Larry Niven - Footfall

“You’ll think of something.” Fox lashed out.

Roger was doubled over. Something huge and heavy had tried to drive itself through his solar plexus and the spine behind it. Through a haze of pain he tried to sense, to orient… Fox had hit him. His bony elbow was crooked around Roger’s neck, squeezing. Roger could barely breathe. They were walking…

The pressure constricted his voice to a whisper. “I only wanted. To tell you. You. I hadn’t decided. Anything else. John, let—”

Fox released a hand to push a door open. Roger thrashed. The elbow tightened. Oh, God, Fox was strong. “I know you,” Fox said. “You want that Pulitzer Prize. You’d publish. You’d tell the aliens yourself if that was the only way to get it out.”

They were bending over, Fox’s weight pushing him down, face down into water. Roger got his hands on a cool, hard surface and pushed up. The porcelain rim of a toilet. He was drowning in a toilet… and he couldn’t get his face high enough… and the strength was leaking out of him while the urge to breathe grew to agony. I hadn’t decided! I hadn’t decided!

Digit Ship Forty-nine carried vitamins for the human fithp, stock of plants and frozen meat for analysis, seeds and small animal and an infant elephant, and three spaceborn warriors returning for the mating season. Chintithpit-mang arrived to find himself summoned to the funeral pit.

Who had died? The airlock guard who gave him his order hadn’t known. He had aborted his time with Shreshleemang, he had gone down to the War of Winterhome ahead of mating season. He had been out of contact… and the scent of mating was in the air, but Chintithpit-mang felt only fear. Who had died while he was gone?

A small delay could hardly matter. Chintithpit-mang passed through the Garden on his way to the funeral pit.

It was not as he had expected.

The Garden was small. Cramped. The single thriving pillar plant seemed a pitiful reminder that once the Traveler Fithp had known jungles. Chintithpit-mang had fought in jungles bigger than Message Bearer! His own reactions shocked him. He hastened through the Garden and into the leave-taking room that half circled the funeral pit. It smelled of Winterhome…

A crowd was waiting, or so it seemed; and one of the crowd was Shreshleemang. He said, “Mang …”

His mate did not respond. There were eyes on him: Herdmaster Pastempeh-keph, K’turfookeph, Fookerteh, a female he didn’t know, Breaker Raztupisp-minz, and a human Chintithpit-mang recognized. He asked, “Who is dead?”

“Fathisteh-tulk,” said the Herdmaster. “I have taken the task of learning how he died. Chintithpit-znang, you returned from the first battle on Winterhome with Digit Ship Six.”

“I did.”

“What did you do then?”

“I turned my cargo and prisoners over to another octuple. Then I went to see my mate.”

“Shreshleemang, when did your mate reach you?”

“Two-eighths of a day after Digit Ship Six coupled aft,” said Shreshleemang. Above the smell of the funeral pit he found her special scent — she was in season — but her voice was cold as winter.

The Herdmaster asked, “What delayed you, Chintithpit-mang?”

“I was interrupted.”

“In what fashion?”

Chintithpit-mang was afraid to speak. The Herdmaster blew softly, vexed. “On your way to see your mate for the first time in eight-squareds of days, what could have interrupted you? A fi’ high in status? Or with an urgent mission? Or allied with your own dissident movement? You were intercepted by Advisor Fathisteh-tulk!”

This was going to be very bad. Chintithpit-mang saw nothing for it but to tell as much of the truth as he must. “We met in the corridors. He demanded that I go with him.”

“Where? Why?”

“Why, he did not say. We went to the mudroom. It had been thawed. He said, ‘Cold, it would be uncomfortable for us. It might freeze my guest. Chintithpit-mang, I insisted that my contact come alone, and he demanded that I do the same, though he is a slave.’

“I said, ’What is he then, a rogue?’ And then I knew. He was to meet a human.

“He said, ‘I want to question him. I think he has much to tell me about the uses of space. He surely has motive to be convincing. When I speak of this meeting to the Year Zero Fithp I don’t want to depend on my unsupported word. You must witness, unseen.’

“I stayed near the far end of the mudroom, hidden from the grill by the curve of the ceiling. The human was behind the grill. I listened. Herdmaster, I hate and fear humans, but this one said things I have always believed. He knew more of the wealth of the spaces between worlds than we have guessed! He spoke of marvelous dreams, of asteroid mines, of towers that would take loot from world to beyond orbit.”

“He told the Advisor that the dissidents were right. I am not amazed,” said the Herdmaster.

“Suddenly the grill came flying out and struck Fathisteh-tulk a stunning blow. The human came after it, kicked at Fathisteh-tulk, and leaped back into the duct.”

“What did the Advisor say?”

“He said nothing. He leapt after the human, to punish—”

“Pause. What upset the human? It had what it wanted. You were there to witness. Exactly what did the Advisor say that so enraged a surrendered human?”

Trapped. After what he had done, lying to the Herdmaster would be a trivial crime; but what did the Herdmaster already know?

The Herdmaster’s accusation rolled forth. “You confronted me in the Garden to tell me that humans are a terrible enemy, that we should turn our backs on them. After one day aboard Message Bearer you volunteered to return to Winterhome. You fought well. Chintithpit-mang, what was here that you feared more than the war? What were you afraid that a fi’ might ask? What did Fathisteh-tulk say to the human?”

It was impossible. “Fathisteh-tulk said that descendants of the human prisoners would serve the Traveler Herd in space, with their smaller food requirements and dexterous digits and their greater knowledge of the worlds of Winterhome-light.”

“Was this what enraged the human?”

“It was.”

“Would you recognize this human again?”

“It was him! That one!”

The Herdmaster turned. “Wes Dawson, did you speak to my Advisor a second time?”

The man said, “Wesley Dawson. Congressman. 514-55-2316.”

“Chintithpit-mang saw you. Did you see him?” The man was silent. “The line you were given for cleaning the ducts, we found its mark deep in Fathisteh-tulk’s snnfp.” Still he was silent. The Herdmaster said, “You must speak.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Chintithpit-mang, why didn’t you help the Advisor?”

“I was stunned.”

“Did it cross your thoughts that the Advisor would say things you didn’t want heard?”

“No! My mind had not moved at all. I knew so little of humans then. A surrendered prisoner attacked a fi’ of the herd!”

“Stunned. Speak further.”

“Fathisteh-tulk went after him. I thought he was reaching for the human, to scoop him out and kill him. But it went on too long, and I tried to think what to do, and then Fathisteh-tulk was pushed out into the mudroom. He was dead.”

“And you?”

“I looked into the duct. I pulled the grill out and looked again. There wasn’t anything. I … put the grill back … I couldn’t find the twist fasteners … I … took the line off Fathisteh-tulk’s snnfp and pushed him into the mud until he was completely covered. Then I left. I went to the emergency control room and set the mudroom to freeze again.”