Footfall (52 page)

The Navy had come twice before, first for the CBs, then for Roger Brooks. Both times they had come in force — but not like this. You could hardly hear the wind for the roar of motors, and they were only just pulling up! Armored trucks lined the road. It must be a nuisance for them, John Fox thought. All that gasoline. But they know we’ve got guns, and somebody might do something stupid if there was just a truckful of them. He counted eight trucks, and more vehicles behind them. New cars, old cars, decrepit civilian trucks, a score of them thinning out of sight into the rain.

Four men climbed out of the third vehicle and came up to the gate. They looked nervous. One was the sheriff, old Ben Lafferty. Three were Navy, and Fox had seen one of them on their second visit: Commander Arnold Kennedy. Kennedy stepped forward an said, “You know we’re coming in. We’ve been through this before. John Fox’s worries were growing. Nobody had come out the house to join him; what did that mean? Were they getting ready to shoot it out?

Two more came up. Miranda Shakes, and that deputy sheriff she dated.

“It’s all right, John,” Miranda said.

“What is it this time? Who the hell are they?” Fox waved back down the road.

“Your neighbors,” Sheriff Lafferty said.

“Civilians seeking refuge,” Commander Kennedy said, “and you will by God give it to them. We’re prepared to shoot the top off your house. What we want is the use of your bomb shelter for about two hours.”

Fox nodded. Orion, he thought. Now. “How many are there?”

“About three hundred.”

“You’re crazy. Even elbow to elbow—”

“And on top of each other too. This is serious. You tell the rest of ’em in there, this is serious. If they start shooting we’ll take the house off the top of the shelter. It’ll go anyway. Now, you and I are going up to the house.”

They walked around the greenhouse and up to the front door. Kennedy rang the bell.

The invaders trooped through the house and through the “secret” door and down.

There were storekeepers and Navy and Indians, grandparents and children and infants. Two old men and a heavy middle-aged woman had to be lifted from wheelchairs, carried inside, and deposited in the three decks of bunks. The wheelchairs stayed in the living room, along with everything else, suitcases, briefcases, picnic baskets, even heavy overcoats. The living room looked like a rummage sale. The rug was a swamp. Clara was too angry to scream, but Bill Shakes raged.

“We’ll have to tear up the floor to get rid of all they’ve trucked in! We’ve got one — count ’em, one — bathroom down there, and we’ll have to pack people in that too. We’ll have to fumigate — Commander, who’s going to pay for all this? What are you laughing at?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shakes. You submit a bill for damages. I guarantee you it’ll be honored, but you’d better wait an hour before you add up that bill, Mr. Shakes!”

George Tate-Evans felt his insides turning to water. What were we supposed to do, conduct a point defense against the Navy? We’ve got enough firepower here to get us all killed dead, and not even Jack lost his head quite that bad. Thank God. But they … none of them thought it through … The Navy searched us whe they came for the CBs, so they knew we had a bomb shelter. Half of Bellingham is trooping through our basement because we’ve got a bomb shelter, a bomb shelter! “Commander, what happens in one hour?”

“That’s still classified.”

“Are you out of your—”

“You had a fuck of a lot of radio equipment, and I’m not sure in my heart that we got it all, and the sheriff used his car radio to try to alert the populace! You almost died then, Mr… Tate Evans. I’ll tell you when I can. Really.”

“But what do we prepare for? How long will we be in there?”

“Hours, not days. Without us it would have been days,” Kennedy said. “We’ve got decontamination equipment parked outside ready.”

“Decontam—”

Up the stairs came a riot of noise. People were jammed in the stairwell, all the way to the thick iron trapdoor. “Something I think we’d better do,” Isadore said. “Pass out all the booze. I mean it Bill. You heard the commander, the Navy’ll pay for it. But that’s a supercooled riot in there, and something awful’s about to happen and we’ll want them tranquil.”

“Right. Medicine too,” George said. The living room held only Navy men and the legitimate owners. “Commander, get your men to carrying booze. I’ll get the medical kit. We’ll set up on the stairs. Force the rest of those carpetbaggers down to leave the stairs clear. And then I’ll offer you a drink.”

“Not for—” The Commander checked his watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes. And then I’m prepared to drink a toast.”

There were no windows on Michael. The control room was buried deep in Michael’s heart, between the water tanks, with the tower to shield it too. For Harry and the others there was nothing by TV screens.

Somewhere outside, there were still people to talk to Gillespie. “Nothing from the President. If anything comes, it’ll be a messenger. We’ve got a tight phone to the gate.”

Gillespie said, “If a digit ship changes course anywhere, I want to know it.”

And the tinny response: “We’re getting some action from the ships we attacked, but nothing aimed here.”

“How long?”

“Eight minutes.”

There were cameras everywhere, inside and outside Michael. One camera on the wall of the dome showed all of the great ship: the Shell, the placement guns protruding under the rim, six towers around the base; the Brick standing above them, its flat sides hung with smaller spacecraft, shadowed by the overhang of the nose. The dome that had swarmed with activity, day and night, for months, now looked deserted, silent, empty.

Gillespie turned toward the repair crew. “Five minutes. Close your faceplates now.” Then, by intercom, “Testing. Can you all hear me?”

They responded.

“All personnel outside Michael, get to the shelter. And thank you all.”

A dozen crash couches covered the floor. Harry and Rohrs and Gamble and the others were strapped down like mental patients; the only difference was that they could pull their arms free. An umbilical carried oxygen from the wall, and made a cold spot on Harry’s chest. Harry was feeling claustrophobic. And elated! Here’s Harry the Minstrel in a by-god space suit, waiting for launch!

Rohrs said, “It’ll be rough on the pilots, riding outside like that.”

“At least they’ve got windows,” Harry said.

Someone said, “Here we lie, waiting for an atom bomb to go off under our asses …”

“There has to be a more graceful way to say that,” Tiny Pelz said. Dr. Pelz was an atomjack, built heavy and strong. He looked strange with his bushy black beard shaved off to fit him into the pressure suit.

The desks and tables and phones and lines were all gone. The ready room was neat and clean. Padded handholds lined the walls and ceiling.

Harry remembered the men in Kansas who had gone forth to battle the enemy with tanks. They talked to keep their courage up. Harry didn’t know these men. Young, strong, healthy — if he told them about his back problem, what would they say? Pelz would understand, or Rohrs, or Gamble.

“One minute,” said a tinny voice, “and I’m going.”

They watched for bright light in their screens. The snout meteor could fall at any second. The silence grew thick, the tension stretched until Harry could stand it no longer. He bellowed, “Sancho! My armor!”

The youthful faces looked at him. Some were grinning. He heard Gillespie’s grunt of disgust and saw Gillespie’s elbow move. An atomic bomb went off under Harry Reddington’s ass.

Maintaining a civilization in here was going to be worse than Isadore had thought. He’d never seen human beings crowded close. Miranda and her deputy sheriff shared a bunk. All the bunks held two or three each, and if the supports collapsed the bunk would not fall. There was no room.

He heard, “Oh, God, it’s another meteor!” and wished he hadn’t. It could start an epidemic of fear; and it might be true. Bill Shalt was still fulminating at Commander Kennedy, who still hadn’t lost his temper, quite.

“Hey, Bill,” Isadore bellowed. Nothing less would be hear “We always prepare for the wrong disaster. You told us. Remember?”

Shakes turned. “Well, this idiot won’t tell me what disaster we are prepared for.”

“Reminds me,” Commander Kennedy shouted. “Just how did you go about constructing this place?”

“We built it good. Two layers of — why? You crammed two thousand Indians in here with no deodorant, and now you want to know it’s safe?”

“I do.”

“It’s safe. Two layers of concrete separated by—”

The sound of the end of the world slammed against the ceiling, For a moment that incredible crowd was totally silent. Then it came again: SLAM.

Commander Kennedy whooped. “They made it! They’re up! It’s—”

SLAM

“-first bomb fails you just start over.”

SLAM

“If the second bomb fails, you’re already—”

SLAM

“-already in the air. You’ll fall. They’re on their—”

SLAM

“-way, by God! You can give me that drink now.”

SLAM

God was knocking, and he wanted in bad.

WHAM

WHAM

WHAM

quiet

“The respite will be brief,” Gillespie bellowed. Harry barely heard him in the silence after the bombs. How many were there? Twenty? Thirty?

“Stay in harness and be ready for acceleration.”

Goddam! We made it! The screens showed little but clouds. Harry caught a glimpse of Vancouver Island and the Straits of Juan de Fuca. There would be nothing to see but the Pacific Ocean anyway. Presently Earth was a shallow arc, cloud-white, and beyond it a winking light, blip blip blip. “Digit ship under power, two o’clock high!”

“Roger, I see it,” Gillespie said.

“There’s another!” Ensign Franklin shouted into the mike, then lowered his voice and tried to sound like an astronaut. “Nine o’clock low, far away. Accelerating.”

“Roger. Stand by for acceleration. Fire.”

Harry was shoved back against his couch. In the moment before thrust resumed, the screens showed lines of spurt bombs leaving their rails on all sides. The spurt bombs looked like fasces, bundles of tubes around an axis made up of attitude jets and cameras and a computer. They moved in straight lines past the rim of the Shell, turning as they went …”

WHAM

Harry waited. Nothing. Then Gillespie’s voice in the intercom.

WHAM

WHAM

The nearer of the blinking lights had gone out. The view in one screen expanded once and again. Something showed dim against the stars. How far?

“Object in view, nine o’clock low.” Franklin had his voice under control now. He sounded like Chuck Yeager in The Right Stuff. “Might be Big Mama.”

“Roger. acceleration.”

Gillespie sounds tired already. Maybe he’s just bored?

WHAM

WHAM

Spurt bombs rained into the blast. The forward view jittered but that distant object was too blunt to be a digit ship. Other cameras swung in arcs… and that glare-green star was a digit ship, and it had found them with its lasers.

Harry switched the intercom to local. “Max, when do we turn the Shuttles loose?”

“Not for a while.”

“But—”

“Just now we can shoot anything that moves.”

“But if we wait too long—”

“Harry, we all have work to do. Ed flies the ship, we watch for bandits.”

“Yeah.” And when the ship gets holes in it, we go fix it. That’s democracy.

WHAM

WHAM

Harry lost count of the explosions.

“Blue fire around primary target,” Ensign Franklin said. He was shouting again. “Sir, I think they’re accelerating.”

“Roger.”

WHAM

WHAM

Harry’s universe was a madness of noise and jolts, as if a giant had put him in a garbage can and used the can for a field hockey puck.

Quiet.

“Looks quiet for a while. Keep your straps on, and take a break.”

Harry opened his faceplate. So did the others in the damage control section.

“I think we took out that first digit ship. The second is receding; it can’t slow down in time to hurt us, and the third is around back of the Earth. Odds are we won’t see another digit ship for the next hour.

“We’re moving toward the prime target. It’s running away. We’ll give the computers a chance to gather data so we can tell which way to run. God knows, big as that thing is, once it gets started it won’t turn fast! When we launch the Shuttles, we’ll have to switch over from automatic aiming for the laser weapons. We’ll hang on to the Shuttles and gunships as long as we can.”

“Enjoy,” Max Rohrs said. He took out a pack of cigarettes. “Anybody really mind?” He offered them around. Harry reached out eagerly.

Ensign Franklin said pointedly, “There are studies that prove smoking takes ten years off your life. Harry, you really ought to give that up.”

“Well, I don’t believe in statistics. What about Max?”

“He’s smoked so long it will probably kill him about—” Franklin looked at the wall chronometer “-now, and I’ll be in command of damage control.”

Nobody wanted a second cigarette. Harry tried to relax; half close his eyes, to look like Franklin and his two Navy boatswain’s mates. His three personal TV sets showed unchanging views down access ducts within the Brick. Harry began playing with the view. Steam pipes; more steam pipes; outside, looking past the attitude jets into the overhang of the nose shield…

“Bandits,” Franklin said. “Half a dozen pulsing lights, west and a little south… more of them… start just above the arc of the Earth, you can follow them up to the primary target. They’re all accelerating.”

“Got them,” said Gillespie.

Harry slammed his faceplate shut. So did the others, but more slowly, deliberately. The lights were far apart, and they changed with relation to each other. Don’t panic. Calmly and deliberately as he could, Harry adjusted his straps. No one was watching. Pity.

Michael’s nose was a thick shield, and the butt plate ought to stand up to anything. Turn either of those toward danger and you couldn’t be harmed. But if danger came from half a dozen directions …

WHAM

WHAM

WHAM

Michael was pulsing too, and the spurt bombs were throwing gamma-ray lasers. Death rays! Eat hot gamma rays, foolish Centaurans!

WHAM

WHAM

One of the pulsing lights went out.

“Another one… Bandit, south, just above Europe.”

“Stand by. Maneuvering.”

Harry heard the faint hiss of steam jets. The drive explosions stopped, and Michael was turning, before Harry spotted the other lights.

“Bandits to starboard. I think those are missiles.” Tiny flames, wavering against the stars.

“Roger.”

Blam. Blam. After the shocks of the drive bombs, the big antimissile guns were almost gentle.

“Stand by. Maneuvering. Acceleration.”

WHAM

They attack at night. They know us that well. For us it is night. For them it is day. I should have expected this. Do the prey have other surprises for me?

Already the Herdmaster knew that he had been tricked. He had been strapped to his acceleration pad for an hour now, on duty to handle further emergencies; but this was not what he had expected.

It pulsed like a digit ship, but more slowly. Half a breath passed between explosions. We taught them that, the Herdmaster thought. It looked bigger than a digit ship, smaller than Message Bearer.

Four digit ships, the lowest in their various orbits about Winterhome, converged on the intruder. The Herdmaster saw the pulse drive fail on one of them. He watched, and another died.

How did they do that? They’re killing my fithp! “Defensemaster, you lead Message Bearer now.”

“I obey.”

There were sounds. The screens showed sixteen mounted digit ships released from their ring around Message Bearer’s stern. They formed an expanding ring about the mother.ship.

“Prepare. No spin. Prepare.” The Defensemaster’s voice was sent through the ship.

Spin decreasing. Digit ships launched, to form a defense screen. And where are the others?

He had lost several himself, an hour ago.

There had been eight digit ships in twelve-hour polar orbits, passing repeatedly over various parts of Winterhome. Two of those had been attacked by missiles from the sea. Attackmaster Koothfektil-rusp had agreed with his assessment: the missiles were a diversion like the attack that preceded the bombing of the Kansas foothold. The prey had already aimed one missile at the fithp base in Johannesburg. Surely there would be more. Pastempeh-keph had set several digit ships to converge on Africa, ready to fire on missiles aimed at the African foothold.

Wrong! Five, perhaps six could not reach the intruder in time to fight.

He tapped rapidly, summoning knowledge. Four digit ships were already rising from the Moon. Those carried material to wherever the war effort needed meteors. But, though two were empty, though they had risen as soon as the enemy ship was sighted, they would not arrive in time. Still, meteors would be needed. The enemy ship had to come from somewhere.

The ships patrolling Africa: could he use them? Sixteen were in eccentric geosynchronous orbits: dropping low while they moved east, falling outward, drifting west while they arced around and fell back; but always over Africa. Ten of those were in the upper arcs of their orbit, above Message Bearer. Lower above Africa, the remaining six were low enough to engage the enemy. The Defensemaster was doing his frenetic best to coordinate their efforts… and three were not responding.

He eavesdropped … The fi’ talking to the Defensemaster sounded sick, or mentally deficient. He had something like hiccups. “… like a laser attacked us, but not like. Heat all through the ship, fuel pressure very high, as if light we cannot see was shining all through the hull. Gamma ray, it may be, but where do they find their power? We were eight-cubed of makasrupkithp distant!”

“Can you fight your ship?”

“No. We cannot breath, can you hear? Shookerint-buth has stopped. I can’t control my digits or my legs. Controls burnt out too.”

Enough of this. Mourn in daylight. “Defensemaster.” Tantarent-fid broke contact with the sick fi’. “You will be certain Attackmaster Koothfektil-rusp is aware of the situation.”

“Herdmaster, I’m doing all I can. What could he tell us?”

“Possibly nothing. This is your thuktun. I will see that he is told.” He gestured to one of his aides. “It is important that you and the Attackmaster coordinate digit ships for simultaneous attack.”

“It will be done, Herdmaster.”

“Talker, get me Takpusseh-yamp.” Be glad even of small benefits: the mating season was over. “Breaker-two, is Tashayamp available too? Good. Send Tashayamp to fetch Rogachev from the human restraint cell and bring him to the bridge. You come straight here.”

Night. Jeri lay curled against his chest. It was a frustrating experience, sleeping with a woman in a public place, a woman who did not care that her daughter knew what she did with Arvid Rogachev, but who would not let anyone see her behave improperly. Alien speech sounded. The room tilted sideways. Arvid felt Jeri’s nails dig into his arm.

The others stirred. “What is it?” Jeri demanded.

She believes that I know everything.

Dmitri shouted in Russian.

So does he. “Wait. What else can we do?”

Presently the door warning light came on. Tashayamp stood at the entrance. “Rogachev. You will come.”

Takpusseh-yamp moved at a slant. It wasn’t exactly a run, yet it was fast. His body tilted against Message Bearer’s awkward acceleration. Message Bearer was losing its spin. The Herdmaster must be preparing for acceleration.

The bridge was frantically busy. The Herdmaster summoned him with a wave, and pointed. “I want to know what to expect from that.”

Takpusseh-yamp looked at three displays of the sky. Black, star-sprinkled, with a crescent of Winterhome showing large — and a black dot that flashed light around its edge. There were sparkles in the flash.

“I am not a technician.”

“How did I know you would say that? Breaker-two, I can learn about that craft. Assume that there are humans in it. Assume length of twice eight-cubed srupkithp or less, and half that in width. It moves in the manner of a digit ship, but more crude! — probably using fission bombs instead of deuterium fusion. Assume a bumpy ride. Query: humans can tolerate more shock than we can?”

“Yes.”

“Assume at least one weapon which we can’t describe. Query what do they want to do with this?”

“Win a war.” — The intruder had stopped pulsing.

The Herdmaster said, “But of course they—”

“No, listen, Herdmaster. This is no demonstration, to give them higher rank after surrender. If there were two of these, they would have sent two. If they know it to be inadequate, they would not send it until they could build two. I am no Predecessor. I guess my best guess is that this device is expected to set a human foot on the Traveler Fithp.”

“How?”

“You spoke of a new weapon. Remember that the human fithp must write their own thuktunthp.”

At that moment the unknown ship seemed to explode. Message Bearer must have looked like this when the digit ships were loosed on the USSR space station. Ships were spreading out around it … “Defensemaster, how big are those ships?”

“Tiny. No fi’ would fit the small ones. They must be automatic. Two or three might wedge themselves into the large—”

Takpusseh said, “Automatic, perhaps. Perhaps one human each.”

Hardly volunteers… rogues, captured, then forced into ships launched, then expected to perform alone in space and under fire with no similar mind nearby, no contact with the herd… “No. Ridiculous. These are big automatic devices. We would not have built so large.”

“’Now my digits are whole again,’ remember? Human rogues may cooperate.”

It was still nonsense. The devices were tiny. Even a single rogue man would not fit. “Take an acceleration pad, Takpusseh. Remain. Defensemaster, is the drive ready?”

“No, Herdmaster. I need another sixteen sixty-four-breaths. The alien device would need sixteen times as long to reach us. We could move if I had kept the digit ships mounted, but—”

“Better to set them free to defend us, yes.”

The doorway opened. Tashayamp entered, with the human. Takpusseh-yamp curled his digits, a private message of affection. She pretended not to see.

“Tashayamp! Excellent.” The Herdmaster gestured her toward his station. “I will need you to translate. Arvid Rogachev, look at this.”

The human stood tilted, looking about the bridge. He came forward, lurching, gripping consoles and machinery where he could. Screens showed him the intruder pulsing against the dark night side of Winterhome. “What is this?”

“Man, I expect you to tell me that!”

“Lead me.” Rogachev braced himself against a console and continued to watch.

The intruder had resumed acceleration, but more slowly now. The smaller ships diverged on what had to be chemical flame: some toward the two closest of the digit ships now converging from low orbit above Africa; some moving ahead, toward Message Bearer. One enemy flared, then became a fog.