for a man in a dark pinstripe three-piece suit, and grinned again. Starting this afternoon, he thought. And I’ll get to Houston for training. Real training. I’ve been there before. Good thing, being on the space committee—

  Aliens! The full force of it hit him just as he reached the Capitol reflecting pool. They’re really here. Aliens. This is where human history breaks into two pieces. The search for extraterrestrial intelligence is over, the aliens are coming. . . Take that. Bill Proxmire!

  He climbed the hill to the Rayburn building and walked between the two monstrous statues that faced each other across the granite steps. They were the ugliest statues in Washington, crude attempts to portray the majesty and compassion of the law in Greek classical style but done by a very bad sculptor who hadn’t understood what the Greeks were trying to do—and who hadn’t known much about human anatomy either. Wes grinned as he passed them. It was obvious what had happened. Someone had insisted on statues, and some forgotten congressman had said ‘Al, my cousin Cindy Lou married a guy who makes statues . . .’

  His aides hurried to intercept him as he entered his suite of offices. Wes knew he was late, but dammit! Now here came Larry with a fistful of messages. Wes waved him aside and went past the receptionist and into his office, bursting to tell Carlotta—

  She was seated in his chair. A dozen Boy Scouts from his district were draped on the other chairs and couches.

  Oh, damn, Wes thought, and put on his best smile.

  Carlotta saw the fixed political grin on her husband’s face. but she could see beyond it to the glow of enthusiasm in Wes’s eyes. He didn’t need to say anything. After all, they’d lived together nearly twenty-five years, and had been married for twenty-two. She could tell.

  Wes has a chance. A chance to be the ambassador of the human race. No, make that consul or whatever the hell they call the second in charge of an embassy. The Russians are likely to provide the ambassador. Thank God I made Wes learn some Russian, Her bed would be empty now, and that wouldn’t be so good, but he sure looked happy. Couldn’t wait to tell her about it.

  But the Scouts were here. Bad timing, but the appointment was made weeks ago. How could anyone know Congressman Dawson would eat his breakfast at the White House?

  The boys swarmed around Wes. He seemed friendly enough. Not too friendly. He wasn’t making many political points with this visit. Why couldn’t the damn kids go away?

  That wasn’t really fair. She’d encouraged them to come herself. Carlotta liked boys. All congressmen welcomed visiting Bdy Scouts, but Wes and Carlotta were happier than most when they came to Washington. Not just Scouts. All boys.

  If Simon had lived . . . Carlotta thought. But he hadn’t. Simon Dawson, age three months, dead of whatever it was that killed babies in their first year: Silent Killer, Crib Death.

  The doctors had told her she couldn’t have more children. She’d gambled anyway, and very nearly died in childbirth. It was a month before she could hold her daughter in her arms, and another before she recovered, and it was obvious that Sharon would be the only child of the Dawson family, the only heir to two long and respectable lines. That was almost twenty years ago. Sharon was enrolled at Radcliffe now, and didn’t think much of her father’s career. Carlotta had never been able quite to understand why.

  Doesn’t matter. All colleges teach nonsense. She’ll outgrow it. Carlotta got up and went to Wes. He was bursting to tell her, but he had control of his face now. "Hi," she said. "This is Troop 112. Johnny Brasicku is the Senior Patrol Leader. Johnny, this is my husband, Congressman Dawson."

  They were nice boys, and they came from the district. Wes shook hands with each one of them. When he’d finished he gave Carlotta a rueful grin. She winked at him.

  The most important news we’ve ever heard, she thought. Possibly the most important thing anyone ever heard. And here we’re chatting with Boy Scouts while the staff decides what we ought to think and how Wes ought to vote, and there’s nothing we can do about it. If congressmen spent any time being congressmen and thinking about the job, they wouldn’t have the job. It’s a strange way to run a country.

  2

  ANNOUNCEMENTS

  Suspicion is the companion of mean souls, and the bane of all good society.

  —Thomas Paine, Common Sense

  COUNTDOWN: H MINUS SIX WEEKS

  "I really don’t think you should do that," Jeanette Crichton said. Richard Owen paused with his hand on the telephone, then snorted. "Nothing you can do about it. The Army doesn’t have any jurisdiction over me."

  "I never said we did," Jeanette said. "And why be paranoid? But you ought to think it over."

  "I already did," Owen said. "The Soviets have to know. They may already, in which case it’s better if they know that we know about it. And you’re nice and friendly, but somehow I’ve got the feeling that if I wait very long a real spook might show up." He lifted the receiver and dialed.

  And now what? Jeanette thought. He’s right, the Army doesn’t have any jurisdiction, and the Russians probably know all about it anyway. If they don’t now, they’ll learn soon enough. They have a lot more in space than we do, with their big manned station.

  "Academician Pavel Bondarev," Owen said. "Da. Bondarev," His fingers drummed against the desk, "Pavel? Richard Owen in Hawaii. Uh— yes, of course, I’ll wait," He put his hand over the transmitter, "They have a policy," he told Jeanette. "They’re not allowed to talk to Americans unless there are three of them together. Even somebody as high as Bondarev. Talk about paranoid, these guys own the copyright. . . Ah. Academician Bondarev? Your colleagues are there? Excellent. This is Professor Richard Owen, University of Hawaii, We’ve turned up something interesting I think you better know about . . ."

  * * *

  Pavel Aleksandrovich Bondarev put down the telephone and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

  "Is it real?" Boris Ogarkov’s flat peasant lace was twisted into an inquiring frown, which made him look very unpleasant.

  "Yes," Bondarev said absently. Boris was the Institute Party Secretary. He was not well educated. Boris was from the working class. Uninspired but tireless Party activities had brought him to lie attention of his superiors He was one of those raised to a position of power, who knew that loyalty to the system was the only way be would ever be more than a menial. He had cunning enough to know that the Institute was important to the Soviet Union, and so not to interfere with its work. instead be busied himself with seeing that there was a portrait of Lenin in every office, and that everyone, scientist, secretary, clerk, or janitor, voted in every election. "I know this American well," Bondarev continued. "We have published two papers together, and worked together when I was in the United States. He would not call me for a hoax."

  "Not as a hoax;" Andrei Pyatigorskiy said. "But could he be mistaken? We have seen no evidence of this."

  "Perhaps we have," Bondarev said. "And perhaps not, As a favor, Anditi, will you please call Dr. Nosov at the observatory, and ask his staff to examine all the photographs that might be relevant?"

  "Certainly."

  "Thank you. I need not say that Nosov must not speak of this to anyone. No matter what he finds."

  "I can call the Party Secretary at the observatory," Boris Ogartov said. "He will help to keep this secret."

  Bondarev nodded agreement.

  "But, Pavel Aleksandrovich, do you believe this story? Alien spacecraft coming to Earth?" Pyatigorskiy gestured helplessly. "How can you believe it?"

  Bondarev shrugged. "If you agree that they did not lie, we have no choice but to believe it. The Americans have excellent equipment, and enough so that every observatory has comparators and computers. As you well know—"

  "If we had half so much—" Pyatigorskiy said. Half the time he had to build his own equipment, because the Institute could not get the foreign exchange credits to obtain electronics and optics from the West, and unless it had been built for the mi
litary, Russian laboratory equipment did not work well.

  Bondarev shrugged again. "Certainly. But there are many reasons why the Americans would see it first."

  "Perhaps it has been seen from Kosmograd." Boris Ogarkov said.

  Pyatiggrskiy nodded agreement. "Their telescopes are much better than those we have here."

  "I will ask," Bondaiev said. And perhaps get an answer, perhaps not. Reports from the Soviet space station were closely guarded. Often Bondarev did not get them for months.

  "We should see their photographs," Pyatigotskiy said. "Instantly when they come in. And you should be able to call Rogachev and tell him where to point his instruments."

  "Perhaps," Bondarev said. He looked significantly at his subordinate. Andrel Pyatigorskiy was an excellent development scientist, but his career would not be aided by criticizing policy in front of Boris Ogarkov. Boris probably would not report this, but he would remember . . .

  "It is vital," Andrei continued. He sounded stubborn. "If aliens are coming, we must make preparations."

  "Is it not likely that they know in Moscow?" Ogarkov asked.

  "Perhaps they have heard from Kosmograd, and already know."

  "I think not." Bondarev said quietly. "It is of course possible. They know much in Moscow. But I think we here would have heard, if not what they know, that they have learned something of importance. In the meantime, it is vital that we look at our own photographs. If this object shows, then we know it is no hoax."

  He looked thoughtful. "No ordinary hoax, at all events."

  * * *

  "So that’s that," Richard Owen said. "They hadn’t seen it." He walked over to the window overlooking the road up Mauna Kea.

  "Or said they hadn’t," Jeanette said.

  "Yeah, that’s right." He glanced at his watch. "Next thing is a press conference." He looked at her defiantly.

  She shook her head. "Richard, there’s nothing I can do to stop you I think you’re wrong, though."

  "Don’t the people have a right to know?"

  "I suppose so." she said. "Do you think the Russians believe you?"

  "Why shouldn’t they?" Owen demanded.

  "They don’t often believe anything we say. They see plots everywhere," Jeanette said.

  "Not Bondarev," Owen protested. "I’ve known him a long time, He’ll believe me."

  "Yes. But will his superiors believe him? Anyway, it’s not my problem. . ."

  "Sure about that?"

  "What?"

  "There’s a mess of cars coming up the road," Owen said. "State police, and an Army staff car. I never saw anything like that up here before . . ."

  Lieutenant Hal Brassfield was nervous. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, and he wasn’t sure who Jeanette was. Small wonder, she thought.

  "Captain," he said, "I don’t really know any more than that. The orders said to get you to Washington by first available transportation, highest priority, and we arranged that. A chopper will meet us down at the five-thousand-foot level. He’ll get you to Pearl. There’s a Navy jet standing by there."

  Jeanette frowned, "Isn’t that a bit unusual?"

  "You bet your sweet—yes, ma’am, that’s unusual. Leastwise I never did anything like this before."

  She looked at the sheet of orders. They’d been hastily typed from telephone dictation, and looked nothing like standard military orders. She’d never seen anything like them. Come to that, she thought, not very many officers had. At the bottom it said "By order of the President of the United States," and below that was "For the President, James F. Frantz, Chief of Staff."

  "Those came in about an hour ago," the lieutenant said. "And it’s all I know. We’re a training command, Captain."

  "All right, Lieutenant, but someone will have to go to my hotel. I have things there, and the bill has to be paid."

  "Yes, ma’am, Major Johnston said I’d have to take care of that. I’ll send your bags on to you, only I don’t know where to send them." He chuckled. "I wouldn’t think the White House would be the right address for a captain. But that’s the only place listed on those orders."

  Jeanette nodded, more to herself than to the lieutenant. Whenever she was in Washington, she stayed at Flintridge with her aunt and uncle, so that was no problem. Only it was probably a "hurry up and wait" situation. There wasn’t any need for her at the White House. Not that urgently, and probably not at all. The President would want to confirm the sighting, but before she could get to Washington he’d have a dozen others to tell him about the mysterious—what? She giggled.

  "Penny for your thoughts," Richard Owen said.

  "What do we call it?" she asked. "UFO? But it isn’t flying."

  Lieutenant Brassfield looked puzzled. "UFO? All this is over a flying saucer?"

  "Yes," Jeanette said.

  "Hey, now wait a minute—"

  "It’s all true," Richard Owen said. "We’ve spotted an alien spaceship. It’s on its way to Earth. Captain Crichton called the Army."

  "Maybe I better not know any more about this," Brassfield said.

  Jeanette thought of Richard Owen’s upcoming press conference and laughed. "It won’t hurt. Lieutenant, do you have anyone in Kona? Or somebody who can get there fast?"

  "Yes, ma’am."

  "Good. Have him go to the Kamehameha Hotel and collect my bags. He’s to be careful with my uniform, but get it packed. All my stuff. Then drive like hell to meet us where that helicopter is picking us up. If I’m going to the White House, I am damned if I’ll go bare-legged!"

  * * *

  KGB Headquarters was across the city square from the Institute. It was a drab brick building, in contrast to the Institute’s pillars and marble facade. Pavel Bondarev walked briskly across the square. It was a pleasant day, warm enough that he did not need an overcoat.

  A new man sat at the reception desk in KGB headquarters. He looked very young. Pavel Bondarev grimaced, then shrugged. What cannot be cured must be endured. He had learned patience, and he forced himself to be still, although he was bursting with the news.

  A long line of citizens waited in front of the reception desk. Men in ill-fitting suits, women in stained skirts and scarves, farmers, workers, minor factory officials—they all held forms to be signed, permission slips of one kind or another. Today there were not so many farmers; in fall there would be hundreds wanting to sell the produce from their tiny private plots.

  Bondarev shook his head. Absurd, he thought. They should be working, not standing in lines here. But it is typically Russian, and if they didn’t stand in lines they wouldn’t work anyway. They’d just get drunk.

  If there were not residency controls, everyone would live in Moscow. Once while visiting Washington he’d heard a song at an American’s party: "How you going to keep them down on the farm?" It was evidently a problem for the Americans as well as the Russians.

  He walked past the line. A man at the head of the line, roundfaced like Boris Ogarkov, glared at him sullenly but didn’t say anything. Bondarev stood at the desk. Two men were at another desk nearby. He thought he recognized the one who was typing a report on a battered machine of German make. Bondarev wondered idly if the typewriter had been brought to Russia by the Wehrmacht. It was certainly old enough. Provincial establishments, even KGB, did not often get new equipment.

  The reception officer ignored him as long as possible, then looked up insolently. "Yes?"

  You will be that way, will you? Bondarev thought. Very well. Bondarev spoke quietly, but loud enough so he was certain that the men at the next desk could overhear him. "I am Bondarev. I wish to see the duty officer."

  The desk officer frowned. The man at the next desk ceased typing.

  "What is the nature of your business?"

  "If I had meant for you to know, I would have told you," Bondarev said. "Now you will please inform the senior officer present that Academician Bondarev, Director of the Lenin Research Institute of Astrophysics and Cosmography, wishes to see him and t
hat the matter is urgent."

  The receptionist’s frown deepened, but his face lost the insolent look. A full Academician would have powerful friends, and the Institute was important in their provincial city. The officer who had been typing got up from the desk and came over. "Certainly, Comrade Academician," he said. "I will go and tell Comrade Orlov at once." He looked down sideways at the receptionist, then left.

  "I am required to ask," the receptionist said. His voice was sullen.

  He has not long held his commission as an officer of the KGB, Bondarev thought. And he has rather enjoyed having everyone act respectful, even fearful. He did not expect to find someone to fear.

  "This way, Comrade Academician." The other agent indicated a doorway.

  As Bondarev passed through, the receptionist was saying, "How should I know he was an Academician? He did not say so." Bondarev smiled.

  The office was not large. The desk was cluttered. Bondarev did not recognize the officer at the desk, but he was certain he had seen him before.

  "Yes, Comrade Academician?"

  "I must use your scrambler telephone to call Moscow, Comrade Orlov. Party Third Secretary Narovchatov in the Kremlin. It is urgent. No one must listen. It is a matter of state security."

  "If it is a matter of state security, we must record—"

  "Yes, but not to listen," Bondarev said. "Comrade, believe me, you do not want to listen to this call."

  It took nearly an hour to complete the call. Then General Narovchatov’s voice came on the line. "Pavel Aleksandrovich! It is good to hear from you." The hearty gravel voice changed. "All is well?"

  "Da, Comrade General. Marina is well, your grandchildren are well."

  "Ah. Another year, Pavel. Another year and you may return to Moscow. But hard as it is, you must stay there now. Your work is needed."

  "I know," Bondarev said. "Marina will be grateful that it is only one more year. That, however, is not why I have called."