Larry Niven - Footfall

“We didn’t have any trouble getting in,” Camell said dubiously

“Getting in isn’t the problem,” William Shakes said. “It’s getting out. And what will you do here?”

“Hell, there’s got to be work,” Fox said.

“That’s what we thought,” Kevin said. “All those Army people, Navy too. Trucks. Ships. But it’s like it’s in another country, a long way off. The only jobs are down in the harbor.”

“Doing what?”

“Nobody’s telling,” Kevin said.

“So we go to the harbor—”

“I thought of getting a job down there. Miranda’s friend warned me. It’s like the whole town. People go in, but they never come out.”

“Military staff,” Fox said. “I don’t suppose they need me. It rains all the time. Who needs a desert rat? Anywhere… What do they say they’re doing down there?”

“They say greenhouses,” Kevin said.

“I know greenhouses—”

“But that’s not it.”

“Something important,” Miranda said. “Important enough that the whole town doesn’t exist anymore. You never hear about it on the radio.”

“Something big,” Fox mused. “Something to hurt snouts?”

“Bound to be” Miranda shook her head wistfully. “That’s the only reason Jeananne would do that—”

“Jeananne?”

“Jeananne was a friend of mine. Some big shot from Washington came here and talked to her. Whatever he told her really got to her, because she told the Army about our radios. A whole bunch of soldiers came up to take them, the CBs, ham gear, everything. Not just here. Everywhere in Bellingham. But Jeananne, she brought them here!”

“Some friend,” Kevin said.

“What the hell could he have told her?” Fox demanded. “It must have been important.”

“I never got a chance to ask,” Miranda said. “After they searched the Enclave and took all our radios, they took her with them. I’ve never seen her since. Not that I want to.”

“Yeah, but if it hurts snouts—”

George Tate-Evans came in from the kitchen. He’d obviously been listening. “Okay, Fox, I give up,” George said. “What’s got you so pissed off at snouts?”

Fox’s eyes had a haunted look. “No matter what they did, people never hurt the Earth the way the snouts did. They don’t care. It’s not their planet. I could always get to people’s co sciences. How do I get to the snouts?”

“None of which solves our present problem,” William Shake said. “You can’t stay here. There’s barely enough for us to eat.”

“What do they do with people who come in and don’t have place to go?” Fox asked.

“I don’t know—”

“I don’t think I want to find out.” Fox looked out across the Enclave. “What’s in the greenhouses?”

“Squash. Tomatoes—”

“Know a lot about hydroponics?”

“We have books,” George Tate-Evans said.

“Sure you do. I wrote some of them.”

“I guess you did at that—”

“Let me see your compost heap.”

“Our what?”

“You must have a compost heap,” Fox said. “I taught you that much.”

“Yeah—” Shakes led the way outside.

Fox kicked at the layer of sodden dead grass that lay atop the mound. “You don’t turn it often enough. Not enough dirt mixed in, and you ought to be taking finished compost out from the bottom layer. You’ll have other stuff wrong, too. Like I thought you guys need me. Marty owns part of this place. He’ll work with me. We’ll earn our keep.”

Roger Brooks drank the last of his coffee. It tasted of burnt breadcrumbs. They made coffee with breadcrumbs in the British navy. Or at least the Hornblower novels said they did. Could Mrs. Tinbergen be doing that? She surely could!

Outside his boardinghouse window was pouring rain. It had been that way almost every day in the months since Footfall.

Rain, and everyone too busy to talk to me.

He repressed other memories: of Army guards ordering him away from the gate into Cheyenne Mountain, and one sergeant getting so impatient that he’d drawn his automatic; of the three weeks before he’d found a representative of the Post and got a new credit card so he didn’t have to fish in garbage cans for food…

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…

RAFAEL ARMANZEITI: Didn’t look like a Kansan. “I was aiming for the head, of course. It was standing broadside to me, and I shot at something and the recoil jerked it back and I thought I’d missed. It whipped around and I was looking right into that huge barrel while it pulled the trigger a dozen times in two seconds. I must have shot out the firing mechanism.