Larry Niven - Footfall

“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!”