Footfall

by Larry Niven

  "Must we have visitors to watch our triumph? It could be filmed."

  "We can guess at a second purpose. When the aliens arrive we will seem to represent the world . . . It doesn’t matter. Security is out of my hands. I can forbid our foreign visitors to enter parts of the station. I can forbid the crew to discuss technical matters. Information may leak through anyway; it usually does. But the blame will not fall on Arvid Rogachev."

  * * *

  The little truck groaned up Coldwater Canyon. Harry clutched his twelve-string guitar and shivered in the wind-wake behind the cab. It was cold for May in Los Angeles. Lately all the nights had been cold. Cold or not, it beat walking. It was nice of Arline to duck her old man and come pick him up. Too damn bad she had five other people with her, so he had to ride in the back.

  It had been a good evening in the Sunset Bar, where he played for free drinks and customer change. Once Harry had thought he’d be a real performer, but the auto wrecks had finished that. Twice within two weeks, in his own car and then his boss’s borrowed car, and neither had headrests! It went beyond bad luck. His head hurt, and his back hurt, and he cursed the two separate sets of sons of bitches who’d separately rear-ended him and left him part crippled. And the insurance companies and their goddam lawyers and—

  Ruby moved over to sit against him. A hundred and eighty pounds of fleshy cushion: her warmth felt good. "Want to come to my place?" she asked.

  "Love to," Harry said. And I don’t like to sleep alone. "But you know, I have this place I have to watch."

  "Take me with you, then."

  "Can’t do that, either," Harry said. He didn’t want to. Ruby had been a nice, soft, affectionate partner, and not just in bed, ten years ago. Naive but nice. Maybe he’d been expecting her to grow up. God, how she’d changed! She’d grown out: forty pounds, maybe more. She’d been soft, then, but she hadn’t sagged! You noticed the lack of brains more now. Arline, now she’d be nice, but Jesus, she lives with her old man and he’d get sticky as hell.

  For a moment Harry thought it over. Arline would come with him. She’d love the Dawson house. And—

  And word of honor on record. Heckfire. The truck was passing

  Laurel Canyon on Mulholland. He tapped on the glass. The pickup pulled over. Harry climbed out. He waved to Arline. "Thanks," he called.

  "Sure this is all right?" she asked.

  "Fine," Harry said. He waited until she’d driven on up the hill and around a corner, then started climbing toward the Dawson house.

  It’s good for me, Harry thought. It’s got to be. And, by damn, my legs are tightening up. He slapped his thigh—it did feel more solid than it had in a long time—and shifted the guitar from his left hand to his right.

  The little .25-caliber Beretta was too heavy in his shirt pocket. He knew he ought to leave it at home. It wasn’t much of a gun, and even so, the cops would get soggy and hard to light if they caught him with it. But it was all the gun he had, and there were some bad people out there.

  Not the only gun, he thought. He’d rooted around in the Dawson house—hell, Wes knew he’d do that, that’s why he told him about the money in the drawer behind the big drawer in the kitchen—and he’d found the Army .45, the one Wes bought for Carlotta on Harry’s advice, and damn all, she hadn’t taken it with her. But it wasn’t his gun, and Harry couldn’t carry it. It would really hit the fan if he was caught carrying a piece registered to a congressman.

  Hell, he’d never carry that weight up this hill! It was always steeper. Every fucking night it got steeper.

  It’s good for me. It’s really good for me. Oh, my, God, I have got to get that motorcycle fixed.

  I’ve got enough for a deposit. They’ll fix the engine. Maybe if I sing at three places, the hell with the free drinks, get to places where the tips are good, I can scrape up enough to get it out, because I can’t go on climbing this hill! And there’s groceries. Jesus, I’m down to chili and cornmeal and NutriSystems—

  For the first week it had been easy. There had been food in the refrigerator. He ate vegetable omelets, then frozen stuff, then cans. But now he was down to the NutriSystem stuff Carlotta had bought years ago.

  Diet stuff! Lord God. It tastes better than it ought to, and I could lose some belly, here. But opening the cans feels like opening cat food, looks like opening cat-food cans, and Carlotta went off the diet two years ago! Fry it with eggs, and it looks like cat food and snot! And I’m out of eggs.

  He shifted the guitar to his other hand. Nothing left but breakfast cereal! I’m going to get that engine fixed.

  Tomorrow, Harry thought. He shifted the guitar again. I can take the Kawasaki apart, but the engine has to be rebuilt. I’ll have to carry it in. Borrow Arline’s pickup again.

  If you pulled a drawer in the Dawson kitchen all the way out, there was another drawer behind it, and a thousand dollars in fifties behind that. A good burglar would find it and go away, Harry thought, and that was probably its major purpose. Burglar bait, for God’s sake, and thank God he didn’t need it. He had enough for the deposit.

  * * *

  Jenny stood quickly as Admiral Carrell came into her tiny office in the White House basement.

  "Sit down," he commanded. "I’m just old enough to feel uncomfortable when ladies stand up for me. Got any coffee?"

  "Yes, sir." She took cups from her desk drawer and poured from a Thermos pitcher.

  "Pretty good. Not up to Navy standards, of course. Navy coffee will peel paint. Did we get anything out of that zoo?"

  "Yes, sir," Jenny said.

  "You sound surprised."

  "Admiral, I was surprised. I thought the exercise was a waste of time, but once those sci-fi types got going, it was pretty good." She opened a folder that lay atop her desk. "This, for instance. When the alien ship came into the solar system almost fifteen years ago, a few telescopes including Mauna Kea happened to be pointed that way. . No one noticed anything then, but when we really looked—" She showed the photographs.

  "It look like blobs to me."

  "Yes, sir. They looked like blobs to all of us. Maybe they are blobs. But the sc-fi people suggested that the alien ship dropped a Bussard ramjet."

  "A—"

  "Bussard ramjet, Admiral." She looked down at her notes and read. "Vacuum isn’t empty. There’s hydrogen between the stars. The ramjet is a device for using the interstellar hydrogen as a means for propulsion. In theory it will take ships—large ships—between the stars. It uses large magnetic fields for scoops, and—"

  "You may spare me the technical details."

  "Yes, sir. The important point is that they dropped something massive, something they may need if they contemplate leaving our solar system."

  "Which means they intend to stay," Admiral Carrell said mildly.

  "Yes, sir—"

  "Rather presumes on our hospitality. Almost as if they didn’t intend us any free choice." He stood. "Well, we will know soon enough."

  "Yes, sir"

  "My congratulations on your work with the advisors. Perhaps I can glean more speculations from them."

  "You’re going to work with them, sir?’

  "I may as well. The President has decided that someone responsible must be inside Cheyenne Mountain when the aliens arrive. That someone, apparently, is to be me."

  "Good choice," Jenny said.

  Carrell smiled thinly. "I suppose so."

  "Any special preparations I should make, sir?"

  "Nothing that isn’t in the briefing book. I’ve discussed this with the Strategic Air Command and the Chief of Naval Operations. They’re ordering a Yellow Alert starting tomorrow afternoon."

  Yellow Alert. The A Teams on duty in the missile silos. All the missile subs at sea. Bombers on ready alert, fueled, bombs aboard, with crews in quarters by the runways. "I do hope this is a waste of time."

  Admiral Carrell nodded agreement. "So do I, Major. Needed or not, I leave this afternoon. Before I do, we must discuss this with the Presid
ent. I give you one hour to reduce all we know to a ten-minute briefing."

  * * *

  Jeri Wilson piled the last of the gear into the station wagon and slammed the tailgate. Then she leaned against it to catch her breath. It was warm out, with bright sun overhead, but the morning low haze hid the mountains ringing the San Fernando Valley. She glanced at her watch, "Eleven, and I’m ready to go," she announced.

  Isadore Leiber eyed the aged Buick’s sagging springs. "You’ll never make it, he announced." Clara nodded agreement.

  "Good roads all the way," Jeri said. "I’ve left enough time so I won’t have to drive too fast. You’re the ones who are cutting it close; you have farther to go."

  "Yeah," Isadore said. "Jeri, change your mind! Come with us."

  "No. I am going to find my husband."

  Clara looked uncomfortable. "Jeri, he’s not really—"

  "He damned well is, that divorce isn’t final. Anyway, it’s not your problem. It’s mine. Thanks for worrying about me, but I can take care of myself."

  "I doubt it," Isadore said with embarrassed brutality.

  Melissa came out with a large bear named Mr. Pruett. Thank God there weren’t any animals, Jeri thought. Except the goldfish. She’d taken care of that problem by flushing the fish down the toilet while Melissa was asleep.

  Isadore showed her an entry in his notebook. "That’s the right address and phone number?"

  She nodded.

  "Caddoa, Colorado," Isadore said, "I never heard of the place." Jeri shrugged. "Me either. David thinks they’re crazy, but somebody thinks he can find oil there."

  "Sounds small."

  "I guess it is. Harry marked out a route for me—"

  "Harry," Clara said contemptuously.

  "Harry’s all right," Jeri said. "Anyway, I went to the Auto Club too. They say the roads are good all the way. Isadore, Clara, it’s sweet of you to worry, but you’ve done enough. Now get out of here before George and Vicki get mad at you."

  "Yeah," Isadore said. "I sure would hate it if George got mad at me. . ."

  "You would, though," Jeri said. "Give the Enclave my best. Melissa, get in the car. We’re on our way. Clan, from your look you’d think you weren’t ever going to see me again!"

  "Sorry." Clara tried to laugh, but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  "Do you know something?" Jeri demanded.

  "A little," Isadore said. He sounded reluctant to talk, but finally added, "George caught something on short wave. All the strategic forces are on alert. Also, there’s some kind of problem in Russia, he thinks. I’m not sure what."

  "George is always hearing about problems in Russia," Jeri said.

  "Yeah, but he’s been right, too. Remember how he predicts that shake-up—"

  Jeri shrugged. "Too late to worry about it." She got into the station wagon and started the engine. "Thanks again," she called, as she pulled away from the curb.

  The Buick was sluggish, and she wondered if she really had loaded it too heavily. It was an old car, and for the past year it had been pretty badly neglected. I ought to have new springs put in. And have the brakes looked at, and a tune-up, and—and no! If I wait, I may never go at all.

  He didn’t say no. He couldn’t quite get himself to say yes, but he didn’t say no. And that’s enough for me! "Melissa, buckle up. We’ve got a long ride ahead."

  PART TWO: ARRIVAL

  10

  THE ARRIVAL

  Why meet we on the bridge of Time to exchange one greeting and to part?

  —The Kasidah of Haji Abdu El-Yazdi

  COUNTDOWN: H HOUR

  The Army had been at work in the Oval Office. Technicians had installed TV monitors in all the corners, as well as in front of the President’s desk. They showed the command center of the Soviet Kosmograd satellite. At the moment nothing was happening.

  Despite its large size, the Oval Office was jammed. There was the President and Mrs. Coffey, most of the Cabinet, the White House staff, diplomats, TV crew—

  Jenny sat well back, behind the TV cameras, nearly in the corner. In theory she was there as Admiral Carrell’s representative, ready to advise the President, but there was no way she could have spoken to him if he’d wanted her to, not in this zoo. Everyone wandered about—everyone but the Secret Service men.

  It was easy to spot them, once you knew how. They were the ones who never looked at the President. They watched the people who were watching him. Jenny caught Jack Clybourne’s eye and winked. He didn’t respond. He never did when he was on duty.

  He didn’t look happy. Jenny had overheard an argument between Jack’s boss and the President. "Mr. Dimming, I appreciate your concern, but I have told the country I would watch from the Oval Office, and by God that’s where I’ll be, so there’s an end to it," President Coffey had said.

  Selected newspeople were invited, which meant the Secret Service people as well. They knew them all, reporters and camera crew, and Jack looked as relaxed as he ever did when on duty, but Jenny could see that he was worried. They had wanted the President in a bomb shelter.

  But we’re here

  . Jenny thought. Here and waiting, in the most famous office in the world, but we’re only spectators. It’s the Soviets’ show. All the computer projections showed the alien craft arriving at Kosmograd. Only the time was uncertain. She glanced at her watch. It was very late, well past midnight. The aliens were due and past due. Coffee service was available in the hall outside, but someone would probably take her chair if she went out. Better to wait—

  The television monitors blanked momentarily then showed the dark of space. In the far distance something flickered and flashed.

  * * *

  Heretofore the telescopes on Earth and in Earth orbit had seen only a long, pure blue-white light and the murky shadow at its tip. Now, as the tremendous half-seen mass approached Kosmograd, something changed. Twinkling lights flashed in a ring around the central flame, round and round, chasing their tails like light bulbs in a bar sign.

  The communications lounge was crowded. Eight present, four crew busy elsewhere. Wes watched the picture being beamed from the telescope to a screen half the size of the wall. The ship was minutes away. Wes tried not to think what would happen if it came a bit too fast. It was decelerating hard. Those extra engines hadn’t been needed until now. Sixty or seventy tiny engines—

  Symmetrical. Sixteen to a quadrant. Wes Dawson grinned in delight. Sixty-four engines: the aliens used base-eight arithmetic!

  Or base four, or binary digits . . . engines much smaller than the main engine, and probably less efficient. Fission or fusion pulse engines, judging by the radiation they were putting out. Why hadn’t the alien slowed earlier? It still hadn’t replied to any message.

  It had grown gigantic in the telescope field. A blaze of light washed out the aft end: Wes saw only the long flame and the ring of twinkling jets. He made out bulges around the cylindrical midsection. He saw tiny fins and guessed at landing craft spaced out around the hull. A knob on the end of a long, jointed arm: what was that, a cluster of sensing devices? It was aimed at the station.

  "We have some shielding," Arvid said without being asked. "We can handle this much radiation, but not for too much longer. I hope they have some way of maneuvering with chemical rockets."

  Wes nodded. He thought, You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, Fred, but nobody aboard would have understood the reference. He said, "This may be a violation of the Geneva Convention."

  It sparked laughter. Arvid said, "Use tact when you tell them. Nikolai, that’s enough of the telescope. Show us a camera view from—" and interrupted to strain forward.

  Wes’s hands closed hard on the arms of his chair.

  For the alien ship was sparkling like a fireworks display. Four of the twinkling jets expanded outward, away from the drive flame; then four more. Those pulse-jets were the main drives for smaller spacecraft! Showers of sparks flowed from the hidden bow end. Missiles? Missiles in t
remendous number, then, and this was starting to look ominously like a Japanese movie. Not first contact, but space war.

  The picture flickered white and disappeared.

  Arvid was out of his seat and trying to reach God knows what, and Wes was checking his seat belt, when the whole station rang and shuddered. Wes yelled and clapped hands over his ears. The others were floating out of their seats—free-fall? He swept an arm out to push Giselle back into her seat, and she clutched the arms. He couldn’t reach anyone else.

  Free-fall? How could that be? The connecting tunnel must have come apart! Nikolai was screaming into a microphone. He stopped suddenly. He turned and looked around, stunned, ashen.

  Behind Wes the wall smashed inward, then outward. The buckle on Wes’s seat harness popped open. Wes grabbed instinctively, a death grip on the arm of his chair, even before the shock wave reached him. The Nigerian snatched at Wes’s belt and clung tight. He was screaming. Good! So was Wes. Hold your breath and you’d rupture your lungs.

  For the stars were glaring in at them through the ripped metal, and the air was roaring away, carrying anything loose. Giselle Beaumont flapped her arms as if trying to fly. Her eyes met Wes’s in pure astonishment—and fly she did, out into the black sky and gone. Shit!

  Vacuum! Dawson’s eyes and ears felt ready to pop. Giorge’s grip was growing feeble, but so was the wind; the air was almost gone. So. What have I got, a minute before the blood boils out through my lungs? I’ll never reach my million-dollar pressure suit, so where are the beach balls? I located them first thing, every compartment, the emergency pressure balloons, where the hell were they? If Americans had built this place they’d be popping out of the walls, because Ralph Nader would raise hell if they didn’t.

  Nothing was popping out of the walls. Dawson’s intestinal tract was spewing air at both ends. His eyes sought . . . Rogachev, there, clawing at a wall. Dawson patted the shoulder at his waist and kicked himself toward Rogachev. Giorge hung on, in good sense or simple panic.