Larry Niven - Footfall

“No shit, Roger. A thousand motherfucking atom bombs, all identical. They got special crews to work with them. Call them atomjacks.”

A thousand atom bombs. Why? Atom bombs, welders, big steel plate — Atom bombs. Big hemispheric steel plate. Long-buried memories surfaced. Freeman Dyson and Ted Taylor. Lectures at a meeting of the L-5 Society, that bunch of fanatics who wanted to put colonies into space. Steel plates and atom bombs and a whole moon colony comes down in one piece. Don’t worry about the landing spot because it’ll be flat when you get down. Christ on a crutch.”

“What?” Harry took the keys from his pocket and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Nothing.” They let people in, but if they search on the way out…

Roger waited until Harry’s attention was fully on the truck. Then he took the big jack handle from the floor of the cab and rose silently.

“Reddington,” the guard said. Roger sighed in relief. As he’d thought, this was a new one, not the one who’d passed Harry into Bellingham. The guard shined his flashlight onto Roger’s face. Roger clenched his eyes against the light. . distorting his face.

“Sorry. Mind moving that blanket?”

“Sure.” Roger turned from the light, twisting to lift the blanket from over the space behind the seat. I’d have been just there…

The guard was thorough. He looked behind the seats and under the truck. He inspected the pass. He looked at his clipboax notes and compared times.

But he was polite enough not to shine the light in Roger’s eye again…

Harry woke in a bare-walled office. He was lying on a cot. Two Air Police sat at a desk across the room. When Harry groaned and opened his eyes, one of the APs went out the door.

“What the hell?” Harry demanded.

He got no answer at all. The AP didn’t smile or get up or d anything at all.

Presently the door opened. The first AP came in with a mat in U.S. Air Force coveralls. Four stars gleamed from the shoulders.

“Thank you, Airman,” the general said. He turned his attention to Harry. “All right, Mr. Reddington, would you care to tell us what’s going on here?”

“Sure-hey! You’re General Gillespie.” Harry had watched TV coverage of the last Shuttle launch, a lifetime ago. Gillespie looked many years older.

He said, “That’s obvious enough. Now who are you?”

“You said my name—”

“Mister, you have about twenty seconds to start explaining.”

Oh, shit! “General, could you make that a minute? I’m just getting used to the idea that Roger whacked me on the head.”

“Roger?”

“Roger Brooks, sir.”

“Roger Brooks.”

Shit fire, that name registered.

“I take it that the man who left this post using your credentials was Roger Brooks, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you and Brooks came to see Mrs. Gillespie. I take it that was Roger’s idea.”

“Sure. Didn’t do him any good, though.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She threw him out.”

“I see.”

Shit, what have I got into?

“Your minute is up, Reddington.”

“Yes, sir. Look, it started in Colorado Springs. Actually, it started earlier.” Talk fast! Harry babbled, how Congressman Wes left Harry in charge of his house, how Harry and Carlotta Dawson had captured a snout and Harry got a presidential citation and a gas ration card — “Later,” Gillespie interrupted.

“Dammit, General, I’m telling you the truth!”

“Oddly enough, I believe you. For now, though, I have a different question. Where has Roger Brooks gone?”

The Enclave looked normal, no one near the gate but Miranda Shakes. Roger drove up carefully.

He was tempted to drive on past, take the logging trail and fire roads that led to the Nooksack Valley, and continue east past Mount Baker. Great idea. One problem. Harry knows about those fire roads. He’ll tell.

Even if Harry wouldn’t tell about the route east, the truck would never get to Colorado Springs. The motorcycle would.

Emotions chased their way through Roger’s mind. I’ve got a secret, a big secret, the biggest ever. Wow! No wonder they made Bellingham vanish. Orion!

If they catch me, they’ll lock me up until the war’s over. I need insurance. There’s only one kind of insurance that can work. I have to tell an editor now, quick, so the Post will keep looking for me if they try to hide me somewhere.

Great plan. One problem. No telephones. No radios. Not even a CB. How am I going to tell the Post?

If I can’t tell the Post, who can I tell?

“Hello, Roger,” Miranda Shakes said. “Where’s Harry?”

“Trying to pick up some supplies. I’ll take the bike down to meet him and then we’ll move on. Here’s the truck key.”

“Where to?”

“Back to Colorado Springs.” I have to get moving. Harry can wake up any minute.

“Is something wrong, Roger?”

“Huh? No, it’s just a long ride back. I’m not looking forward to it.” Their packs stood next to the motorcycle. It took only a moment to lift them onto the rack and lash them in place. And now what? If they catch me-they could do anything.

What will I do if I get away? Damn, it’s a big story, the biggest, too big? Like finding out about the atombomb before they dropped it on Japan. Can’t print it, can’t let the snouts find out, but— But people have to know, have to know there’s hope. So man doesn’t give up, think there’s no chance. They have to know then is a chance.

How? How to tell people but not snouts? There has to be way. It won’t happen if they catch me. They’ll lock me up, secrets security, they’ve made this whole town a prison. There’s too good a chance they’ll catch me and just make me vanish, an unperson. I need insurance. Maybe I need something else, too. Maybe I need help getting out of Bellingham. “Is Fox around?” “In the greenhouse.”

John Fox. If there’s anybody who can get out of Bellingham and back to the Springs, it’s Fox. He has friends everywhere. Jus telling him can be good insurance.

There was something reassuring in the smell of the greenhouse. It smelled like life. A green and brown smell, plants and rich dirt, growth and decay.

John Fox didn’t turn as Roger came up behind him. He was even thinner than Roger remembered. The chamois shirt and lederhosen hung from bones and long, hard muscles. He was pulling smaller sprouts from a tray, leaving the largest. “Have to transfer these in a few days,” he said.

“John?”

“Wha— Roger? What’s news?” And he chuckled.

“The Navy’s got a thousand atom bombs in the harbor complex.”

Fox turned, stared into Roger’s face. “You went in?”

“Yeah. A thousand atom bombs all exactly alike, and they’re making an enormous steel hemisphere. Ed Gillespie is running it all. Thousands of workmen, and they’re all welders or atomjacks. What does that mean to you?”

“Orion.” A smile flickered, then died. “They’re building an Orion.”

“Yeah, and launching an Orion, John. A thousand bombs going off one by one under that plate. I seem to remember you like preserving the environment. Can you imagine what that’ll do to Bellingham?”

Fox nodded. His eyes seemed curiously unfocused. “You’re going to publish?”

“Publish? I’m telling you. At least the Enclave can get their heads down when it happens. But what about Bellingham? Shouldn’t they know?”

Fox was still nodding. “And who else?”

That was the sticking point. “John, I’m not totally sure. Maybe there’s no way to tell the people and keep it from the snouts. The Navy’s right about that; the snouts can’t learn. They can’t take their CBs away from the whole country! At the same time—”