Footfall

by Larry Niven

  "All right."

  "I like your enthusiasm. Well, if you do, I guarantee I’ll put you to work. Bye."

  Linda watched Carlotta leave, and turned back to her drink. I probably should go help Carlotta. It’s something to do— "

  Five dollars for your thoughts."

  "Uh—" She looked up at the man standing where Carlotta had been. "Roger!"

  "Yep. Were you thinking about me?" He sat down without waiting to be asked.

  "No." He still looks pretty good. He must be—what, fifty? That’s about right. Good-looking man for fifty. Good-looking for forty, for that matter. "After five years? Why should I?"

  He chuckled. "Because you’re alone in my town. You ought to have been thinking about me for weeks."

  "That’s silly." I did think about you, damn you. "How do you know I’m not waiting for my husband?"

  "Because he’s in Houston, sheep dogging the Honorable Wesley Dawson. You were with Carlotta Dawson until a minute ago." He flashed a grin. "I passed up a chance to interview her, waiting for you to be alone—"

  "And if I’d left with her?’

  "I’d have got my interview, of course. Or at least had a chance to talk with the wife of the U.S. Ambassador to Outer Space. Now I have to settle for the chauffeur’s wife. How’s Ed taking it?"

  "Not well ye never seen him so twitchy."

  "He projects that "Right Stuff" image. Cool and collected, like all the astronauts."

  "Clint’s on TV," Linda said. "And usually he really is like that. Now he doesn’t know how to feel . . . Well, look at it. That alien ship is the biggest thing since the invention of the lung, Ed’s sister-in-law discovers it even, and a congressman steals his mission."

  "You ought to be glad it’s Wes. If it wasn’t him, it still wouldn’t be Ed," Roger said. "The Sovs don’t want Edmund Gillespie. An American military officer, a general—he outranks Rogachev, for God’s sake!"

  "Yeah, he knows that, really," Linda said. "But it doesn’t help that he knows it. Roger, what are you doing here?’

  "Trying to seduce you."

  "Roger!"

  He shrugged. "It’s true enough. I had a lead on a story, brought her here for a drink, spotted you, and got rid of Ms. Henrietta Crisp of the Business and Professional Women’s Alliance. Surprised hell out of her, it did."

  "Well, you might as well go find her again."

  "All right." He didn’t move.

  Damn you, Roger Brooks! I should get up and leave right now—

  "I’ve missed you," he said. "Sure you have. Three times in fifteen years.—"

  Come off it. You weren’t about to get divorced, and when Ed’s around you don’t want to see me across a football field. What was I supposed to do?"

  "Yeah." The old feeling came back, excitement and anticipation. Go home now! That wasn’t going to work, though.

  Who is this? I’m happily married, and every five years Roger Brooks finds me, and I feel like a schoolgirl on her first heavy date. How does he do this to me? "I guess I’ve missed you too. Remember that movie Same Time, Next Year? It’s like that with us."

  "Except we don’t see each other so often." He picked at the scars on his left hand. "But it doesn’t mean I don’t think about you."

  "Oh, sure, and next you’ll tell me I’m the reason you never married," Or have you?

  Roger spread his hands in an exaggerated gesture. "Dunno. There must be some reason,"

  "You’re too busy chasing stories. That’s all you see in me—a news source."

  "Come on, now."

  "Will you promise you won’t try to get information from me?"

  "Of course not." —

  "See? Good. I don’t like it when you lie to me. So what do we do now?"

  He glanced at his watch. "A bit early for dinner. What say we take a drive through the Virginia countryside? I know a nice restaurant in Fairfax."

  "And then?"

  "Up to you." Roger stood and came around to hold her chair.

  "I’ve got to be going," Linda said. She started to push back her chair from Roger’s kitchen table, but Roger stood behind her and blocked her way.

  He put his hands under the bathrobe. She felt her nipples erect in the warmth of his palms. "What’s the hurry?"

  "Stop that—no, don’t stop that. Roger, what will I tell Aunt Rhonda?"

  "Party at the Thai Embassy. Got late. Some senator from the Appropriations Committee insisted on quizzing you about the space program."

  "But—"

  "There really is a big party there, so big that you could have been there and been lost in the crowd." He bent around her, took her nipple in his mouth.

  She thought she was thoroughly satiated, but his tongue reawakened sensations all through her body. Roger had always been a tiger—they’d made love three times that afternoon after JPL, all those years ago . . . "Are you serious?"

  He straightened. "Possibly not."

  Linda giggled suddenly.

  "Certainly not, then," Roger said. "What is it?"

  "I never did get Nat Reynolds’s autograph."

  "Nat—oh. Yeah. Damn, damn, damn. That ship was there all the time we were looking at Saturn. The twisted F-ring. ‘Haven’t you ever seen three earthworms in love?’ ‘You’ve a wicked sense of humor, Darth Vader.’ Remember? The drive flame from that thing must have roiled the whole ring system. It settled down before Voyager Two got there."

  Linda stroked his hand, then put it back on her breast. He stood very close to her. "And even if you’d known, if you’d said anything, they’d have put you away for a nice rest."

  "Heh. Yes. I might have gone digging. Found some astronomical photographs. Something. I didn’t know enough science, then. I’ve done some studying since."

  She grinned and looked up at him without raising her head. "I hadn’t noticed." Actually it’s not funny. Nothing you could learn, nothing will ever bring back that afternoon. I know that; why do I go on looking? "It was a wonderful day, Roger. All of it. All those Scientists, and the writers—you’ve been studying science; are you going to write science fiction?"

  "Hadn’t intended to. Maybe I should. Most of the SF writers have disappeared." He wet one finger and traced a complex pattern on her breast,

  "What?"

  "Well, not all of them. The ones who make up their own science are being interviewed all over the place. The ones who stick to real science are getting hard to find. Know anything about it?"

  "Not really."

  He straightened and stepped away from her. "My God, you do know something! What?"

  "Roger, I said—"

  "Bat shit! I can tell! You know something. Linda, what is it?"

  "Well, it’s not important. Jenny said something about going to meet the sci-fi people. In Colorado Springs. It wasn’t a secret."

  "Colorado Springs. NORAD or the Air Academy?"

  "I don’t know. Aunt Rhonda would know—she’d have Jenny leave her phone number in Colorado Springs. Speaking of Aunt Rhonda, Roger, I really do have to leave. Now let me get up."

  "Well, all right, if you insist. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  Say no. Tell him no. "Fine."

  8

  LAUNCH

  What we anticipate seldom occurs; what we least expected generally happens.

  —BENJAMIN DISRAELI, Henrietta Temple

  COUNTDOWN: H MINUS ONE WEEK

  The house perched on stilts above a crag in the Los Angeles hills. For years the engineers had worried that it would slide down in a heavy rainstorm, but it never did.

  Wes Dawson poked about the storage area built by enclosing the stilts. In a normal house it would have been called a basement.

  "It’s getting late," Carlotta called down the stairs.

  "I know." He opened an old trunk, Junk, clutter; memories leapt up at him. Wait a minute, I used to use this a lot . . . the Valentine card she’d handed him one January morning after a fight

  So that’s where that went! The huge mug that woul
d hold two full bottles of beer, but the chipped rim kept gashing his lip. A T-shirt faded almost to gray, but he recognized the print on the chest: an American flag with a whirlpool galaxy in the upper left corner. A hundred billion stars. . .

  No time! He closed the lid on memories and went up the stairs.

  The house looked half empty, with anything valuable or breakable packed away.

  "Aren’t you packed?" she asked. "I mean, what could you take?"

  He grinned. "Remember my old baseball cap?"

  "Good God! Whatever did you—"

  "Luck. It won my first campaign. I wore it to JPL for the Saturn encounter, remember?"

  She turned away and he followed her. "I’m sorry you can’t come with me."

  "Me too." She still didn’t face him.

  "You’ve got to be used to it. I’m not home a lot of the time—"

  "Sure. But you’re in Washington. Maybe you don’t get home until I’m in bed, but I know you’ll be there. Or I have to come here, and you’re still there, but we’re— Jesus, Wes, I don’t know. But it feels wrong." She opened the Thermos pitcher and poured coffee. "I talked to Linda, and she feels it too, when Ed’s not on the Earth. She can tell. Is that silly?"

  Telepathy? That could be interesting. And if I say that, she’ll blow up.

  Wes tried to hide his eagerness to be gone. He couldn’t. Before the aliens came, Carlotta really was the most important thing in his life, more important than Congress or anything else, but not now. Not with the Galactic Congress coming in just a few days, and he’d be there to meet them! She had him dead to rights. You’ll be nowhere on the face of the Earth, and you won’t be thinking about me.

  The doorbell rang before he had to speak. Thank God. Wes thought Whoever that is, I love you.

  It was Harry Reddington.

  "La, Harry," he said. There was no point in asking why Harry was there. He’d find out whether he asked or not. "Come in, but I warn you" Forefinger prodding the zipper on the lineman’s vest, you had to make things clear to Harry—"I've got to go, right now, and Carlotta has to drive me."

  "Sure, Congressman." Harry used his cane to help him up the steps. "Hi, Carlotta."

  "Hello." Carlotta’s greeting wasn’t enthusiastic.

  It had happened several years before. Wes Dawson, two-term Congressman, stuck on the transportation safety subcommittee, interviewing bikers. He’d been young enough and new enough then to go out looking for information, rather than summoning the interested parties to Washington to testify to a committee.

  And in a San Bernardino bar, Wes Dawson had let a Hell’s Angel get his goat, and took a swing at the bloated barbarian, and was about to get his head stomped in, which would have been bad, and in the newspapers, which would have been worse, when Hairy Red the Minstrel made a joke of the whole affair and hustled Wes out of the bar, and only after they were outside did Harry admit that he was so scared he’d pissed in his pants. Or said he had, which made Wes laugh too.

  So I owe Harry one. And he’s never really collected. Just uses that to keep us polite to him. And hell, I enjoy his company Sometimes— "

  What brings you here now, Harry?" Carlotta asked. She hadn’t been in that bar. She’d only been told. If she’d felt the vibes in that bar, she’d be more polite to Harry.

  "Heard you’re going up to meet the ETI’s," Harry said.

  "Yeah!"

  "Everyone knows that," Carlotta said.

  "I wondered if you needed anybody to keep an eye on things," Harry said. "I’m sort of loose just now."

  "No," Carlotta said firmly. "Thanks, but no."

  Harry must be heavily stuck for a place to sleep. Not only that he was here, but that he was so clean, so massively sober . . .

  Wes looked around the house. All the valuable stuff was packed and stored. Especially all the breakables. But there were electronics and keepsakes and things he hadn’t had time to store away (and somewhere, his baseball cap), and he’d really hate to lose them. There hadn’t been time to plan anything. And the breakable stuff was stored, and Wes was just feeling so damned good. He asked, "Harry, where are you living just now?"

  Carlotta eyed him suspiciously.

  "Here and there—"

  "Want to stay here?" Wes asked. "Just for a few weeks. Carlotta’s going to Washington and then visiting her family in Kansas, so the place is empty except for the gardener once a week. Wouldn’t hurt at all if somebody kept an eye on it."

  Carlotta looked disgusted. "Harry—"

  Harry grinned. He raised his right hand, the way he would in a courtroom. "No visitors, no friends, no parties. I swear. The kind of people I know, I wouldn’t even tell them where I’m staying."

  "That’s straight, then," Wes said. "Your word of honor on record."

  "Sure," Harry said.

  "Good," Congressman Dawson said. "You know, Harry. That works pretty good I was a little worried, going off—Jesus, except for the Apollo crews, about as far as anybody ever went from his family. I was a little worried about leaving Carlotta. It feels better with you to look after things." That can’t hurt, Wes thought. With Harry, you had to be careful what you said, because he took things too seriously sometimes. — But he was pretty smart when he was sober, and dammit, he didn’t lie. He’d jump off a cliff before he’d steal from friends.

  "Keys," Harry said. "And the alarm?"

  "Right." It was getting complicated. Wes looked at Harry and the eager expression, and knew it was already too late. Might as well do it right. "Keys, alarm system. I’ll write you a letter. And there’s a drawer in here where we keep a thousand bucks in small bills, for emergencies. Only. We’ll leave it for you. Kind of tricky to find."

  Carlotta looked at him again, and Wes grinned. She didn’t know Harry that well. He’d never touch that money if they told him about it. If he found it, rooting around, as he probably would, he might think of some reason why he ought to do something with it to help the Dawsons. Harry had a real knack for rationalization, but he didn’t violate direct orders.

  "You’ll need a letter," Wes said. "And maybe a phone number for your friend to call you."

  "I won’t give anybody yours," Harry said.

  "That’s all right," Carlotta said. "We change this top number, here, every month or two." She indicated one of the three telephones. "Just don’t give anyone the other number."

  Wes typed up a letter to the police while Carlotta explained the alarm system. She wasn’t happy about it. Maybe I’m not happy, Wes thought. But what the hell else could I do? Throw Harry out? Fat chance. And damn, he can be useful, and anyway—

  Anyway, it was time to go. Wes looked at the TV, with its continuous stream of garble about ETI’s and speculation about what was coming, and grinned. I’ll know before they do. Damn straight! He got his suitcases and headed for the downstairs garage, and he’d forgotten about Hairy Red before he got to his car.

  * * *

  "FIVE." The unemotional voice spoke in his headset. My God! I’ve made it!

  "FOUR." Wes Dawson tried to relax, but that was impossible. The count went on. "THREE. TWO. ONE. IGNITION. FIRST MOTION. LIFTOFE WE HAVE LIFTOFF."

  We do indeed. Goddam elephant sitting on my chest. He was vaguely aware that his companions in the shuttle were cheering. He tried to remember every moment of the experience, but it was no use. Things happened too fast.

  "SEPARATION" The Shuttle roar changed dramatically as the two solid boosters fell free to splash into the Atlantic Ocean for recovery. They were just worth recovering, according to figures Dawson had seen, although he’d also seen analyses demonstrating that it would be cheaper to make new ones each time—that recovery of the boosters was mostly for public relations value, to demonstrate that NASA was thrifty . . .

  His feeling of great weight continued as the Shuttle main engines continued to burn. He’d been told they developed over a hundred horsepower per pound. Wes Dawson tried to imagine that, but the image that came to mind was silly.

 
He noticed the roar fading, and then the weight easing from his body. Silence and falling. Black sky and the blue-white arc of planet Earth, and Wes Dawson had reached space at last.

  Ed Gillespie went out first. Wes waited impatiently while Gillespie helped the Soviet crewmen rig tether lines between the Shuttle and the Soviet Kosmograd space station. The Shuttle was far too large to dock with the Soviet station; at least that was the official reason they’d been given.

  Finally the work was done, and it was Dawson’s turn in the airlock. Captain John Greeley, Wes’s escort and aide, waited behind him to go last. Ed Gillespie would be waiting outside. Ed must hate this a lot. Greeley and! go aboard Kosmograd. Ed takes the Shuttle home. Enough of that.

  Wes ran through the pressure-suit checklist once more. The small computer-driven display at his chest showed all green, and Wes touched the Airlock Cycle button. He heard a faint whine.

  He moved very cautiously. There was nothing out there but vacuum. High school physics classes and the science fiction he’d read in his teens spoke their lessons in his memory: space is unforgiving, even to a powerful and influential congressman. He listened to the dwindling hiss as the airlock emptied; none of it was coming from his million dollars’ worth of pressure suit. He’d done it right.

  The hiss and whine faded to nothing. Then the airlock display blinked green over red. In the back of his throat was nausea waiting to pounce. His semicircular canals danced to strange rhythms. High school physics be damned: his body knew he was falling. Skydiving wasn’t like this. Skydiving, you had the wind; if you waited a few seconds the wind stopped your acceleration, and it was as if you were being buoyed up. Here there was only the oxygen breeze in your face.

  The outer door opened and the universe hit him in the face.

  The Soviet station was a winged hammer that tumbled as it flew. At one end of the long, long corridor that formed the handle, three cylinders, born as fuel tanks, nestled side by side. The living quarters must have been expanded since the structure was built. There were few windows, and all were tiny. Not much of a view from in there. Best do my sightseeing while I’m outside.