Footfall

by Larry Niven

  . Fathisteh-tulk would have given that advice. Gladly. Advisor Siplisteph will not. The sleeper women will never consent to that. Nor will Fistarteh-thuktun.

  "Attackmaster."

  "Lead me."

  "Continue with the battle plan. You are in charge of Thuktun Flishithy."

  29

  FOOTFALL

  I dreamt the past was never past redeeming: But whether this was false or honest dreaming I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.

  —RICHARD WILBUR, "The Pardon"

  COUNTDOWN: FOOTFALL

  The funeral pit was a cylinder of soil, garbage, bones, and what remained of the honored dead, all being gradually churned into an indistinguishable matrix. Instruments sampled the blend for acidity, bacterial population, temperature. The atmosphere within was unbreathable. Workers in pressure suits maintained a cavity in the matrix, open at the fore end. They had removed several tons of it into the Garden to make room for this day's funeral proceedings

  The cold had preserved Fathisteh-tulk. His eyes looked off at different angles. As lines lowered him to join the Silent Fithp, his digit-cluster bent strangely above the nostril. One eye met Pastempeh-keph's. My breath was closed with rope, and then with mud. Why both? What might I have said that I did not say while alive, who never hesitated to speak? Who closed my mouth with mud?

  The Herdmaster shook his head. I will learn. He had already spoken his formal farewell to today's half-dozen dead, recognizing posthumous accomplishments, sometimes authorizing upgrades in harness colors before a corpse was stripped for burial.

  Elaborate funeral practices had evolved among the spaceborn during three generations of interstellar flight. Inevitably they were geared to a life in spin gravity. The funeral pit was on the ship's axis. Ceremonies were held in the leavetaking chamber, a partial ring along the lip of the funeral pit, where spin gravity was almost nil. Today's ceremony obeyed tradition. The main drive was running at high thrust; the hum of it was everywhere; yet there was almost no acceleration.

  Pastempeh-keph sensed the immense mass against which Message Bearer was pushing. Message Bearer was even now issuing its final direction to the nickel-and-iron residue of an icy moonlet. She must break loose within a 512-breath, or ride the Foot down to Winterhorne. Had a lessor personage led these rites they might have been postponed until after the maneuvers; but after they separated from the Foot, there would never again be time. Fathisteh-tulk deserved all honors. And even if he did not, I could not seem niggardly in granting honor to a former Herdmaster!

  Chowpeentulk watched through glass as Fathisteh-tulk came rest in the moving earth. Her digits wrapped the child and held it to her throat to suckle. He was male, eight days old. Under light thrust he would already have walked. In nearly free-fall he drifted with waving legs. He seemed to enjoy it.

  "My mate was murdered," Chowpeentulk said. "Who?"

  "I face too many answers," Pastempeh-keph said. "Your mate was never careful of whom he might offend."

  She trumpeted wildly. The child, startled, flung its stubby digits across its head and tried to burrow between Chowpeentulk's legs. In the minuscule thrust its efforts lifted her from the floor. It was strong for a newborn.

  The loss of dignity slowed her not at all. "This crime was committed against the whole of the Traveler Fithp!" she bellowed. "Sleepers and spaceborn, how can we hold together unless the murderers face judgment?"

  The Herdmaster let silence follow, letting Chowpeentulk see how the others, the fithp and the little clump of humans, stared at her. Then, "We will solve this. You know that I like puzzles. Do you also know that I must fight a war?" He looked into the funeral pit. "Farewell, Fathisteh-tulk. You have too much company."

  He joined Takpusseh as they were leaving. "Fathisteh-tulk had always the virtue of asking interesting questions," he said. "Now I must find my own."

  "You will have an Advisor," said Takpusseh.

  "Bah. Siplisteph will have to be trained. Breaker-Two, did Fathisteh-tulk ask you interesting questions?"

  Takpusseh snorted. "I did not find them so. He wanted to interview the humans in privacy."

  "Why?"

  "He would not say. The humans are not his thuktun. I told him that I myself would translate, and that I would inform you of all that transpired. He declined. He said that he would simply wait for me to do my job."

  "Very proper," said Pastempeh-keph. "Did he propose questions for you to ask?"

  "He did not."

  A pity

  . "Will you be on the bridge during Footfall?" "No. To think of humans as enemy or prey would ruin my empathy with them . . . such as it is."

  * * *

  Tashayamp left them at the cell door. "You will stay in place. Be prepared to cling to the walls. First that wall, but change walls when you are warned. The direction of pull will change often. Before each change you will hear this." She trumpeted, then spoke in a breathy trombone chant. "You understand? Good."

  They went to the bulkhead. Jeri dug her nails into the rug.

  "It is indelicate," Arvid said. "But they gave no indication of time. It would be well to use the facilities while we are able."

  "Good thinking," Dawson said. "Ladies first."

  Nobody else wanted to be first, so Jeri went. It wasn't so bad now that Arvid and Nikolai had rigged a blanket to enclose the shallow pool.

  Jeri went back to the wall. "Melissa, I want you here."

  "If you do not object, I will stay with you also," Arvid said.

  "Thank you."

  "What did you think of their funeral rites?" Arvid asked.

  "My anthropology teacher said funeral rites were the most important clues to a tribal culture," Jeri said. "But I think that was because she was an archaeologist, and graves are about the only things they can find with anything important in them."

  "The Predecessors must like bad smells," Melissa said. "Because that place stank."

  Gary giggled agreement. Jen said, "There, that's what I meant. There's nothing arbitrary aboard a spaceship. They don't have to put up with that smell. They want it. It must be part of the funeral, the sense that the dear departed is turning into fertilizer, then plants, then—"

  Arvid said, "You understood more of his speech than I."

  "I got some of it too," Wes Dawson said. "The long speech by the priest. He talked about Fathisteh-tulk 'coming back to Traveler Fithp.' I wondered if he meant in person."

  "Do you think they believe in that?" Jen asked.

  "Dunno," Dawson said. "The body recirculates. Maybe they think the soul does too."

  "I think not," Arvid said. "Else why would they make no mention of the newborn one?"

  "The Predecessors are always with us," he said. "How could that other species join the Traveler Fithp? Their bodies recirculate and there are the thuktunthp, but—"

  "Of course they do not believe bourgeois myths of gods immortality," Dmitri said. "There is much to admire in these fi'. They work together, and if need be they give their lives for herd."

  John Woodward sniffed loudly and turned away.

  "That one didn't," Alice said. "The widow said he was murdered, and the Bull Elephant wasn't happy about it, either."

  "An interesting mystery," Arvid said. "Who might have killed him?"

  "We'll never know," Dawson said.

  "Why do you say that?" Dmitri demanded. "The Leader told the widow that he would find the murderer. He has great resources. Why would he fail?"

  "Why would he tell us? If he did, would we know the name? Hey, I read mysteries too, but I expect to know the names of suspects!"

  "The Bull isn't a detective," Jen said. "He has too much else to do. And — people, I'm kind of scared. All this violent maneuvering, they're going to do something special, but what?"

  "I am very much afraid we all know," Arvid Rogachev said.

  Jeri took a fresh grip on the wall carpeting.

  * * *

  "Major! Major, wake up!"

  Jenny sat b
olt upright. "Yes, Sergeant?"

  "Message from Australia, ma'am. They've seen it!"

  Oh my God.

  She strained to open her eyes and peered through sleep at her watch. Five A.M. "Comin' fast, about an hour to impact," Sergeant Ferguson said.

  "The Admiral—"

  "Mailey already woke him up. 'Scuse me, ma'am, I got to get the others."

  The Threat Team had split into two groups around the coffeepot and the large globe. Ransom and Curtis already had coffee, and were tracing paths on the globe.

  "Water. I was sure of it," Ransom said.

  "Sure," Curtis muttered. "Why at bloody dawn?"

  "Why water?" a naval officer asked.

  Ransom didn't look up from the globe. "Lieutenant, a meteorite that size actually does more damage if it hits water. It'll rip through the water and the ocean floor into the magma. The energies don't go back to space; the water absorbs them, and you get even more heat from the exposed magma. It all goes into boiling the ocean. We think a quarter of a billion tons of seawater may vaporize. Salt rains all over the world—"

  Jenny shuddered. "How many people will it kill?"

  "Lots," Curtis said. "Look." He traced a path northward from the Indian Ocean. "Bays. They funnel the tsunamis, let them build even higher before they break. Calcutta, Bombay, the Rann of Kutch — all gone. Persian Gulf, same thing. East Africa—"

  "We have to warn them—"

  "I'm sure the Aussies have done that," Ransom said.

  "It does not matter." Admiral Carrell's voice was even.

  Jenny reflexively straightened to attention. "Sir?"

  "We have no reliable communications with East Africa. I believe that Mr. Ransom is correct and that the Australians have sent a warning, but if not—"

  "They'll know soon enough," Curtis said. "What about ships? Subs? We still have communications with the submarine fleet, don't we?"

  "In fact, yes," Carrell said. "Our long-wave devices still function. I have already given the appropriate orders."

  Reynolds came over with coffee. Curtis pointed to a spot on the globe. Reynolds bent to examine it.

  "Tsunamis. Hurricanes. I wish we knew exactly where it'll hit," Curtis said. "Maybe we could tell just how much weather slop will get into the Northern Hemisphere."

  "Lots," Ransom said. "It's too near the equator."

  "Mess up both hemispheres," Reynolds said. "Neat."

  "Fear, fire, foes," Curtis muttered. "Tsunamis, hurricanes, rainstorms . . ." He stood with a satisfied look. "One thing, it won't hurt Bellingham."

  "That's a comfort," someone said.

  "Goddam right it is," Curtis said. "About the only one we've got."

  "As strategy it's hard to beat," Joe Ransom said. "Look when the tidal waves—"

  "Shut up," a young naval officer shouted. "Later, man, but for now just shut up."

  Jenny bent over to listen as Curtis and Ransom continued to talk.

  To the east: the island of Madagascar would shadow Mozambique and South Africa, a little. The waves would wash Tanzania, Kenya, the Somali Democratic Republic, wash them clean of life. Northeast, it would wash the Saudi Arabian peninsula. The Arabian Sea would focus the wave; a mountain range of water would march into Iran and Pakistan. That's the end of OPEC, Jenny thought with a flash of vindictive triumph. The end of the oil too.

  India would be covered north to the mountains. The Bay of Bengal would focus the wave again: it might cross Burma as far as China. The islands of the Java Sea would be inundated. The wave would wash across western Australia. . .

  "My God," the naval officer said in sudden realization. "They'll try to land afterward, of course, but where?"

  "That's why it's such a—"

  "Marvelous strategy, yes, Mr. Ransom," Admiral Carrell said. "Where would we send our fleets? India? Saudi Arabia? Australia? Africa?"

  "South Africa," Curtis said. "Look here. Most of the industry and white population are down at sea level. Tsunamis will wreck all that. Beyond the coast is the Drakensberg escarpment, up to the high plateau country, and that'll survive just fine. So they land at Johannesburg and Pretoria and they have themselves an isolated industrial foothold."

  Admiral Carrell bent over to examine the globe. "Perhaps—"

  A horn warbled through the room. "Now hear this. Ten minutes to estimated time of impact."

  The room fell silent.

  * * *

  Herdmaster Pastempeh-keph felt the tiny thrust decrease further as he made his way to the bridge.

  Matters there ran over smooth trails. Koothfektil-rusp turned to say, "The Foot is on target. The Defensemaster may break us loose at any time."

  "Do it," said Pastempeh-keph. "Defensemaster, you lead now." He settled himself on his pad and set his claws on the recessed foothold bars.

  A recording bellowed for attention throughout the huge ship. "Take footholds! Take footholds! Thrust in eight breaths."

  The Herdmaster's claws tightened on the bars. What can go wrong? The drive won't fail us; we've been running it steadily for many eight-days. The prey can't possibly stop the Foot now. If they could harm Message Bearer, they would have acted earlier—

  Message Bearer

  surged steadily, smoothly backward, swinging round to face outward from Winterhome. As the pitted and gouged mass of nickel and iron moved away, a magnificent blue-and-white crescent moved into view. Thrust built up, and the Herdmaster felt himself sagging into the pad. His muscles, grown slack in low gravity, protested. He welcomed the feeling of gravity.

  At a thrust higher than homeworld gravity, acceleration peaked. Then the motors on the digit ships began to fire, and thrust rose again. The crescent was dead aft, growing tremendous. Message Bearer was accelerating outward and backward from Winterhome.

  The Foot would strike ahead of Message Bearer. The impact point would still be in view.

  The Herdmaster summoned a view of the humans' quarters. They'd reached the restraint cell safely; they were on their bellies on the padding. It looked uncomfortable.

  Thrust dropped in increments as pairs of digit ships left their moorings around the aft rim. The Herdmaster watched their pulsing drive flames curve away. They must decelerate more drastically to take up orbit about Winterhome. The last four merely took up station alongside the mother ship. If something deadly rose from Winterhome, they might be of help.

  But nothing broke the curdled clouds. The terminator swung round until half the disk was lighted, and the Foot was invisible against the night side. There, just inside the shadow, a red pinpoint flare! The pinpoint glowed orange, then white, then blinding white, all within the fraction of a breath. Herdmaster Pastempeh-keph contracted his pupils. It wasn't enough. He turned away. The lurid light on the walls of the control complex flared, and held, and dimmed. He turned back.

  A white flare was dimming, expanding, reddening. Rings of cloud formed and vanished around an expanding hemisphere of flame. Clouds spread outward through the stratosphere, hiding what was beneath.

  Fistarteh-thuktun spoke formally. "Our footprint is on their sea bed."

  "Attackmaster, it's right in the middle of that stretch of water. Is that where you wanted it?"

  "Exactly on target," said Koothfektil-rusp.

  "Well done."

  Message Bearer

  was passing Winterhome at sixty makasrupkithp per breath; but Winterhome's rotation kept the Footprint in sight. A fireball stood above the planet's envelope of air. It clung to the mass of the planet like a flaming leech. Light reflected orange from a solid stretch of cloud cover. The fireball stood in a ring of clear air. A ring-shaped ripple beneath the cloud sheet expanded outward at terrible speed. The ripple picked up distortions as it traveled.

  "The shock wave through the ocean distorts the cloud cover," Koothfektil-rusp said. "Like bulges moving beneath a fallen tent. Our experts will be able to pick out the contours of the continents and ocean floor by the way they retard the wave."

  It was mysterious
and horrible. It only suggested the millions of prey who would drown beneath the clouds and the seawater.

  "Thus we achieve equality with the Predecessors," said Fistarteh-thuktun.

  The Herdmaster was jolted. "Are you serious?"

  "I don't know. What horror lies beneath that fortunate shroud of water droplets? How many of the prey will we drown? How much terrain do we bar to the use of any living thing? What was our own world like when the Predecessors were dying and our fithp were brainless beasts?"

  The layer of cloud was now flowing backward, into the fireball. Another layer formed above, high in the stratosphere, beginning to spread. Waves of blue light formed and dispersed. Pretty pictures, abstracts, but on an awesome scale. . .

  One may hope that we have not invented a new art form

  . Awe and horror: the Herdmaster trampled them deep into the bottom of his mind. "We came to take Winterhome. Do the thuktunthp hold knowledge to help us understand this?" "Perhaps. We accept, do we not, that the Predecessors altered the natural state of a world? Their world, our world. Now Winterhome is our world. Look how we distort its natural state. What did their meddling cost the Predecessors? Have we done better?"

  Have we done better? We must speak again, you and I. But this path was chosen long ago, and we must follow it.

  "Attackmaster. You may assume command of the digit ships. Begin your landings."

  * * *

  Commander Anton Villars stared through the periscope and tried to look calm. It wasn't easy. An hour before the message had come to USS Ethan Allen. The long-wave transmitters were reliable but slow. The message came in dots and dashes, code tapped out and taken down to be put through the code machines. It couldn't be orders to attack the Soviet Union. There was no Soviet Union. Villars had been prepared to launch his Poseidon missiles against an unseen enemy in space. Instead:

  LARGE OBJECT RPT LARGE OBJECT WILL IMPACT 22.5 S LATITUDE 64.2 E LONGITUDE 1455 HOURS ZULU OBSERVE IF SAFE STOP IMPACT ENERGIES ESTIMATED AT 4000 MEGATONS RPT 4000 MEGATONS STOP ANY INFORMATION VALUABLE STOP GODSPEED STOP CARRELL