Footfall (39 page)

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: 

Safe? From four thousand megatons? There wasn’t any safety. Villars’ urge was to submerge and flee at flank speed.

Off to starboard, the island of Rodriguez blazed with the colors of life. Jungle had long since given way to croplands. In the center bare rock reared sharply, a peak a third of a mile high. Waves broke over a surrounding coral reef. That reef would provide more cover when the tsunami came, but it was a danger too.

Fishing boats were straggling in through the reef. Probably doomed. There was nothing Villars could do for them.

It was just dusk. Clouds covered the sky. It would be difficult to see anything coming. Four thousand megatons. Bigger than any bomb we ever dreamed of, much less built.

The crew waited tensely. John Antony, the Exec, stood close by.

“About time,” Antony said.

“If their estimate was on.”

“If their time was off, so were their coordinates.”

I know that. I had the same instructor at Annapolis as you did.

Somebody laughed and choked it off. The news had filtered through the ship, as news like that always did.

The cameras were working. Villars wondered how many would survive. He peered through the darkest filter available. Four thousand megatons…

Suddenly the clouds were blazing like the sun. “First flash at 1854 hours 20 seconds,” he called. “Log that.” Where? Where would it fall?

All in an instant, a hole formed in the clouds to the northeast, the glare became God’s own flashbulb, and the cameras were gone. “Get those other cameras up,” Villars bellowed at men who were already doing that. His right eye saw nothing but afterimage. He put his left to the periscope.

He saw light. He squinted and saw light glaring out of a hole in the ocean. A widening hole in the ocean, with smoothly curved edges; wisps of mist streaming outward, and a conical floodlight beam pointing straight up. The beam grew wider: the pit was expanding. Clouds formed and vanished around a smoothly curved wall of water sweeping smoothly toward the sub.

The rim of a sun peeped over the edge.

“I make it about forty miles east northeast of present position. Okay, that’s it.” Villars straightened. “Bring in the cameras. Down periscope. Take us to ninety feet.” How deep? The further down, the less likely we’ll get munched by su,face phenomena, but if those tsunamis are really big they might pile enough water on top of Ethan Allen to crush us. “Flank speed. Your course is 135 degrees.” That leaves us in deep water and puts Rodriguez between us and that thing, for whatever good it’ll do.

So we’ve seen it. A sight nobody ever saw — well, nobody who wrote it down, anyway. Now all I have to do is save the ship.

Ethan Allen was about to fight the biggest tsunami in human history — and just now he was broad on to it. He glanced at his watch. Tsunamis traveled at speeds from two hundred to four hundred miles an hour. Call this one four. Six minutes…

“Left standard rudder. Bring her to 85 degrees.”

“Bring her to 85, aye, aye,” the quartermaster answered.

“Warn ’em,” Villars said.

“Now hear this. Now hear this. Damage control stations. Stand by for depth charges.”

Might as well be depth charges…

The ship turned.

It surged backward. Villars felt the blood rushing into his face. Somewhere aft, a shrill scream was instantly cut off, and the Captain heard a thud.

Minutes later: “There’s a current. Captain, we’re being pulled northeast.”

“Steady as she goes.” Goddam. We lived through it!

The news came on at nine A.M. when you could get it. Marty always listened. Fox didn’t always bother.

No matter how early he got up, Marty always found Fox was awake with a pot of coffee. It was no use persuading Fox to go easy on the coffee.

“When we run out, we do without. Until then, we have coffee,” was his only answer to Marty’s pleas to conserve.

“You know your trouble, Marty?”

Marty looked up from the radio he was trying to tune. “Eh?”

“You’re still connected to that world you left. As long as you let civilization worry you, it’s one more way the desert can kill you. Relax. Go with the punches. There’s nothing they can do to us. We’ve already given up everything they control. Now it’s us.”

“Yeah, sure.” Marty tuned the set carefully. “You think you’ve quit, huh?” He’d thrown a wire for an antenna across the top of the tall pole somebody had set up as a flagpole years ago. It worked pretty well.

Four hours after dawn Shoshone would normally have been a furnace. This morning some strange clouds, wispy and very high, had begun to form quite early. They weren’t thick enough to block off the sun, but they must have had some effect. It was still hot enough to bring sweat.

Fox said, “I’m just taking a break. I’ll save the world when it wants saving again.”

“Okay, so nobody’s worried about the snail darter when the sky is full of bug-eyed monsters. But I’ve listened to you, John and you’d still like to make Washington—”

“Not Washington anymore.”

“Yeah. Atom bombs in Kansas don’t ruffle your feathers?… I think I got it tuned.”

“Ruffled feathers be damned.” Fox had his self-inflating mattress stretched out on a flat rock. He didn’t seem to notice the heat. Sprawled out with his coffee mug sitting on a flat stone, he looked indecently comfortable. “The question is, who’s going to listen?”

“Shh.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

“Hey, John, we got the President on.”

“Yeah?” But Fox moved his mattress closer.

“My fellow Americans, this morning the alien invaders struck at Earth with a large artificial meteor, which landed in the Southern Hemisphere, in the Indian Ocean. The effect was that of a tremendous bomb. My advisors inform me that we can expect some severe weather effects.”

“Meteor,” Fox muttered. He looked up, and Marty did too. There were more clouds now… and they were swirling, changing, growing dense and dark, streaming east like foam on a breaking wave. Marty remembered how fast clouds moved in a Kansas tornado. These were moving faster.

“…Global weather will definitely be affected. This makes Project Greenhouse even more important. I call upon every one of you to raise food. In small pots, indoors, outdoors, wherever you can. If you can build greenhouses, do so. County agents and other Department of Agriculture experts will show you how.

“America must feed herself.”

Marty thought, Not here, we won’t. But the grin wouldn’t come.

“Global weather,” Fox said again. “Christ, have they thrown us a dinosaur killer? Indian Ocean. How long will that take? Marty?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“How much gas do we have?”

“About five gallons.”

“Better gas up the truck. I think I want to use it.”

By noon the clouds covered the sky. The sun that had blazed like a deadly enemy since Marty’s arrival two days ago was hidden now. Marty watched Fox with some concern; for Fox watched the sky as if he feared a corrosive rain. The rain started at one. The first huge drops drummed on the truck cab, and Marty lifted his face to taste it. It was only plain water… not plain, not at all, and Marty felt a thrill of fear when he tasted silt and salt. Fox shouted, “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Come on, damn it!”

Marty jumped in after him. He had just time to whistle up the dogs and let them jump into the truck bed. He was a little worried about Darth, who was young enough to try jumping out when the truck was moving.

“Damn dogs, can’t even stay and watch the camp.”

“Sure they can, if that’s what you want,” Marty said. “Are we coming back?”

“Huh? Yeah, we’re coming back.”

“Then stop long enough for me to tell them what to do!”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Fox stopped the truck. Marty posted the dogs, except for the pup, who’d have to come with them. “Guard.”

Chaka looked up mournfully, but obeyed.

The rain was falling hard now. Rain in July? in Shoshone above Death Valley? Sea-bed silt, when the meteor struck in the Indian Ocean? I don’t believe this. “Where are we going?”

“Place I know. Come on.” Fox drove down the dirt track to the main road.

A big gasoline tanker was parked at the diner. Marty felt a twinge. That tanker held enough gas to get them both to the Enclave in Bellingham a hundred times over. I wonder where he’s taking it?

They drove up the paved road, then turned left onto a gravel road. Fox drove as he always did, faster than Marty would, but carefully. He ground his lean jaw as he drove.

What’s got to him?

They rounded a peak and drove onto a wide ledge.

Fox got out slowly. Marty followed. Darth came with him, huddling against his leg.

Death Valley was spread out below them, barren as the Moon.

More like Mercury, Marty thought, remembering the terrible heat. But he could see very little. Rain obscured the view, and a fog was rising too. The rain would evaporate as it struck.

Fox gestured, like Satan offering Christ the world. “This is what trapped them, the first ones here. Look how gently it slopes down. It’s just barely steep enough to stop a horse-drawn wagon from getting back up.”

“I’ve been here.”

“And you’ve seen the Devil’s Golf Course and Scotty’s Castle, I don’t doubt, and the dunes. But have you seen the life?” The rain was loud, but John Fox was louder. He wasn’t shouting; he was letting his voice project, as if he had an audience of thousands. “It’s like another planet here. Plants and animals have evolved that couldn’t survive anywhere else. If conditions—”

For a moment the roar of wind and rain drowned out even John Fox. It was as if a bathtub of salt water had been poured on Marty’s head. He screamed, “John, John, what’s happening?”

“The damned aliens, they’re terraforming Earth to their own needs! They’ve thrown an asteroid in the Indian Ocean! And I was trying to stop atomic plants. I should have been screaming for atomic plants to power laser rockets! I tried to stop the Space Shuttle, damn me for a fool. They’ve smashed every environment on Earth! Damn you,” he shouted into the sky. “Pour fire on the Earth, pile bodies in pyramids! We can live anywhere! We’ll hide in the deserts and mountain peaks and the Arctic ice cap, and one day we’ll come forth to kill you all!”

Death Valley was a bowl of steam. There was nothing to see, yet John Fox peered into it, seeing nightmares. “An old sea bed,” he said in an almost normal voice. “A salt sea. They’ll all die.”

The rain fell.

The contorted moonlet dropped away, dwindled, vanished. Earth grew huge. A flashbulb popped above the Indian Ocean, and was replaced at once by a swelling, darkening fireball. Ring-shaped shadows formed and faded in and around it. Far from the central explosion, new lights blinked confusingly in points and radial streaks.

The Earth’s face streamed past, terrifyingly close but receding now. A wave in the cloud cover above the Indian Ocean raced outward, losing its circular shape as it traveled. Northward, it took on a triangular indentation, as if the edge of a blanket had snagged on a nail.

“India,” Dawson said. “How fast are you running this tape?”

“Thirty-two times normal,” Tashayamp answered.

“What is … that?” Alice asked.

“Land masses. The tsunami distorts the clouds,” Arvid said.

“So does the ocean floor,” Dawson amplified, “but not as much. That’s India going under. Those flashes would have been secondary meteors, debris, even water from the explosion thrown out to space and reentering the atmosphere.”

That’s India going under. Good-bye, Krishna, and Vishnu the elephant god. Jeri shuddered. “Dave took me to India once. So many people. Half a billion.”

Arvid stood near. She felt his warmth and wanted to be closer to him.

Tashayamp said, “Number?”

Arvid said, “Eight to the eighth times eight times three.”

“Human fithp in India? Where the wave goes now?”

“Yes.”

Dmitri spoke rapidly in Russian.

“Stalin thought that way,” Arvid snapped.

Dmitri shrugged expressively.

What was that about? Jeri wondered. Arvid didn’t like it at all. Stalin? He would have been pleased to have a simple answer to the India “problem.” It’s easier to deal with “problems” than people.

The distortion in the clouds swept against Africa, then south. Here was clear air, and a ripple barely visible in the ocean… but the outline of the continent was changing, bowing inward.

“Cape of Good Hope,” Jeri muttered. She watched the waves spread into the Atlantic. Recorded hours must be passing. She found herself gasping and suspected she had been holding her breath. The waves were marching across the Atlantic, moving on Argentina and Brazil with deceptive slowness and a terrible inevitability.

Cloud cover followed, boiling across the oceans, reaching toward the land masses. “My God,” Jeri said. “How could you do this?”

“It is not our choice,” Raztupisp-minz said. “We would gladly have sent the Foot safely beyond your atmosphere, but your fithp would not have it so.”

“Look what you made me do,” Alice said in a thick, selfpitying whine. Her voice became a lash. “All the sickies say that — the rogues say that when they’ve done something they’re ashamed of. It was somebody else’s fault.”

“They can say all they like,” Carrie Woodward said. “We know. They came all the way from the stars to ruin the land.”

“You should not say such things,” said Takpusseh. “You do not want this to happen again. You will help us.”

“Help? How?” Dawson demanded.

“You, Wes Dawson, you tell them. More come.”

Dmitri spoke again in Russian. Arvid shuddered.

The screen changed again. Clouds moved so unnaturally fast that Jeri thought they were still watching a tape until Takpusseh said. “That is now. Winterhome.”

Earth was white. The cloud cover was unbroken.

“Rain. Everywhere,” Nikolai said. “The dams are gone. There will be floods.”

The Earth was distant now, and no longer turning beneath them “Synchronous orbit,” Nikolai said. “Above Africa. Look!”

White streaks blazed across Earth’s night. That was Africa, and the digit ships were going down.

“Go now. Tashayamp, take them,” the Bull Elephant said. “Dawson, Raztupisp-minz, stay.”

The Herdmaster waited until the rest had left the theater. Then, before he could speak, Dawson said, “I will not tell my fithp to surrender.”

If Dawson made to grip his eyelid, the Herdmaster would simply slap him across the room. He said, “You will. Raztupispminz, tell him details, but later. Wes Dawson, did you speak with Fathisteh-tulk?”

“Name not known.” Dawson’s eyes flicked sideways, at Raztupisp-minz. “Wait. Second in leader status? Advisor?”

“Yes.”

“He came to me.”

“Raztupisp-minz, you permitted this?”

Breaker-One Raztupisp-minz hesitated, then gestured affirmation. “The Advisor thought he might find an unusual angle of approach. I thought it worth a try.”

Takpusseh’s thuktun at the time had been the Soviets. Raztupisp-minz had been studying Dawson alone. Balked by Takpusseh, Fathisteh-tulk would have had to go to Raztupisp-minz. “Dawson, what was said?”

The human still lacked skill in the speech of the thuktunthp. Questioning him took more time than the Herdmaster liked, but he persisted.

According to Dawscon’s tale, when he reached his room after his first foray into the ducts, there was a piece of cloth over his night light, and a fi’ was waiting for him. A pressure suit helmet and glove covered its face and digits.

“Then how can you know you spoke to Fathisteh-tulk?” the Herdmaster demanded.

“I make him take it off.”

“Did you. How?”

“Reason he was in my room, he will not tell. He asked questions. ‘We take Winterhome. Query: is this wrong? We use moons and circling rocks, not want planets. Query: is it true? Tell why. Tell if humans took wealth from space.’ ”

The rogue human shrugged. “I tell fi’, Wes Dawson. Congressman. 514-55-2316.”

“I don’t understand,” said the Herdmaster.

“Warrior under foot of enemy give his name, standing, and number, and not else.”

“Wrong. Tell more.”

“He said, ‘Dawson, you gave your surrender.’ I said, ‘I not surrendered to you. Who are you? If I talk to you, who is enraged?’ ”

The arrogant creature actually had a point. “Very proper.”

“He take his helmet off. I take the cloth off the light. He said, ‘I am the Herdmaster’s Advisor. Query: war with Earth is wrong? We want Space, not Earth?’

“I said, ‘Yes.’”

“Of course you did. Go on.”

“What is …” Dawson tried to wrap his mouth around an unfamiliar fithp word “… fufisthengalss?”

Dissident. “You have no need to know. Speak further.”

“He said he is fufisthengalss. Fufisthengalss are many. Fufisthengalss want to go away from Winterhome. I say, ‘It sound pretty to me. Query: I can help?’

“He said, ‘Give me reasons if Thuktun Flishithy leave Winterhome.’

“I tell him about loot of Moon and Mars and asteroids. Metals. Oxygen bound in rocks and dust. Things to make in free-fall, cannot do under thrust. Power from sunlight, not thinned by Winterhome air, not blocked by Winterhome storms and Winterhome night. We only begin to take the loot of space when you come to take the loot of Winterhome. Let us alone and we move all dirty industry to space, turn Winterhome into… into Garden.”

“Fathisteh-tulk would have enjoyed hearing that.”

“He enjoy. He is hurrying. He leave before I finish. I not see him after.” Dawson’s digits flicked toward the screen that showed Fathisteh-tulk’s corpse. “Some fithp disagree with fufisthengalssthp?”

“Did you have more to tell?”

“Yes. One time we have foolish entertainment given by television. Imaginary fithp from another star come to Winterhome, rob oceans of water for their own planet. No sense. Why not go to Saturn, the ringed gas giant for water, where it is already frozen to be moved with ease, where are no human fithp to shoot back?

“The tale sounds foolish enough, but—”

“Traveler Fithp are no smarter. Message Bearer is fithp home for eight-squared years or more. Supplied again at Saturn. Could last forever. Why you need to smash Winterhome?”

“That is in my thuktun, not yours. Do you know or guess who killed my Advisor?”

“Many fithp, not one. No fi’ does things alone.”

This insight was hardly worth the mentioning, save for one thing. The Herdmaster had asked around. Dissidents, warriors returned from Winterhome, mated and unmated females, juveniles: nobody knew anything. It seemed impossible… and even Dawson thought so. “You speak well. More?”

The human’s shoulders moved. “Not fufisthengalssthp, for Fathisteh-tulk must have been of that fithp. Not human, for he wanted to leave Winterhome unhurt. Did he offend Fistarteh-thuktun? Do fithp kill for what they believe?”

“We do. Why do you suspect Fistarteh-thuktun?”

“I do not. The warmakers, they killed the Herdmaster’s Advisor. Are they many? Can you choose one who is nearest to becoming rogue? Smashing Winterhome is a rogue’s act. You must have many possible rogues.”

The Herdmaster bristled. His urge was to kill the creature on the spot… yet he had never even considered the priest. “You have thought this through in detail. Why?”

“We love puzzles like this.” Dawson reverted to English, “Detective stories. I have read many. Tell me all you know of the Advisor’s death. It may be I can help.”

“Another time. Raztupisp-minz, you should not have concealed the Advisor’s activities. Did it never strike you that they might have caused his death?”

“No, Herdmaster. How could they?”

Pastempeh-keph splayed his digits. “I can’t know that yet. Tell Dawson what to say to his fithp on Winterhome. Afterward I will send you to Winterhome. The African fithp must have one who understands human behavior, and the Breaker fithp must learn more.”

Raztupisp-minz gasped, covered his scalp, and said nothing. The Herdmaster turned away. He would never have sent the leaders of the Breaker team into action except as punishment, and the Breaker knew it. Yet he was probably the best choice…

In a few 64-breaths there would be spin. The Herdmaster’s family mudroom would be available again.

Jenny had never seen the President look so tired. He wore a faded flowered robe, and his feet were thrust into slippers without socks. He took the cup of coffee Jack Clybourne brought without thanking him, and listened impassively as Jenny and Admiral Carrell delivered their report.

“In South Africa,” the President said. “Dr. Curtis was right, then. How do we know?”

“The cable through Dakar is still working,” Admiral Carrell said. “We have reports from their government in Pretoria. I wouldn’t count on that lasting. Understand, Mr. President, we know very little.”

“Is there anything we can do?” the President asked.

Carrell nodded to Jenny.

“We can’t think of anything, sir. We could try to send ships, but—”

“But they still have lasers and flying crowbars,” President Coffey said. “Tell me, Major, is there anything to oppose them?”

“South African Commandos,” Jenny said. “Their National Guard.”

“Don’t they have a regular army?”

“Yes, sir. They’ve always had the largest army on the continent. Most of it was on the seacoast.”

David Coffey ran both hands through his thinning hair, then carefully smoothed it down. “We can assume they destroyed the rest from orbit. What else?”

“Sir, there is — or at least there was, when we still had communications — a Soviet army about three thousand miles north of their landing zone, but we don’t even know if they’ve heard about the invasion.”

And when we call Moscow, nobody answers. We can’t count on the Russians.

The President nodded wearily. “They’ll see something weird happening in the sky. Can you get a message to them?”

“I don’t know. Or if they’d believe anything we said.”

“Try, Admiral. So. There’s nothing we have that can drive them out?”

Admiral Carrell shrugged. “Nothing I know of. We have a few missile subs. We could order them to attack — except that we can not know the precise areas to strike, and we can be certain they have placed their laser battle stations to protect their troops.”

“It took everything we had — everything we and the Russians had — to burn them out of Kansas,” the President said. “I guess it’s obvious. We won’t throw them out of South Africa.”

Jesus. Is he giving up?

“So long as they control space they can do as they will, Admiral Carrell said. “Suppose we throw them out of Africa. There are millions of asteroids in the solar system. Perhaps the will drop the next one on Colorado Springs. Or perhaps they bring in a series of smaller ones to land in San Francisco Bay, Lake Michigan, Chesapeake Bay …”

“Admiral, must we surrender?”

Carrell snorted. “You’re in command, Mr. President. I’m from Annapolis. For two years my table was just under the banner, ‘Don’t give up the ship.’ Certainly I won’t.”

“But—”

“Archangel,” Admiral Carrell said.

Coffey snorted. “Do you really believe in a spacecraft powered by atomic bombs?”

“It has to work,” Carrel! said.

“You’re saying that’s our only hope.”

“I know of no other.”

“I see.” The President looked thoughtful. “So everything depends on keeping secrets. If they learn, if they so much as get a hint that—” He frowned. “I’ve forgotten. Bellingham?”

“Yes.”

“They blast Bellingham, and we’re finished. All right. If that’s our best hope, let’s protect it. I want a personal progress report. Jenny.”

“Sir?”

“Send Jenny, Admiral. Promote her and send her up there.” He looked around the room and saw Jack Clybourne.

“Jack?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You must feel useless here.”

“Yes, sir. Hell, most of the time the only person who’s armed who can get within a mile of you is me.”

“You know security procedures. Go with Colonel Crichton and look into what they’ve set up at Bellingham.” The President ruined his hair again. “I should put on a swimsuit and go talk to the Dreamer Fithp.”

Jenny thought, What?

He grinned at her fleetingly. “The sci-fi writers, they cheer me up. They don’t tell me horrible things aren’t happening, I don’t mean that. But it doesn’t seem to bother them. They think bigger than that. Like an interstellar war is a great way to build up to the real story. And that tame snout of theirs — It helps to know that they will surrender if we can just hit them with something hard!”