by Larry Niven
The saddlebags with his gear had vanished. They’d taken them along with Jeri and Melissa—
God damn the bastards!
Harry cursed steadily until he had control of himself. Then he felt ashamed. Cursing wouldn’t change the situation. He’d lost two women he was supposed to protect. The fact that he couldn’t have done anything about it didn’t help much. He felt a lump in his pocket. The little .25 Beretta was still there. They hadn’t bothered to search him. He thought about that for a moment, then began to search the wheat field. Sure enough, a blue—gray object was just visible in the wheat. The .45 automatic, with dirt in the barrel. One of the invaders must have flung it aside.
Why the saddlebags, then? Clothes? Jeri’s and Melissa’s clothing. Which means they’ll be keeping the girls. Why take them and not me? But there was no answer to that.
The motorcycle started easily enough. It hadn’t been damaged at all. He heard noises ahead. The Invaders were still in Logan. Harry cleaned out the barrel while he felt something stir in his guts, but then he shook his head. It would be pointless. The Invaders wore body armor. His pistol hadn’t done him any good at all when there were only a few of them. Charging into Logan to rescue Jeri wouldn’t do Jeri any good. She might not even be there any longer.
He tried to remember the map. That part of Kansas was laid out in a grid, roads at section and range boundaries, other roads parallel to them. Few diagonal roads. Farmhouses at regular intervals. Dirt tracks crossed the wheat fields. Those tended to parallel the main roads, too, but they led to farmhouses, not towns.
Logan was several miles ahead Harry gambled that there’d be a farm access mad leading north before he came into sight of the Invaders. He put the pistol into his kidney belt where he could reach it easily, and started off east.
He saw the smoke long before he reached the ruined farmhouse. He came up slowly, ready to leap off the motorcycle and run into the wheat. He stopped several times to listen, but there was nothing to hear. The dirt road led through the wheat fields to the farmhouse. He could go back the way he’d come; or go on. He went on.
The house itself was a wreck, roof sagging, doors torn from their hinges, but it hadn’t burned. The barn was burned to ashes. The bodies of a man and two dogs lay in the dusty yard between the house and the barn. A shotgun lay across the man’s chest.
Another dog whimpered from under the wreckage of the farmhouse.
"Ho! Anyone home?" Harry shouted. There was no answer except the whimpering of the dog. He stopped the motorcycle and got off. Large tracks were visible in the dust. They didn’t really look like the tracks of elephants, because they left claw marks. Nothing on Earth left tracks like that.
He stalked cautiously around the yard, and after a while he went inside the house. There were women’s clothes in the closet with the farmer’s clothes. Another room had been occupied by a boy. Harry guessed he’d been about Melissa’s age, ten or eleven. A model of the starship Enterprise hung from the ceiling and toy guns stood in the corner. Clothing for a small boy was flung onto the floor. Two dresser drawers were empty.
Prisoners? They’re taking women and children, but not men? That doesn’t make sense
. There were letters scattered across the front room floor. John Thomas Kensington, RFD #3 . . . Harry went back outside. Kensington lay on his back, his eyes staring upward to the sky. He’d been torn in two halves by one shot. The bore on those alien guns was as big as a fist. Twenty yards from his body the ground had been torn up by something large thrashing in the dust, and there were dark stains. John Thomas Kensington had sold his farm dearly. Harry saluted and went back into the collapsing house.
They take their dead with them. Dead or wounded. A shotgun ought to do some damage at hat range. Wonder what he was using?
The refrigerator had been wrecked, but the food inside wasn’t spoiled. Harry rooted around until he found bread and cheese and lunch meat and made a sandwich. While he was looking for bread he found a box of shells for the shotgun. It was number six bird shot, suitable for doves and quail. Not much of a load for elephants. He waited until he’d eaten before he went to take the gun from the man’s lifeless fingers.
The dog under the porch continued to whimper.
Bury the dead? Shoot the dog before it turns feral or starves?
Harry had always believed himself tough, but he’d never thought he’d be faced with decisions like this. Dead bodies were matters for the police and the coroner’s office and the undertakers.
There won’t be a coroner
. Harry went looking for a shovel.
He made another dozen miles before the sonic boom tore at his ears. Harry braked the motorcycle and looked up. Three contrails led from the west, passing nearly overhead. Harry cheered. "Go get the bastards!" he shouted.
As he watched, one of the contrails broke into a ball of black smoke. Something bright seemed to stab upward from the east, and the second contrail died. The third traced a complex curve; then it, too, ended in a ball of black smoke.
"Damn. Damn and hell." Harry started the bike again.
* * *
The big situation map in the war room changed every few minutes, but no one was sure how current its information was. A vast area of Kansas, stretching northward into Nebraska, was covered with bright red symbols. Someone had finally got stylized parachutes to show where alien units had landed. They covered an area that looked much like an amoeba, with its nucleus at Great Bend. Pseudopods reached east and west.
The Situation Room was the center of the underground North American Air Defense complex. It was located under nearly a mile of granite, separated from the outside world by sealed corridors, water barriers, guard rooms, and more granite. A row of offices overlooked the Situation Room. Jack Clybourne stood outside one of the office doors.
Jenny came up to him and winked. He didn’t respond. "I’m supposed to report to Admiral Carrell," Jenny said. Her voice held slight irritation.
"Sure." Jack shook his head. "Sorry, hon. I’m about as useful as a fifth leg here. Where’s the President safer? But I’m the only Presidential Protective Unit agent here, and I have to act like it."
"Yeah. Look, there’s no such thing as off duty down here, but we have to eat sometimes. Sleep, too . . .Dinner tonight?"
"I’d love that—"
"I’ll be around." She grinned. "If they leave the door open, be sure to watch the screens."
"You’ve got pictures of the aliens?"
"We think so." Jenny tapped at the door. It wasn’t closed properly, and the door swung open. One wall of the office was glass. It overlooked the big screen displays and control consoles on the floor below. There was one desk. President David Coffey sat there staring at the maps. Admiral Carrell stood next to him. General bland stood grimly on the other side of the desk from Carrell, his lips a tight line.
"Roughly a circle," Admiral Carrell said.
"But what do they want?" the President asked.
"This is obviously a reconnaissance in force," Carrell said. He shook his head. "As to what their ultimate aims might be, I don’t know, sir." He looked up to see Jenny at the door. "Come in, Major. Have your intelligence people got the displays ready?"
"Yes, sir. We have reports from refugees, and some pictures one brought out. The pictures should be up from the lab any minute."
"Have you seen them?"
"No, sir, they’re color, and you don’t look at color while it’s being developed."
"But you have descriptions?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, tell us!" the President demanded.
"Mr. President—sir, it will only be another minute until the pictures are ready. I’d—sir, I’d rather you saw for yourself."
"Refugee reports," General Toland said. "They’re letting people out, then?"
"Yes, sir, if they’re walking. No vehicles allowed out. Anyone who goes out is required to undergo a sort of ceremony."
"Ceremony?"
"Yes,
sir. They—the science-fiction people say it’s reasonable, given the way the aliens look, but—"
"Major, your air of mystery is rapidly becoming tiresome," Admiral Carrell said.
The phone chirped. Saved.
The Admiral lifted the phone. "Carrell . . . Yes, put the photographs up on the big screens. Let everyone see what we’re up against."
There were five screens. One by one they filled with pictures of baby elephants. Some hung from paper airplanes and wore elevator shoes. Others were on foot. All earned weirdly shaped rifles.
Laughter sounded on the floor below, but it soon died away as the screen showed photographs of ruined buildings and wrecked cars, with alien shapes in the foreground. Bodies lay in the background of most of the pictures.
Jenny studied the photographs. They were quite good; the photographer who’d taken them said she’d sold to Sports Illustrated and other major magazines. That’s the enemy.
"They do look like elephants," Admiral Carrell said.
"Yes, sir," Jenny said. "But they’re not really elephants."
"No. They’re invaders," General Toland said.
The President studied the screens carefully, then turned to Jenny. "This ceremony. What was it?"
"Before they’ll let anyone leave the area they control, they make you lie down on your back, arms stretched out overhead. Then one of the—aliens—puts his foot on you. After that you’re free to go."
"And your sci-fi people think that’s reasonable?" the President asked.
"Yes, sir. The way the aliens are built, they must think in terms of trampling their enemies beneath their feet. They may be the biggest animals on their planet. Most Earth species have a surrender ritual. This is theirs."
The President nodded slowly.
God, he looks awful. I wonder if he got any sleep at all?
"Do your experts have any theories on what the invaders want?" the President demanded.
"The Earth," Jenny said.
* * *
General Toland was adamant. "Kick their butts, don’t piss on them," he said. "Mr. President, we cannot commit our forces piecemeal! You’ve got to let me gather my strength before we go in there."
"American citizens are being killed there. Property destroyed. God damn it, they’ve invaded the United States." David Coffey’s voice was cold with anger. His hands gripped the arms of his chair. "We have to do something! What’s the Army for if it can’t defend the nation?"
Toland fought visibly to control himself.
"That is hardly fair, Mr. President," Admiral Carrell said. "The Army is not generally deployed to fight enemies within the nation."
"If they’d let us call up some reservists before that goddam ship got here," General Toland muttered. "Mr. President, I’m doing all I can. Our best units are in Europe and Central America and Lebanon, and there’s no chance we can get those troops home. Not while the enemy dominates space. They can see everything we do!"
See it and kill it
, Jenny thought. Lasers for the airplanes, kinetic energy weapons for ships . . . "So when will we be able to do something for our people, General Toland?" the President demanded.
"Two more days, sir. I hope. Mr. President, we can’t mass our forces! The commander at Fort Knox loaded tanks onto a train to send west. They hit the train. Their air defenses are superb. Anything we send into that area either gets zapped from space or hit by a ground-launched missile."
"Or worse," Jenny said.
They all looked at her.
"They’re setting up ground-based laser defense systems. The reports are just coming in. I’ll have them on the screens in a few minutes."
"Lasers," the President said.
"Yes, sir. Much better than ours."
"So what the hell are they doing with them?" General Toland demanded.
Jenny shook her head. "We don’t know, sir. It appears they’re setting up a strong perimeter defense inside the area they control— but we don’t know, because we can’t get inside there to find out."
"So they have it all their way." The President’s voice was low and tired, as if he’d already been defeated.
It frightened Jenny. "Not all their way, sir," she said. "Some reports get out. Mostly ham radio. They don’t get to broadcast long before something smashes them. Also, there’s bound to be resistance. National Guardsmen. Farmers with deer rifles."
"Sure, they’ll fight," Toland said. "Even without orders."
Jenny nodded. "But they’ll be disorganized. We can’t communicate!"
"And there’s nothing else we can do?" the President asked. There was despair in his voice. "With all our power, all our nuclear arsenal—can’t we use nukes on them?"
"They’re all mixed in with our people," Admiral Carrell said.
"General, do something. Hurt them," the President said. "Hit them hard. Isn’t there any place where there are a lot of them, and none of our people?"
"None, no. Not many, yes," Toland said.
The President stared grimly at the screens. "Hurt them. Now. It will help American morale."
"But, sir—"
"That was an order, General."
Toland snapped to attention. "Yes, sir. I take it you don’t want a general bombardment."
"No. But they can’t have it all their way. We have to hurt them. How else will we drive them out of America?"
Why are we so sure we can do it?
Jenny almost blurted it out. "We may not be able to drive them out," Admiral Carrell said. "We may simply have to kill them all."
"It may come to that," General Toland said. "It comes under the heading of destroying the country in order to save it. What we need is neutron weapons."
"What would they do?"
"They kill without destroying the cities." General Toland drummed his fingers against the glass wall of the office. "If our people are inside, behind stone walls, in basements—don’t most Kansans have root cellars? Places underground?"
"Many do," the President said.
"A few feet of dirt would protect our people," Toland said. "If the elephants are out in the open, we could zap them without destroying Kansas. Only trouble is, we don’t have the bombs."
"Why not?"
"The few we have are in Europe," Admiral Carrell said carefully. "Because of public protest, we were never allowed to manufacture any large number of neutron weapons. I have asked the laboratories at Sandia and Los Alamos to try to assemble makeshift enhanced radiation weapons, but they cannot give us a schedule for their delivery."
"But this is insane," the President said. "A few thousand elephants—how many are there, anyway?’
"We don’t know," Jenny admitted. "Certainly fewer than fifty thousand."
"Even so, it must be a significant part of their ground combat strength," General ‘Toland said. "More troops than they can afford to lose. If we kill them all, they may have to leave us alone in future."
"They still control space," Admiral Carrell said. "Major Crichton, you look like a lady who wants to say something."
"Yes, sir," Jenny answered. "You asked me to get the science fiction people to work. It wasn’t hard. They’ve got a number of ideas about the war."
"Well?" the President demanded.
"Sir, I think it would be better if you heard for yourself."
David Coffey frowned. Then suddenly he grinned. "Sure, why not? As you say, they’re the only experts we have."
* * *
When night came, David Morgan still wasn’t home. No gin, either, Carlotta thought. Only two inches in this bottle. She’d found blackberry wine in the root cellar. It would have to do.
They sat by candlelight in the living room. There were distant sounds of thunder, and far to the east and south were flashes of light.
The skies were clear overhead. Juana sat next to a kerosene lamp with a Jane Austen novel.
"Aren’t you worried?" Carlotta asked.
"Sure, but what good does that do? David’s got a good car and a r
ifle. He can’t phone. What should I do?"
"I don’t know. What about—" She paused, and after a moment there were more distant sounds. "About that?"
"Nothing we can do. Should we run away? Where would we go? It’s miles to the nearest house, and Lucy can’t walk that far."
"Don’t you have another car?"
"Not one that works. Even if we did, where would you rather be?"
"I don’t know. Want some wine?"
"No."
And you don’t think I should, either. To hell with you.
Carlotta drank the blackberry wine. It was much too sweet.
Morning came, bright and clear and cloudless, a glorious Kansas day except for ominous black clouds rising far away in the east. There was still no sign of Professor Morgan. Carlotta and Juana sat outside on the patio with coffee. The night sounds were gone. An hour passed, then part of another; then there were noises, and dust to the west.
"Cars. Trucks. Lots of them," Juana said. She listened again. "Sound strange. Now maybe is a good time to run."
‘What’s the difference?" Carlotta asked. Maybe they’ll know something about Wes!
Juana peered down the mad. "It’s the army!" she shouted. "Our army!"
Carlotta was almost disappointed.
She counted a dozen tanks, and five truckloads of soldiers. They came up the drive and circled on both sides of the house, going right on past and out toward the abandoned barn. One vehicle that looked like a tank, but had wheels, drove up to the house and stopped. An elderly officer with a graying mustache got out.
"Joe!" Juana called.
He saluted. "Lieutenant Colonel Halverson, Kansas Militia, ma’am." He tried to grin. "Come to see if you need help."
"Have you seen David?" Juana demanded.
"Yes, ma’am, Major Morgan will be along in a bit. He helped us round up troops. Thought he ought to come home last night and tell you, but he said you’d understand, and we sure did need him, him and that four-wheel of his."
"What do you intend, Colonel?" Carlotta asked. She remembered she was dressed in a wrinkled housecoat, and was ashamed.
