Larry Niven - Footfall

“It must have known I was going to shoot it.” Armanzeiti had laughed. “It did the damnedest thing. It fell over and rolled, just like I’d already shot it. Belly up, legs in the air, just like a dog that’s been trained to play dead.”

“You shot it?”

“Sure. But, my God! How stupid do they think we are?”

JACK CODY: “When that beam started spiraling in on us, Greg Bannerman just pulled the chopper hard left and started us dropping. ‘Jump out,’ he said. No special emphasis, but loud. Me, I jumped. I hit water and there was bubbles all around me. Then the lake lit up with this weird blue-green color. I could see the whole lake even through the bubbles. Fish. Weeds. A car on its back. Bubbles like sapphires.

“Something big splashed in, and then stuff started pattering down, metal, globs of melted helicopter-I’ve got one here, I caught it while it was sinking.

“The light went out and I came up for air-there was a layer of hot water-and then I looked for the big chunk, and it was Chuck, waving his arms, drowning. I pulled him out. When I saw his back I thought he was a deader. Charred from his heels to his head. I started pushing on his back and he coughed out a lot of water and started breathing. I wasn’t sure I’d done right. But the chare was just his clothes. It peeled off him and left him, like, naked and sunburned, except his hands. Black. Crisp. He must have put his hands over his neck.

“But we’d be dead like the rest if we didn’t just damn well trust Greg Bannerman. Here’s to Greg.”

LAS ANIMAS, COLORADO: prosperous man, middle-aged, in good shape. Gymnasium-and-massage look. Good shoes, good clothes, all worn out.

He needed a lift. I didn’t want to stop, but Rosalee made me do it. Said he looked like somebody I ought to know. Damn, that woman has a good head for a story. Good head—

HARLEY JACKSON GORDON.

“I kept passing dead cars. Then burning cars. I tried to pick up some of the people on foot, but they just shook their heads. It was spooky. Finally I just got out and left my Mercedes sitting in the road. I walked away, and then I went back and put my keys in it. Maybe someone can use it, after this is all over, and I couldn’t stand the thought of that Mercedes just rusting in the road. But it felt like bad luck. So I walked. And yes, the snouts came, and yes, l rolled over on my back, but I don’t much like talking about that part, if you don’t mind.”

COLORADO SPRINGS: GENEVIEVE MARSH.

Tall, slender, not skinny. Handsome. Solid bones. No money. Nervous. Sick of talking with military people. Wanted a change. Dinner and candles. Rosalee left me the money to buy her dinner and bugged out.

Goddam. She’d make a hell of a reporter if she could write.

“They had us for two days. We thought they were getting ready to leave, and I guess they were, and they were going to take us with them. We all felt it. But on the last day some of them brought in a steer and some chickens and a duck, or maybe it was a goose. The aliens took us out of the pen, and they looked us over. Then they pulled me out, and I was hanging on to Gwen and Beatrice so tight I’m afraid I hurt them. And that crazy man from Menninger’s who spent all his time curled up with his head in his arms, they pulled on one arm and he had to follow. He never stopped swearing. No sense in it, just a stream of dirty words. They aimed us at the road and one of them s-swatted me on the ass with its-trunk? And I started walking, pulling Gwen along, Beatrice in my arms, and then we ran. Beatrice was like lead. We didn’t wait for the crazy man. When the spaceship took off we were far enough away that we only got a hot wind, and that glare. But they took the rest with them, and the animals took our place.” (Laughter). “Maybe they think the steer will breed!”

NEAR LOGAN.

Whole bunch, all types, digging around in a wrecked Howard Johnson’s. Nobody’s too proud to root for garbage now. Shit.

GINO PIETSCH.

“I knew there’d be a tornado shelter. Every building in Kansas has something, even if it’s a brick closet in a motel room., I broke in, and I found the tornado closet, and I hid. The snouts never even came looking. I guess they didn’t care much, if you were the type to hide. Every so often I came out just long enough to get water. And I was in the closet when the bombs came, and getting pretty hungry, but not hungry enough to come out. How much radiation did I get? Am I going to die?”

LAUREN, KANSAS:

That page was nearly blank. Roger stared at it. I have to write it down some day. Damn. Damnation.

Not just yet…

ROGER BROOKS, NATHANIEL REYNOLDS, ROSALEE PINELLI, CAROL NORTH.

The snouts were all over the city. George Bergson came up with the notion of using Molotov cocktails to wreck a snout tank…

The guitarists put away their instruments at last. Roger got up unsteadily. Three corn-whiskey sours had hit him harder than he’d expected. He moved over to the man with the fading red beard.

“Mr. Reddington?” “Hairy Red, that’s me. And you?”

“Roger Brooks. Washington Post. Capital Post now.”

“Yeah?”

Gotcha! Heroes need publicity. “I hear you have some good stories to tell. I’m collecting war stories. Drink?”

“Sure, but I gotta run. My ride leaves in five minutes.” Reddington turned to the bar. “Watney’s, Millie.”

“Money, Harry.”

“On me,” Roger called. “Things are tough, eh?”

“Toward the end of the month,” Harry admitted. “The Arms gives me a little something, but I had a bad run at poker—”

“Sure—”

“I get gasoline, too,” Harry said. “But I can’t sell that. Use it or lose it.”

Roger let Harry lead him to a table. They sat, and Roger studied Harry while opening his notebook. Beard and hair trimmed. Corn. Patiently but not artistically. Clothes are clean and almost new and don’t quite fit. Supplied by the Army? “Harry, we have a lot to talk about. I’d like to buy you dinner.” He took out the gold Amec card and handed it to the barmaid.

Reddington hesitated a bare instant. “May I bring a friend?”

“Sure. What time do you like?”

“Call it seven-thirty.”

The Friendly Snout was more crowded now, with citizens and Army and Navy personnel.

The civilians had dinner. The service people drank.

“I like it,” Rosalee said. “But where do they get the food?”

“Mess sergeants making a bit on the side,” Roger said. “That’s why the service types won’t eat here.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Don’t have to.”

She drew away from him in mock horror. “But Roger, it’s news, and you’re not digging it out—”

“Now just a damn minute—”

“Gotcha!”

“Yeah, okay. Look, Rosalee, it would only be a little story. No prizes. And I’d get half the Army on my case, and I don’t need—”

“Roger, I’m the one who keeps telling you to relax!”

Roger let thick sarcasm creep into his voice. “By their standard there were no menus. Prices were listed on a blackboard, mostly too high.

“The drinks are dependable,” Roger said.

“Dependable?”

“You can depend on them to take the lining out of your throat. Harry was drinking a brand-name beer, but I noticed there was yeast in the bottom of the bottle… Anyway, they take plastic.”

“Oh, goody. Is that him?” She glanced toward the doorway. “Hairy and red. But he’s with three people.”

“Hardly surprising-Carlotta!” Roger bounded across the room.

Carlotta Dawson grinned widely and came to meet him. “I thought it had to be you from what Harry told me. I saw your column—”

“You knew I was out here and you didn’t come find me?”