Footfall

It wasn’t much of a house for a general to live in. There was moss growing on the roof, and it hadn’t been painted in years.

“What the hell do I do if they catch me?” Harry demanded.

“Catch you what?” Roger asked. “Walking the streets? Harry there’s a whole city here. Look out there, a lot of uniforms, a lot of civvies too. Act natural. Nobody’ll know you don’t belong here.” He glanced at his watch. “Meet you here in an hour.”

“Well, all right.”

Roger waited until Harry was out of sight down the street. Then he went up the steep stairway to the dilapidated wooden porch and knocked.

The door opened. “Yes-Roger! What in the world?”

“Special delivery from Carlotta. She sends her best,” Roger said. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”—

Automatically she stepped aside. Roger closed the door behind him. “Is Ed here?”

“Working. He works all the time. Roger, what are you doing here?”

“Carrying Carlotta’s mail—”

“Roger, that’s silly!”

“Well, we’re touring the country, getting stories on how people are living. It’s not all just news, I’m reporting back to Colorado Springs. When I told Carlotta I was coming to the Northwest, she said I should look you up.” Roger had never felt less horny in his life, but he did his best to leer at her. “You don’t look glad to see me—”

“Ed isn’t in orbit this time, Roger! And security-Roger, I don’t know how hard they watch the housing, but Ed effectively owns this place. Roger, you’d be better off doing espionage for the snouts!”

At four o’clock there were crowds streaming out of the harbor area. Men, women, mostly dressed for work. They spread outward through the gloomy afternoon drizzle. They must live close, Harry thought. They didn’t seem to be making for parking lots.

These weren’t guards for snouts. There were far too many. The men were big, loud, dressed for durability even in their civvies, and many still wore hard hats and coveralls. Heavy construction work types. What in hell is going on?

Half a dozen men, a dozen, more, streamed toward a smallish building. It wasn’t labeled, but Harry suddenly knew. A club, a tavern, a bar.

He contrived to emerge from between two buildings. He strolled toward the bar, trying to look thirsty as opposed to nervous. The noise level was high. A machine-shriek could be heard through a hundred boisterous conversations. That, and a sound like an elephant’s scream, but elaborated, like a maniac’s babbling too. Somewhere there was a snout. Harry ignored it for the moment.

Nobody stopped him at the door.

The bar was two deep in customers and getting deeper. Harry eased into the crowd; His hand came out of his pocket with money in a clip. Think priorities. Drink first, talk second, or I’ll look funny.

The hard hats were being stacked in piles near the door; no problem that Harry didn’t have one. He was dressed rough enough otherwise. At the tables they were already chugging beer. From the corner of his eye Harry watched a big guy finish a pitcher, what am I doing here?

Order another, drink a glass of that, while the big round table was filling up around him. That one would be loose enough already.

Harry ordered a pitcher. The bartender looked curiously a Harry’s money. “New in town, huh?” he said.

“Yeah.”

The change he gave back said “Federal Reserve Note: Northwestern Grain Project.” It was colored dull blue.

Harry took the pitcher to the big table. “Mind if I sit here?”

“All the same with me.” The big man had nearly white blond hair cut very short. He was bigger than Harry, with huge hands that had been through the wars.

The voice was accented. Lots of them are. Southern, southwestern. Not from up here. Why? Harry sat down next to him. He pocketed his clip of Colorado Springs notes, but not before the big man had seen it. He’ll know I’m new here.

“Whitey Lowenstein,” the burly man said. “You?”

“They call me Hairy Red.”

Lowenstein chuckled. “Reckon they might. What crew you with?”

“Well—”

“Yeah.” Lowenstein’s grin was knowing. “You’ll get over that after a while. The security system’s ridiculous. Me, I’m a welder.” He studied Harry carefully. “Bet you a pitcher I can figure out your job.”

“You’re on.” Harry remembered to drink.

Lowenstein reached out suddenly to pat Harry’s breast pocket. “Hmm. No film badge. Maybe you pocketed it, though. Clean clothes. Big guy. You an educated man?”

Harry laughed. “School of hard knocks—”

“Sure. I got a feeling about you, though. All newcomers get the security lecture, but you didn’t say nothing. You’re an atomjack, Harry.”

Atomjack? in a snout prison? “I’ll buy the next pitcher, and let’s leave it at that.” And what in hell is an atomjack?

An hour later he knew. It wasn’t difficult. Everyone in the bar knew.

Somewhere in Bellingham-nobody seemed to know or care exactly where-there were more than a thousand atom bombs. The atomjacks tended them. A thousand fucking atom bombs.

“You’ve got to get out of here, Roger.”

“I never thought I’d see the day when you started checking papers! Linda, what is going on here?”

“Believe me, Roger, you don’t want to know.”