Footfall

“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—”

“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!

38. PRAYERS

Hear now this, O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not.

—JEREMIAH 5:21

COUNTDOWN: TEN MONTHS AFTER FOOTFALL

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?”