by Larry Niven
That memory got too near the surface, and he growled.
"Trouble?" Rosalee asked.
"Nothing much—"
"Like hell." She came around the table and put her hands on his shoulders. "I know you too well."
Yeah
. Actually it was strange. Rosalee was very nearly the perfect companion. He'd even considered marrying her. "Can I distract you? I met this Army girl. About nineteen. She said Mrs. Dawson is inside the Hole—"
"I guess that figures—"
"Shut up. Inside the Hole. Came in just before Footfall with a strange character. And a captured snout."
"A what?"
"Yeah." Rosalee looked smug. "Still love me?"
"Jesus, Rosalee—"
"This character she came to the Springs every night in a bar across town. Interested?"
The name and the sign outside were new. The sign in particular was a good painting of a fi' on its back, an oversized man standing with his foot on its torso.
"I like that," Roger said. They both got off the bicycle.
Rosalee shrugged. "I'll come get you at dinnertime." She pedaled off.
To where? She gets money—no, dammit, I don't want to know.
It was still early afternoon. The Friendly Snout was cool inside with a smell of old wood and leather and tobacco smoke. Tin customers were few, and some wore Army uniforms. At the bandstand a small tough-looking Army man was teaching a ballad to a civilian. The big redheaded man was jotting down what he heard repeating each verse by guitar and voice.
That's him. Roger took a table against the wall. The waitress wasn't more than sixteen. Owner's daughter? For damn sure nobody cares any more. Interesting how disasters make people mind their, own goddamn business instead of other people's . . . "Rum sour."
"No rum. Whiskey."
"Whiskey sour."
"Lemons cost four times as much as whiskey. Still want it?"
Roger produced his gold American Express card. "Sure."
"Yes, sir."
As he'd expected, the drink was corn whiskey, probably not more than a week old. It needed the lemon juice. And so do I. Vitamin C, and the Post can afford it . . .
The music and words were sung not quite loud enough to hear, and distracting. Hell, if they'd just sing it straight through and get it over with . . . The red-bearded man seemed intent on his lesson. Roger decided to wait him out. He took out his notebook and idly flipped through the pages. There was a column due at the end of the week. Somewhere in here is the story I need . . .
COLORADO SPRINGS:
Military intelligence outfit. Interviewing National Guardsmen from the Jayhawk War area. (Goddam, those Kansans think they're tougher than Texans!) Two turned loose two days before. Didn't want to talk to me. Security? Probably. That bottle of I. W. Harper Rosalee found took care of that . . .
JACK CODY:
"When that beam started spiraling in on us, Greg Bannerman just pulled the chopper hard left and started us dropping. 'Jump out,' he said. No special emphasis, but loud. Me, I jumped. I hit water and there was bubbles all around me. Then the lake lit up with this weird blue-green color. I could see the whole lake even through the bubbles. Fish. Weeds. A car on its back. Bubbles like sapphires. "Something big splashed in, and then stuff started pattering down, metal, globs of melted helicopter—I've got one here, I caught it while it was sinking.
"The light went out and I came up for air-there was a layer of hot water-and then I looked for the big chunk, and it was Chuck, waving his arms, drowning. I pulled him out. When I saw his back I thought he was a deader. Charred from his heels to his head. I started pushing on his back and he coughed out a lot of water and started breathing. I wasn't sure I'd done right. But the chare was just his clothes. It peeled off him and left him, like, naked and sunburned, except his hands. Black. Crisp. He must have put his hands over his neck.
"But we'd be dead like the rest if we didn't just damn well trust Greg Bannerman. Here's to Greg."
LAS ANIMAS, COLORADO:
Prosperous man, middle-aged, in good shape. Gymnasium-and-massage look. Good shoes, good clothes, all worn out.
He needed a lift. I didn't want to stop, but Rosalee made me do it. Said he looked like somebody I ought to know. Damn, that woman has a good head for a story. Good head—
HARLEY JACKSON GORDON:
"I kept passing dead cars. Then burning cars. I tried to pick up some of the people on foot, but they just shook their heads. It was spooky. Finally I just got out and left my Mercedes sitting in the road. I walked away, and then I went back and put my keys in it. Maybe someone can use it, after this is all over, and I couldn't stand the thought of that Mercedes just rusting in the road. But it felt like bad luck. So I walked. And yes, the snouts came, and yes, l rolled over on my back, but I don't much like talking about that part, if you don't mind."
COLORADO SPRINGS:
GENEVIEVE MARSH: Tall, slender, not skinny. Handsome. Solid bones. No money. Nervous. Sick of talking with military people. Wanted a change. Dinner and candles—
Rosalee left me the money to buy her dinner and bugged out Goddam. She'd make a hell of a reporter if she could write.
"They had us for two days. We thought they were getting ready to leave, and I guess they were, and they were going to take us with them. We all felt it. But on the last day some of them brought in a steer and some chickens and a duck, or maybe it was a goose. The aliens took us out of the pen, and they looked us over. Then they pulled me out, and I was hanging on to Gwen and Beatrice so tight I'm afraid I hurt them. And that crazy man from Menninger's who spent all his time curled up with his head in his arms, they pulled on one arm and he had to follow. He never stopped swearing. No sense in it, just a stream of dirty words. They aimed us at the road and one of them s-swatted me on the ass with its-trunk? And I started walking, pulling Gwen along, Beatrice in my arms, and then we ran. Beatrice was like lead. We didn't wait for the crazy man. When the spaceship took off we were far enough away that we only got a hot wind, and that glare. But they took the rest with them, and the animals took our place." (Laughter). "Maybe they think the steer will breed!"
NEAR LOGAN.
Whole bunch, all types, digging around in a wrecked Howard Johnson's. Nobody's too proud to root for garbage now. Shit. GINO PIETSCH:
"I knew there'd be a tornado shelter. Every building in Kansas has something, even if it's a brick closet in a motel room., I broke in, and I found the tornado closet, and I hid. The snouts never even came looking. I guess they didn't care much, if you were the type to hide. Every so often I came out just long enough to get water. And I was in the closet when the bombs came, and getting pretty hungry, but not hungry enough to come out. How much radiation did I get? Am I going to die?"
LAUREN, KANSAS:
That page was nearly blank. Roger stared at it. I have to write it down some day. Damn. Damnation.
Not just yet . . .
ROGER BROOKS, NATHANIEL REYNOLDS, ROSALEE PINELLI, CAROL NORTH:
The snouts were all over the city. George Bergson came up with the notion of using Molotov cocktails to wreck a snout tank . . .
* * *
The guitarists put away their instruments at last. Roger got up unsteadily. Three corn-whiskey sours had hit him harder than he'd expected. He moved over to the man with the fading red beard.
"Mr. Reddington?"
"Hairy Red, that's me. And you?"
"Roger Brooks. Washington Post. Capital Post now."
"Yeah?"
Gotcha! Heroes need publicity.
"I hear you have some good stories to tell. I'm collecting war stories. Drink?" "Sure, but I gotta run. My ride leaves in five minutes." Reddington turned to the bar. "Watney's, Millie."
"Money, Harry."
"On me," Roger called. "Things are tough, eh?"
"Toward the end of the month," Harry admitted. "The Arms gives me a little something, but I had a bad run at poker—"
"Sure—"
"I
get gasoline, too," Harry said. "But I can't sell that. Use it or lose it."
Roger let Harry lead him to a table. They sat, and Roger studied Harry while opening his notebook. Beard and hair trimmed. Corn. Patiently but not artistically. Clothes are clean and almost new and don't quite fit. Supplied by the Army? "Harry, we have a lot to talk about. I'd like to buy you dinner." He took out the gold Amex card and handed it to the barmaid.
Reddington hesitated a bare instant. "May I bring a friend?"
"Sure. What time do you like?"
"Call it seven-thirty."
The Friendly Snout was more crowded now, with citizens and Army and Navy personnel.
The civilians had dinner. The service people drank.
"I like it," Rosalee said. "But where do they get the food?"
"Mess sergeants making a bit on the side," Roger said. "That's why the service types won't eat here."
"You know that for sure?"
"Don't have to."
She drew away from him in mock horror. "But Roger, it's news, and you're not digging it out—"
"Now just a damn minute—"
"Gotcha!"
"Yeah, okay. Look, Rosalee, it would only be a little story. No prizes. And I'd get half the Army on my case, and I don't need—"
"Roger, I'm the one who keeps telling you to relax!"
Roger let thick sarcasm creep into his voice. 'By their standard there were no menus. Prices were listed on a blackboard, mostly too high.
"The drinks are dependable," Roger said.
"Dependable?"
"You can depend on them to take the lining out of your throat. Harry was drinking a brand-name beer, but I noticed there was yeast in the bottom of the bottle. . . Anyway, they take plastic."
"Oh, goody. Is that him?" She glanced toward the doorway. "Hairy and red. But he's with three people."
"Hardly surprising-Carlotta!" Roger bounded across the room.
Carlotta Dawson grinned widely and came to meet him. "I thought it had to be you from what Harry told me. I saw your column—"
"You knew I was out here and you didn't come find me?"
"We're busy in there, Roger." She lowered her voice so no one else could hear. "They have me sitting in for Wes. Roger, that's off the record. Really off the record."
Shit.
"Carlotta, I'm glad to see you. Hell, I've lost track of everybody. All my girls—" "Everyone's all right. I just heard from Linda. She says Evelyn's fine."
"Great." Say what? But Evelyn lives in . . . later. "Harry, you sure know some famous people."
"Didn't know you knew her . . ."
"Roger and I are old friends," Carlotta said.
"Carlotta, have you heard anything about Wes?"
"Not since his speech. Roger, what are they saying about him? Do they call him a traitor?"
Roger gestured helplessly. "Not around me—"
"Or me," Harry said.
"But they do."
"Some do. Not the doctors. Not the farmers and grocers. Just damn fools."
"There are always damn fools," Harry said.
And then there are the ones who say Dawson was insufficiently persuasive, because we ought to give up before they kill us all.
"Lots of fools," Roger said.
"Harpanet—the alien Harry captured—says that Wes told the truth, they do treat captives well—"
Wes did that well, Carlotta. Anybody who knew him would know that."
"I guess I worry too much." Her mood changed. "Harry, thanks for inviting me out. I've been inside far too long. Time to have a little fun. Roger, it's really good to see you again."
"This is Rosalee. I picked her up in Lauren—ah, hell, it sounds wrong. We've been together since—"
"Never heard you run out of words." Carlotta laughed. "Rosalee."
Good. She doesn't know she told me something.
"Let's down. Harry's promised us a song." Roger led the way to the table. Millie had already pulled up another table to accommodate the extra guests, and brought out a new pitcher of beer. "What did you get?" Rosalee whispered.
"Mind your own business."
"You expected that woman."
"Shhh. I hoped. You told me Harry knew her. Now just listen." They sat. "Rosalee, I've known Carlotta since she was in high school."
"Pleased to meet you, Rosalee." Hairy Red bowed as he shook her hand. "This is Tim Lewis. . . Lucille Battaglia." Lewis was the man who had been teaching Harry to sing. Lucille was small and dark and pretty, and in uniform.
Spec.-4. Adjutant General corps. Personnel. Probably shuffling papers, when she isn't mooning over every word Reddington says.
"When does it stop raining?" Roger asked.
"The Colonel says in about six months," Lucille said. "If we're lucky."
"Colonel?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Crichton. I work for her—"
"Jenny?" Roger demanded.
"Right." Carlotta smiled. "That's why I brought Lucille. Jenn couldn't come."
"Hey. Lieutenant Colonel. She must have done something important . . ."
Carlotta smiled but she didn't say anything.
"Yeah. Rosalee, Jenny is well, it's pretty complicated. I've known her family a long time. Six more months of rain?"
"If we're lucky," Carlotta said. "Actually, nobody really knows It might be more than that."
"What do you do Inside, Mrs. Dawson?" Rosalee asked.
"Well, I work for the government."
"Everybody wonders what it's like, though," Roger insisted. "Families. I've heard the senior staff have their families with them—"
"Some do," Carlotta said. "Roger, I hear you were part of a raid on the Invaders—"
Roger laughed. "Okay, I give up. Look, I only witnessed that raid. Mostly it was George's idea. Who'd you hear it from?"
"Carol."
Oh, shit.
Carol had gone Inside, on the insistence of Nat Reynolds. The goddamn sci-fi people can get their groupies Inside, and I can't even get past the outside gate. "Actually, it was George's idea. I was along to watch." How much did that woman tell? Reynolds was no more a hero than I was. "Hell, I'm not blowing a month's expense money to talk about me! Harry, tell your story . . .
"Wow," Lucille said. "That's really something. I've never seen a snout except Harpanet. The one you captured, Harry."
"Well, it was sufficiently hairy," Harry said. "If the snout didn't kill us, the farmers would. We took the motorcycle downhill till we could smell the swamp, and then we walked.
Lucille found Hairy Red awesome. Roger found that amusing.
But— Carlotta laughed, something between a snort and a giggle.
"See if it'll carry you,' the man says. 'Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. A snout armed with an assault rifle! I don't think it ever crossed Harry's mind that I might chicken out. So I couldn't. Harry's just the right kind of crazy. You know what he said when we got to those farmers?"
But Carlotta's backing him up! He must be a real hero. Aw, come on—
Roger moved his now-clean dinner plate so he could take notes. (All of the plates had been cleaned. People didn't waste-food these days.)
"I never saw action," Lucille said. "But I've seen Harpanet—nuts. Classified."
"Are there any stories you can tell?"
"I haven't been told so. Harry has all the good stories."
Harry has the stories, but Carlotta knows what's happening. Bellingham Evelyn got pregnant and married that guy, what was his name? Max. Max Rohrs. Has a sick mother in Bellingham Had to live there, and Evelyn went with him. She'll still be there. What in hell is Linda Gillespie doing in Bellingham?
He watched Corporal Lucille from the corner of his eye when he said, "We didn't see any sign of snouts after the bombs went off. Now they tell me those were Soviet bombs." She didn't react "I wonder how the sub commanders felt. They finally got to bomb us."
"I never saw a snout," Tim Lewis said. "I talked to plenty o guys who did. Dave Pfeiffer and I made a song
about what happened to him. He joined the Army after we got here. I don't know where he is now, but I'd guess he's chasing down refugee snouts.'
"Let's sing that song," said Hairy Red.
"Dessert's coming," Tim Lewis protested. "-Oh, hell. Sure.' They moved to the bandstand and opened guitar cases. Customers started to look around.
Bellingham. Linda's not there to meet a lover. I'm the one lover she's got. If she's there, Ed Gillespie is there. Air Force general. On the President's personal staff. In Bellingham. Why?
"Penny for your thoughts," Rosalee said.
"Shh. They're going to sing."
THE BATTLE OF GARFIELD
by David Pfeiffer and Tim Lewis
It was just five days after the battle in orbit.
Like snowflakes they came drifting down from the sky:
Monster-things dangling from bright frail gliders.
We watched and we talked, and we all wondered why.
To northward and east of us they made their landing.
Set up a strong point out near Great Bend,
But some had been scattered by wind while they drifted,
And four landed near us to settle with men.
Bob and Les Forward and Bill "Top Kick" Tuning,
Old Amvets, came by on the sixth morning bright.
They had fifteen men with them, combat vets mostly.
They called "Saddle up" for a hell of a fight.
Tom Kinney had seen them and told us about them,
Right down toward Kinsley and headed our way.
"Elephant dwarves with their two trunks a-swinging
And rifles to shoot with" is what he did say.
Ed Gillespie. Air Force general. Fighter pilot, but with administrative and science experience. Can't fly now. There's nothing to fly. No airport worth mentioning there anyway. Evelyn told us about Bellingham. Seaport town. Old. Decayed. University. Pacific Northwest, where it rained all the time even before Footfall . . .
