Larry Niven - Footfall

“Pheegorun was dying, and he thought to warn me. I had heard such talk from others since. But it is wrong! What if the thumbs let them make their machines smaller? We have the thultunthp to give us more powerful tools, and they have-only then selves.”

“You violated orders,” Fookerteh remarked. “You destroyed a entire fithp—”

“I did. I did it in rage, and I did it to correct my own mistake Shape your own lessons. We have lost only two more fithp in this region,” Chintithpit-mang said. “The others bring us cattle an milk.”

“Have you done it since?”

“No. Not yet. But it changes me, this war. I need the wisdom of the females. I need my mate.”

A light drizzling rain kept them zippered and sweating in their waterproofs. Today wasn’t bad. They had huddled through days of rain-laden gales that would have blown Harry’s motorcycle off the road.

The sign read BELLINGHAM city LIMITS. The freeway off-ramp led to what had once been a main road. Now it hardly looked used. They drove past closed service stations, closed motels, a closed Black Angus restaurant. One gas station was open, but there was a sign: NO GAS. NO SERVICES. I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M OPEN EITHER. WANT TEA?

Most of the houses were boarded up.

“Bellingham has an unfriendly look,” Roger shouted in his ear. It seemed to make him happy.

Where the hell was that turnoff? The map showed the main road forked, with one fork going off west around Western Washington University and down to the harbor-there it was. Harry took the other branch. It curved east and went under the freeway, past a shopping center that didn’t look completely closed. After that there were only houses.

The Enclave wasn’t easy to find. It lay at the end of a winding road, and it didn’t look much like the place that had once been described to Harry. It seemed too small, and the tennis court had become a greenhouse. There was a heavy fence, and a gate, with a big J. Arthur Rank kind of gong set up so he’d have to get off the bike and go past a concrete barrier to ring it. “They sure don’t encourage casual visitors. Which figures.

Harry drove slowly past, unsure. There was a small woods at the end from there they had a view of the area in front of the garage.

“John Fox! He’s there!” Roger shouted.—

“Fox? Oh, yeah, I remember him. Never met him,” Harry sal “How do you know?”

“How many pickup trucks have a California personalized license plate that reads ECOFREAK?”

“Oh. That one.” Harry turned the motorcycle around. “So now what?”

“We go in. Before, I just wanted a shower. Now I know I want to meet your friends.”

“Okay.” Harry stopped at the gate. The gong wasn’t as lot as he’d thought it would be.

Jack McCauley’s round face had picked up angles and a closely clipped black beard. Men wore beards these days, all across the country. His shoulders and arms had gained muscle mass; they strained his old shirt. “I’m telling you up front, we’ve got the room,” he said, “but drive on in. George’ll be glad to see you Harry. But what in hell is a newsman doing here?”—

Roger smiled lightly. “We’re planning a feature lifestyle. There’s a lot of interest in Colorado Springs on how the rest the country is doing.”

McCauley eyed Roger closely. “Yeah. Sure. Well, come on in but there’s no story here.”

The house and grounds looked like a construction site, Hart thought. They put the bike next to Fox’s truck. Roger looked it and nodded in satisfaction.

They found George Tate-Evans working on the greenhouse Harry wasn’t surprised to see that George was clean-shaven. H would be. George drove in a nail, straightened, stared at Harry and whistled. “It’s really Hairy Red.” He smiled warmly. “Dam all, Harry, you’re not as clean as you used to be, but somehow you look a lot better. How’s the back?”

“Wonderful. I haven’t had to see a lawyer in months. Mee Roger Brooks, with the Washington Post. We’ve both come out of Kansas.”

“Kansas. Harry, I expect everybody would like to hear some stories about Kansas. You’ve come all the way from Washington?

“Naw, from Colorado Springs,” Harry said.

“Colorado Springs,” George said carefully. “Yes, Harry, I guess you better come to dinner, as long as you understand the situation. There’s no room here, Harry. No spare beds.”

“We have tents—”

“Look around you. The only place you could put a tent would be in the driveway.”

— “We’ll think of something,” Harry said. He grinned. “Look, George, I’m used to telling tales for my supper. Tonight, though think you could throw in a shower?”

It didn’t surprise Roger Brooks that there was plenty of water, because there was water everywhere, too damned much water.

This was different. He showered in warm water; not as much as Roger wanted, because the pipes in the rooftop heat collector didn’t hold that much, but more than Roger had enjoyed for a long time.

I better enjoy it. I’ll pay for it. It had been a long trip. I chose the right guide. We got here. But now Harry will tell his war stories again…

The dining room was large, with a long table in the center. At one end was a lecturn. The whole place reminded Roger of the refectory in the Christian Brothers monastery they’d stopped in on the way up from Colorado Springs. The Brothers had taken in travelers the way monasteries did in medieval times. They’d also put all the local indolents to work in gardens and vineyards.

The room grew crowded. John Fox seemed genuinely glad to see Roger. Roger’s memory held the names as they came: a useful skill for a newsman. Fox’s friend Marty Carnell. George and Vicki Tate-Evans. Harry had called George “super survivor”; his wife was quiet, and it became clear that visitors made her uncomfortable. Isadore and Clara: Roger didn’t get their last names. Clara wanted to know what was happening in the capital. Others: the man at the gate, Jack McCauley. His wife was Harriet, and she was listening a lot while making up her mind about something.

Bill and Gwen Shakes occupied the head of the table. There were a lot of Shakes kids-a lot of kids, for that matter, and Roger let their names slip through his head unclaimed.

Shakes was concerned about Roger’s story. “We don’t need any publicity. Don’t need any, don’t want any. I’d tell you how tough things are if I thought you’d believe me.”

“I won’t be writing much about Bellingham,” Roger said. Or any other specific place. Anyway, if you’re worried about getting lots of new company, forget it. Harry and I could have stopped cold half a dozen times, and that’s on a motorcycle, press credentials and a gas ration card! Nobody’s coming to Bellingham.” And nobody’s printing anything about Bellingham. But before we left the Springs we went through all the files I could. Nothing, nothing at all, since long before the snouts dropped the Dinosaur Killer. I can taste it, a secret a year old, hidden from snouts and citizens alike — “A lot of people have come to Bellingham,” Harriet McCat said.

“Yes. It’s getting crowded,” Clara added. “The markets crowded. Lines, long lines for almost anything except staples dairy products”

“Hah. Most places there are lines for those, too,” Harry “Maybe you have it better than you think.”

Dinner was spaghetti. There wasn’t any meat in the sauce, there was cheese, and fresh stewed tomatoes from the greenhouse. Conversation became local while they ate.