Footfall

by Larry Niven

  "I hear."

  "We shall be their Predecessors," Fistarteh-thuktun said. "I must learn more. I wish I could go down to Africa."

  "You may not. We need you here. Get your data from Takpusseh-yamp. Tashayamp, is your mate—"

  "Easily distracted, but at your service," Tashayamp said, an the mating scent thickened in the air.

  The Herdmaster left them there. The bridge was busy; some site in Africa was about to get a consignment of meteors. The Herdmaster settled onto his pad and tapped at the console.

  Chintithpit-mang was a brown ball in the center of his cell. The Herdmaster watched him for a bit. Huddled in his misery, he might have been asleep but for his nostril and digits, which moved restlessly, as if they had independent life.

  Eight days! Give him credit, that's a tough-minded fi'.

  The Herdmaster said softly, "Chintithpit-mang, speak to me."

  The fi' started convulsively. He looked toward the camera. "Herdmaster, I will speak to the dissidents."

  "You have done so. I recorded our last conversation, and broadcast it. What would you tell them?"

  "Fathisteh-tulk said that human help would be beyond price in the conquest of space, with their ambitious plans and their smaller food intake and dexterous digits. Winterhome must be conquered and the humans broken into the Traveler Herd."

  "This is what you said an eight-day past. What have you to add? You should have helped Fathisteh-tulk."

  "Herdmaster, I would have joined the argument against the Advisor. The human attacked first."

  "You let him die."

  "He would have destroyed the dissident cause."

  "He has. You have no other to speak for you. Why did you hide the corpse?"

  Chintithpit-mang's digits were tight across his skull, as if welded. "I was in shock! The Advisor betrayed us! If the human were caught, he might repeat Fathisteh-tulk's words!"

  "Dawson holds his peace better than you have. You weren't trying to protect Dawson. Must I return you to the silence of your cell?"

  "I heard a snoring sound."

  "When?"

  "A 64-breaths or so after the human left the Advisor for dead. I still didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I heard a snoring sound. I turned and his chest was heaving."

  "Speak further."

  "I knew what he'd say. The dissidents . . . we would have . . . I pushed his face in the mud. I pushed mud in his mouth. The snonng stopped. I pushed him the rest of the way."

  It was what the Herdmaster had expected to hear; yet he had hoped. "What shall I do with you now, Chintithpit-mang? I cannot have you loose in Message Bearer."

  "Kill me. Gather the herd as tradition requires."

  "We are roguish enough these days. I cannot order my fithp to trample you and expect them to stop short of riot! Besides, too many owe you their lives, or their mates' lives. The Attackmaster regrets your absence. Chintithpit-mang, will you return to Africa to fight?"

  "Yes, if I am allowed."

  "You are sent, not allowed. Forever, Chintithpit-mang. I can grasp the pressures that made you rogue, but if such happens again, you will be trampled." The Herdmaster tapped at keys.

  And that is well done. Chintithpit-mang will serve us well. I will send down others of the Year Zero Fithp. Let them make amends in Africa.

  He tapped more keys. The picture changed. Wes Dawson was . . . running nowhere? Pastempeh-keph watched for a bit. Dawson ran, legs pumping, making no progress; forelimbs pumping in rhythm, though they never touched the ground. Was he already mad? Did he dream that he chased a fleeing meat animal, or that something chased him?

  "Wes Dawson."

  Dawson turned as he ran, to face the camera. He said nothing. The desperate longing to hear another's voice . . . might have been present, but the Herdmaster saw no trace of it.

  He said, "Chintithpit-mang tells me that he killed the Advisor. Fathisteh-tulk was still alive when you released him."

  Dawson's mouth twitched upward at the corners. In fair fithp he said, "I do it better next time."

  Pastempeh-keph turned off the screen. Just whose mind was being broken by this treatment?

  * * *

  Spinward around the curve of the mudroom there were the sounds of splashing and soft-trumpeted gossip. Shreshleemang ignored it. Her status had become uncertain when her mate's confession was broadcast. This was an embarrassment to her friends. These days they avoided her. Shreshleemang understood this, and resented it nonetheless. She could do nothing about it. She lolled in the mud with eyes half closed.

  She grew aware of others gathering around her. They rested in the mud, quiet, but she could feel their eyes. When it became clear that they would not go away, she said, "I remember a time when the mudroom was a refuge from the day's cares."

  "There was never such a time," said Chowpeentulk. "The mudroom has forever been a pond of politics."

  Shreshleemang looked up. Chowpeentulk and K'turfookeph seemed to be coolly studying her. K'turfookeph said, "Your mate is not to be trampled. He will be returned to Africa."

  "He told me himself. He has already departed."

  "Shreshleemang, you should join him."

  Shreshleemang surged from the mud. With the greatest effort she managed to curb her bellow. "The Herdmaster may send me where he wills. Have you come as his emissary?"

  "No. You are a mated female of the Traveler Herd, with no stain on your character. Will you listen?"

  She sank back. "I will."

  "He needs you. Males go rogue far more easily without a mate to steady them. Chintithpit-mang lives close against that barrier."

  "Yes, for he has crossed it."

  "Africa is being conquered, but there remain many human rogues in the pacified territory. Effective warriors are needed. Chintithpit-mang is one of the best, but the jungle hunters live under terrible strain. Often they hunt alone, as if already rogue. Unmated, Chintithpit-mang will be rogue within a 64-days. Mated, he can be an effective leader."

  "Yes, he needs me. He has destroyed the dissident cause, he has humiliated me personally. Do I need him?"

  Chowpeentulk said, "Unmated females go rogue too."

  "Nonsense."

  "We show it differently. We do not go on killing sprees. But we often develop a distaste for males and for children. We play dominance games instead of cooperating with our fithp."

  "What are you doing here, Chowpeentulk? What is your interest? Did you want my mate trampled?"

  "No . . . I am widowed. At my age it is certain that I will never mate again. The war kills males, particularly unmated males. My interest now lies with my children and the Traveler Fithp. The Traveler Fithp needs your mate, sane."

  "If you knew how I feel about him, you might send me down in order to punish your mate's murderer."

  "You were dissident too."

  "I was and am. The Traveler Fithp owned the stars and planets before ever we saw the shape of the prey. We don't need them."

  K'turfookeph spoke softly. "There is no dissident fithp. The matter has been decided, consented by the new Advisor, accepted by Fistarteh-thuktun. Winterhome will be ours. The danger of leaving it for the humans is too great. Fathisteh-tulk found a true path."

  "Nothing tried to kill us when we circled the gas giant."

  K'turfookeph stood silent. Chowpeentulk spoke in a voice like falling water. "Shreshlee-mang, did you advise your mate to exercise proper restraint in his efforts for the dissident cause?"

  "Proper restraint? We—" She stopped.

  "Restraint is the thuktun of females. Males don't understand restraint. Chintithpit-mang would do anything to advance the dissidents. He proved that. Males need their mates to protect them from such folly."

  "He was fighting in Kansas, far beyond my reach!"

  "My mate made a mistake there," K'turfookeph acknowledged. "The Year Zero Herd were a working fithp. Separating them drove some toward rogue status just when they were facing a madly alien environment. But do you not share blame?"r />
  "You will not drive me from the ship," said Shreshlee-mang. Females don't normally fight, but she was ready.

  "We would not drive you," K'turfookeph said.

  "I will not go! To live on Winterhome, forever — what would I do there?"

  "There is much to do. We have a world to hold, a new species to bring into the Traveler fithp. Your mate is there. Many of the Year Zero will be sent there."

  Another spoke from behind K'turfookeph. "Once the many fithp was great. Now there are few. If you die childless, there will be fewer still."

  Shreshlee-mang had not noticed Flarish-mang's approach. Her own great-aunt. Shreshlee-mang's anger rose at being reproved as a childless sleeper, but they weren't giving her time to answer. The females were gathering round her like a wet brown wall.

  Chowpeentulk said, "Your mate will go rogue again. It will be remembered that he committed murder while you were present to advise him. You will be blamed. No male will risk your company. You will remain unmated and childless. Your friends will gather to comfort you, of course . . . won't they? Perhaps not. And you will grow old, held within the womb of Message Bearer, while others carve our future across the face of Winterhome!"

  Chowpeen-tulk's voice had risen to a bellow. "Do you really think I seek vengeance? Against whom? If your mate went mad who failed to pull him back? It was known that Digit Ship Six was arriving. Why did you not meet him at the airlock?"

  "I will go."

  "Where were you?"

  "I was busy. Cease! I will join my mate in Africa. We will conquer the human fithp and bind them to us. History may judge the result."

  39

  THE SILVER-TONGUED DEVILS

  And how can man die better

  Than facing fearful odds

  For the ashes of his fathers,

  And the temples of his gods?

  —THOMAS RABINGTON, Lord Macaulay, "Horatius"

  COUNTDOWN: TEN MONTHS AFTER FOOTFALL

  The eye-searing light died. Harry tipped back the welder's mask. "Good work." He ran his hand along the gridwork. "Now they can put the electrical stuff in."

  His companion grunted. "What the hell is this?" Narrow rails ran straight down to an opening in the cylinder within which they worked, and ended above the floor.

  "Launching rails," Harry said. "Look, they got these things they call spurt bombs. I don't know how they work, but when an atom bomb goes off near one of them, the thing sort of curls up and dies, and when it dies it shoots off a really strong gamma-ray laser beam. What we have here is a gizmo to throw the spurt bombs out where they can soak up some of the energy from the bombs that move this ship."

  "How do they aim them?"

  "Black magic. Hell, I don't know. All I know is they have to be thrown out, and we're building the gizmo that does that."

  "Okay." The welder gestured toward the tangle of wires and pipes surrounding them. "Christ, this whole ship is one big kludge."

  "Yeah."

  "More all the time, too."

  "I guess. Anyway, all we have to do now is get out of here."

  Harry led the way into the empty bay. The spurt bombs were big; the nests for them were ten feet tall and a foot across. Harry climbed a ladder, slid sideways through spurt bomb nests, and emerged through an unwelded hatch onto the hemispherical slop of the Shell.

  The shock absorbers rose above them, holding nothing. The Brick, the section that would house men and spacecraft, hadn't been mounted yet. There were four spurt bomb bays. The pair of drive bomb bays were far larger. Conveyors and a pair of cannon already in place would lead the propulsion bombs under the rim of the Shell and fire them into the focus. It was all welded to the Shell itself, six towers rising around a steel forest of shock absorbers; and it was all as massive as any freighter. Nothing delicate about Michael!

  A catwalk took them down the Shell to the concrete floor.

  "Beats me how you find your way around." Whitey Lowenstein took off the welder's mask and cap. "Ten minutes to quitting time. Beer?"

  "I'll join you if I can."

  The Chuckanut was crowded, but Whitey had saved a corner booth. He had two girls with him. Harry sank into the booth gratefully and waved for a pitcher.

  "We'd about given you up," Lowenstein said. "You remember Pat." He took Pat's hand and held it. "And that's Janet. What kept you?"

  "Rohrs wanted to go over some stuff. Hi, Pat. Nice to meet you, Janet. What do you do for the project?"

  "Pat's a clerk," Janet said. "I'm a welder, like Whitey."

  "Tough job." She didn't look big enough, either.

  "I can handle it," Janet said.

  Whitey watched Harry chug a large glass, refill it, and chug again. "Okay, Harry, I give up. I've seen you carrying General Gillespie's briefcase. I've heard your stories about Kansas, and I even believe them, but then I've seen you sweeping floors. I watched you connect up electrical lines. Today you show me where to weld that rail thing, and then you're in a conference with Rohrs for an hour after quitting time."

  "Harry, just what in hell are you?"

  Harry laughed. "You'd never guess in a million years. Whitey, I'm a trusty."

  "A what?"

  Pat giggled.

  "Remember when we met?"

  "Yeah, I thought you were an atomjack."

  "Remember there was a big security flap that day?"

  "You remember the big flap, right? Trust me, it was the day you met me. I caused it. I helped smuggle a newspaper reporter into here, right into General Gillespie's house."

  "Harry, goddammit, I never know when you're bullshitting me."

  "Not this time. The guy's name was Roger Brooks. I don't know how he found out there was a story here, but he hired me to bring him here from Colorado Springs. Turns out he'd known Mrs. Gillespie a long time."

  "Jeez, and you brought him in here?" Janet didn't sound very friendly.

  "Yeah, well, I'd been told you weren't hiding anything but snouts. And I'd captured a snout—"

  "You what?" Janet demanded.

  "Captured a snout."

  "He did, too," Whitey said. "He'll tell you about it if you ask. Or if you don't ask."

  "Aw! Anyway, bringing Roger in seemed like a good idea at the time. But Roger figured out what Archangel was before I did, and he clipped me and stole the truck. Next thing I know I wake up in General Gillespie's front yard with about a zillion Marines and Air Police. Every one of them's pointing a gun at me, and here comes the General himself. He didn't look too friendly."

  "I don't reckon he would have," Whitey said. "What did you do?"

  "Do? I pleaded for mercy."

  "Must have worked . . ."

  "Yeah. I had one thing going for me. I used to work for Congressman Dawson . . ."

  "Right. You told me. The guy the snouts have making speeches for them. It was his wife you had ride the snout."

  Janet laughed. "Harry, you sound like a good man to know."

  "Oh, I am, I am. Anyway, since I knew his friends, it made the General a little more ready to listen. After a while he decided I wasn't really a bad guy, so he made me an offer. I could go to work as a gofer, or they'd send me off to Port Angeles."

  "Better than Walla Walla," Whitey said. "Port Angeles is where they send you if you quit."

  "Yeah," Pat said. "But it's a drag. I must know ten, twelve guys who went over there and decided they'd rather be back here. It's not a bad place, but there's nothing to do except grow vegetables, and they still censor any letters you want to send out."

  "That's what the General told me," Harry said. "I thought about it for maybe fifteen seconds. Christ, I was beginning to rust in Colorado Springs. I'd have gone nuts in Port Angeles.

  "So they made me a gofer. I do what the General wants. They pay me pretty good, and — I'm in it, I'm where it's happening. I've been all over that ship, I bet I know my way around inside the Brick as good as anybody except maybe Max Rohrs. I've worked on the steam lines for the attitude controls, and I helped the Na
vy guys install those big guns off the New Jersey, Jesus those are big, and the Army guys with their missile launchers." Harry grinned wolfishly. "Shee-it, if we can get this thing up there, those snouts'll think Mount Whitney is coming after them next!"

  Whitey lifted his glass. "Bigger and better surprises."

  "Right. A willing foe and sea room!"

  "What's that?"

  "Nelson. A British admiral—"

  "Hell, I know who Nelson was."

  "Okay. It was his toast. And that's the story."

  "Pretty good story. You fall in the shit and come up smelling like a rose."

  "I thought so. Now I don't know! These twelve-hour workdays are killing me."

  Whitey nodded agreement. "Won't last much longer, though."

  "No, I guess not. We still have to mount the Brick on the Shell and the Shuttles on the Brick. I wish there was more than just one way to test those shock absorbers."

  "How are they—?"

  "Launch. What else is big enough for them? Christ, the ship's just full of kludged-up stuff, it's all we can do to get all the kludges put down on the drawings. I sure feel sorry for anybody who has to fix this sucker."

  "You, maybe."

  Harry laughed sardonically. "Not me." He broke into song. "You can call out your mother, your sister or your brother, but for Christ's sakes don't call me!"

  "They won't call your sister," Janet said. "No women on the flight crew at all."

  "Yeah, I know," Harry said. "Matter of fact, I know most of the crew. Nice clean-cut young men—"

  "Men's

  right," Janet said. "And it's not fair." "Oh, come on," Pat said. "Janet, you have to be crazy, why would anybody want to go up with that?"

  "Well, they could ask!"

  "It's Gillespie," Harry said. "He says women aren't strong enough."

  "Stupid," Janet said.

  "It doesn't have to be the truth. Look, those idealistic young men are supposed to be fixing what the snouts shoot. Gillespie may not want them rescuing idealistic young women instead, if you follow me. Anyway, they don't want you. They don't want me, either. What would either one of us do? I learned to do a lot of things when I hung around with the bikers. Little welding, electrical stuff, this and that. So that's what I do. This and that. Whitey, you owe me a pitcher."