Larry Niven - Footfall

“Perhaps this is true,” Arvid said. “But we would not say laws, but—”

“Moral principle,” Dmitri said firmly. “Established by Marxist science.”

“Commies don’t have morals,” Carrie Woodward protested.

“This is unfair. It is also not true,” Arvid said. “Come, we do not so much disagree, you and I. It is your leader, your congressman who protests.”

Carrie looked to her husband. They didn’t say anything.

An hour later they were summoned to the theater again. This time the fithp stood in formal arrays, Herdmaster and mate at the top, others on steps below him, most with mates. Tashayamp stood near him. She trumpeted for silence.

The Herdmaster spoke at length.

Finally Tashayamp translated. “You are a race of rogues. You say you wish to live by your laws, but you do not do it. You say you have always wanted to live by your rules and you do not. Now you will. You will become part of Traveler Herd, live as fithp live, but under your rules. This we will give you. This we promise.

“You will teach us your laws. Then you will live by them.

“You go now.”

High fleecy clouds hung over the San Fernando Valley. The temperature stretched toward a hundred degrees, with a hot wind sweeping down to shrivel any vegetation not protected from it,

Ken Dutton carefully closed the door to his greenhouse. Once inside he dipped water from a bucket and threw it around, wetting down the lush growth. Then he hastened outside to turn the handle on the makeshift fan, drawing fresh hot dry air through the greenhouse.

When that was done, he went inside. The house had thick walls and cooled rapidly at night, so that it was tolerable in the daytime. Dutton lifted the phone and listened.

There was a dial tone. There often was. He took a list from the telephone drawer and began to make his calls.

“I’m still the chef,” he told Con Donaldson, “but I can use some help. Can you get here around noon? Bring whatever you can find in the way of food, and tell me what I can count on now.”

“Rice.”

“Rice.” He made a note. “How much rice?”

“Lots. I mean really a lot.” She giggled. “Only good thing about this war, I’m losing weight, because I’m getting sick of rice-hey, I look good. You’ll like the new me.”

“Great. Okay, then. Bye.” He inspected his list and dialed again.

There was no beef in the land, Sarge Harris complained. “Cattle cars are too big. Snouts blast ’em, think they’ve got tanks or weapons in them.”

Probably not. The major says they’re not doing that just now. But no point in arguing. “Yeah. Chicken costs an arm and a leg, too.”

“Maybe that’s how chicken farmers get red meat,” Sarge said.

“Heh-heh. Sure. Look, what can you bring?”

“Eggs. Traded some carpentry work for them.”

“Good. Bring ’em.” Ken hit the cutoff button and dialed another number.

Patsy Clevenger admitted to being one of the lucky ones. An occasional backpacker, she’d stored considerable freeze-dried food in sealed bags; but the steady diet was driving her nuts. She jumped at his offer. Sure, she could bring a freeze-dried dessert, and flavored coffee mix, and pick up Anthony Graves, who was seventy and couldn’t drive anymore. Ken shifted the receiver to his other ear.

The Copeleys lived at the northern end of the San Fernando Valley, They could get fresh corn and tomatoes, and almonds, and oranges. Could they bring a pair of relatives? Because the relatives had gas. Hell, yes!

He tried Marty Carnell, just on the off chance. The meteorchewed highways had probably stranded him somewhere on a dog-show circuit—

But Marty answered.

“I’ve done this once before, and it worked out,” Ken told him. “It isn’t that everyone’s starving. Things haven’t got that bad. But anyone’s likely to have a ton of something and none of everything else, and the way to make it work is to get all the food together and make a feast.”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay. Get here around noon—”

“For dinner?”

“Stone soup takes time, and I want sunlight for the mirror. I’d guess we’ll eating all day and night. Come hungry. Have you got meat?”

“I found a meat source early on. I can keep the dogs fed till I run out of money, but it’s horsemeat, Ken. I’ve been eating it myself—”

“Bring it. Can you bring five pounds? Four will do it, and you won’t recognize it when I get through, Marty. I’ve got a great chili recipe. Lots of vegetables.”

The Offutts would have to come by bicycle. Chad Offutt sounded hungry. With no transportation, how the hell were they to get food? How about some bottles of liquor in the saddlebags? Ken agreed, for charity’s sake. Damn near anyone had liquor; what was needed was food.

Ken hung up.

He caught himself humming while he lugged huge pots out into the backyard and set them up around the solar mirror. It seemed almost indecent to be enjoying himself when civilization was falling about his ears. But it did feel good to finally find a use for his hobbies!

The Copeleys had brought everything they’d promised, and yellow chilis too. The pair of guests were a cousin’s daughter and her husband-Halliday and Wilson; she’d kept her maiden name — both much younger than the others, and a little uncomfortable. They seemed eager to help. Ken put them to cutting up the Copeley’s vegetables.

“Save all seeds.”

“Right.”

The lost weight looked nice on Con Donaldson. She chatted while she helped him carry dishes. Things were bad throughout the Los Angeles Basin… yeah, Ken had to agree. Con had tried to get to Phoenix, but her mother kept putting her off, she wouldn’t have room until her brother moved out… and then it was too late, the roads had been chewed by the snouts’ meteors. Yeah, Ken had tried to get out too.

He should have asked someone — to bring dishwashing soap! Someone must have an excess of that.

Marty was cuffing horsemeat into strips. “Could be a lot worse,” he said. “We could be dodging meteors. I can’t figure out what the snouts think they’re doing.”

“They think they’re conquering the Earth,” Ken said. “It’s their methods that’re funny. They’re thorough enough. I haven’t heard of a dam still standing. Have you?”

“No big ones. No big bridges either.”

“But they don’t touch cities.” Could be worse, He might have fled with no destination in mind. Still, it was hard times. Food got in, but not a lot, and not a balanced diet. There would have been no fruit source here without the Copeleys’ oranges and the lemon tree in Graves’ backyard.

Reflected sunlight blazed underneath Ken’s largest pot. The water was beginning to boil. He ladled a measured amount into the chili, then moved it into the focus.

He’d built the solar minor while he was still married, and after the first month he’d almost never used it. They’d gone vegetarian for a few months too, and his wife hadn’t taken the cookbooks with her. He had the recipes, he had the skills to build a balanced meal, and the phones worked sometimes. If the snouts shot those down, he might try to form a commune. His next-door neighbor had fled to the mountains, leaving the keys behind. More important, he’d left a full swimming pool. Covered, to prevent evaporation, the water would last until the fall rains, and the goldfish would keep the mosquitoes down.