Footfall Page 8

  What did Anatoliy Vladimirovich want? The Soviet Union was ruled by a troika— the Army, the KGB, and the Party — with the Party the weakest of the three, yet the most powerful because it controlled promotions within the other two organizations. Other schemes had been tried, and nearly brought disaster. When Stalin died, Party and Army had feared Beria, for his NKVD was so powerful that it had once eliminated nearly the entire central committee in a matter of weeks.

  Party and Army together acted to eliminate the threat. Beria was dragged from a meeting of the Politburo and shot by four colonels. The top leadership of the NKVD was liquidated.

  Suddenly the Party found itself facing the uncontrolled Army. It had not liked what it saw. The Army was popular. The military could command the affections of the people. If the Party’s rule ever ended, it would not be the Army’s leaders who would be shot as traitors. The Army could even eliminate the Party if it had full control of its strength.

  That could not be allowed. The NKVD was reconstructed. It was shorn of many of its powers, divided into the civil militia and the KGB, never allowed to gain the strength it once had. Still, it had grown powerful again, as always it did. Its agents could compromise anyone, recruit anyone. It reached high into the Kremlin, into the Politburo and Party and Army. Alliances shifted once again. . .

  Here, in this room, origins did not matter. Here, and in the Politburo itself, the truth was known. No one of the three power bases could be allowed to triumph. Party, Army, KGB must all be strong to maintain the balance of power. Ruling Russia consisted of that secret, and nothing more.

  Petrovskiy was a master at that art. And now he was waiting. The hint he had given was plain.

  "I believe Academician Bondarev might be very suitable to advise us and to direct our space forces during this emergency," Narovchatov said. "If you approve, Anatoliy Vladimirovich."

  "Now that you make the recommendation. I see much to commend it," Petrovskiy said. "I believe you should propose Academician Bondarev at the Central Committee meeting. Of course, the KGB will insist on placing their man in the operation."

  The KGB would have its man, but the Party must approve him. Another decision to be made here, before the meeting of the full Politburo.

  "Grushin," Narovchatov said. "Dmitri Parfenovich Grushin."

  Petrovskiy raised a thick eyebrow in inquiry.

  "I have watched him. He is trusted by the KGB, but a good diplomat, well regarded by the Party people he knows, And he has studied the sciences."

  "Very well." Petrovskiy nodded in satisfaction.

  "The KGB is divided," Narovchatov said. "Some believe this a CIA trick. Others know better. We have seen it for ourselves. Rogachev has seen it with his own eyes, in the telescopes aboard Kosmograd. The Americans could never have built that ship, Anatoliy Vladimirovich."

  Petrovskiy’s peasant eyes hardened. "Perhaps not. But the Army does not believe that. Marshal Ugatov is convinced that this is an American plot to cause him to aim his rockets at this thing in space while the Americans mobilize against us."

  "But they would not," Narovchatov said. "It is all very well for us to say these things for the public, but we must not delude ourselves."

  Petrovskiy frowned, and Nikolai Narovchatov was afraid for a moment. Then the Chairman smiled thinly. "We may, however, have no choices," he said. "At all events, it is settled. Your daughter’s husband will take charge of our space preparations. It is better that be done by a civilian. Come, let us have a cognac to celebrate the promotion of Marina’s husband!"

  "With much pleasure." Narovchatov went to the cabinet and took out the bottle, crystal decanter, and glasses. "What will the Americans really do?" he asked.

  Petrovskiy shrugged. "They will cooperate. What else can they do?"

  "It is never wise to underestimate the Americans."

  "I know this. I taught it to you."

  Nikolai Nikolayevich grinned. "I remember. But do you?"

  "Yes. But they will cooperate."

  Narovchatov frowned a moment, then saw the sly grin the Chairman wore. "Ah," he said. "Their President called."

  "No. I called him."

  Nikolai Narovchatov thought of the implications of a deal. Petrovskiy was the only man in the Soviet Union who could have spoken to the American President without Narovchatov knowing it within moments. "Does Thisov know this?" he asked.

  "I did not tell him," Petrovskiy said. He shrugged.

  Narovchatov nodded agreement. The KGB had many resources. Who could know what its commander might find out? "You will discuss this in the Defense council then?"

  Nikolai Narovchatov poured two glasses of rare cognac and passed one across the large desk. The Chairman grinned and lifted the drink in salute. "To the cooperation of the Americans," he said. He laughed.

  Naruvchatov lifted his glass in reply, but inwardly he was confounded. This alien ship could be nothing but trouble at a time when had come so close to the top! But nothing was certain now. The KGB would have its own devious games, so twisted that even Bonderev would not understand. And the Army was reacting as armies always reacted. Missiles were made ready.

  Many fingers hover over many buttons.

  Nikolai Naruvchatov felt much like the legendary Tatar who had saddled a whirlwind.

  * * *

  The shows were over and Martin Carnell was driving home with his awards, one Best Bitch, three Best of Breed, and a Best Working. One more than he expected.

  From behind him, from the crates in the back of the heavy station wagon, came restless sounds Martin flipped off the radio to listen. None of the dogs sounded sick. Barth was just a puppy, and he wasn’t used to traveling in the station wagon. His mood was affecting the others.

  Martin was taking it easy. He stayed at fifty or below with half a minute to change lanes. You couldn’t drive a station wagon like a race car, not with star-quality dogs in the back. Otherwise they’d be ready to take a judge’s hand off by the day of the show.

  Martin saw a lot of country this way. This had been a typical dog-show circuit. Two shows on Saturday and Sunday, sixty miles apart, five weekdays to be killed somehow, and three hundred miles to be covered; two more shows, much closer together, the following weekend; two thousand miles to be covered on the trip.

  "Take it easy guys," Martin said, because they liked the sound of his voice. He turned on the radio.

  The music had stopped. Martin heard, "I have spoken with the Soviet Chairman—" It sounded like the President himself: that unmistakable trade union accent. Martin turned up the sound.

  "We are also consulting on a joint response to this alien ship.

  "My fellow Americans, our scientists tell us that this could be the greatest event in the history of mankind. You now know all that we know: a large object, well over a mile in length, is approaching the Earth along a path that convinces our best scientific minds that it is under power and intelligently guided. So far there has been no communication with it.

  "We have no reason to believe this is a threat—"

  Martin grinned and shook his head, wishing he’d heard the beginning of the broadcast. Whoever was playing the part, he sure had the President’s voice down pat. Martin laughed (as J started all three dogs barking) at a different thought: George Tate-Evans tuned in at the same moment he had; he wouldn’t know whether to bellow with the joy of vindication, or hide under the bandstand.

  The Enclave was still going, Martin knew that much. He couldn’t understand now, how he’d got sucked into the survivalist mind set. Spent some real money, too, before he came to his senses. The only thing that little fling had ever done for him was to turn him from miniature poodles to Dobermans. He’d bought Marienburg Sunhawk because a Doberman might be better equipped to defend his house and found that he flat out preferred the larger dogs.

  But the rest of the Enclave families must still be meeting on Thursday nights, all ready for the end of civilization on Earth. George and Vicki: what would they do? Warn the rest of t
he the Enclave and head for the hills, of course: their natural reaction to, any stimulus. And they say dog people are crazy!

  A newscaster’s rich radio voice continued the theme, speaking of war and politics. It introduced a professor of physics who also wrote science fiction and who predicted wonderful things from the coming confrontation. Martin, easing down old U.S. 66 with a load of prima donna dogs, began to wonder if he really was listening to a remake of War of the Worlds. He hadn’t found a plot line yet.

  * * *

  There was heavy traffic in the San Fernando Valley. Isadore Leiber cursed lightly, half listening to the news station, half worrying about how late he would be.

  Isadore had simply forgotten. It wasn’t a Thursday. His brain hadn’t ticked over until four-thirty, and then: Hey, wasn’t something happening tonight? Sure, Jack McCauley called an emergency meeting of the Enclave. Probably has to do with that . . . light in the sky. I’d better call Clara, remind her.

  Clara had remembered, and wondered where he was. He fought abnormally dense rush-hour traffic straight to the Tate-Evans place, one house among many in the San Fernando Valley. Clara met him at the curb, laughing, insisting that she’d followed him right in, in her own car. He grabbed her and kissed her to shut her up. They held each other breathlessly for a moment, then by mutual consent let go and walked up on the porch.

  Clara rang the bell and they waited. In those few seconds Clara stopped laughing, even stopped smiling. "Do you think they’ll be angry?"

  "Yeah. My fault, and I guess I don’t care that much. Relax."

  "They did tell us. Or Jack did."

  The door opened. George Tate-Evans ushered them inside. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t happy either. "Clara, Isadore, come on in. What kept you?"

  "My boss," Isadore lied. "What’s happening?"

  George ran his hand over bare scalp to long, thin blond hair. He wasn’t yet forty, but he’d been half bald when Isadore first met him. "Sign of virility," he’d said. Now he answered, "Jack and Harriet taped some newscasts. We’re playing them now. Clara, the girls are in the kitchen cooking something."

  Girls, kitchen, cooking something. What? This was serious, then; or else George was sure this was serious. Could it be? That serious?

  Survivalism. Specialization. Wartime rules. Isadore made his way into a darkened living room. He knew where the steps and the furniture were; he’d been there often enough. The light of the five-foot screen showed him an empty spot on the couch.

  There were only men in the room. The house belonged to George and Vicki Tate-Evans, but Vicki wasn’t present.

  And Clara had gone to the kitchen. Clara! Ye gods, she thought it was real. . .

  George waved him to a seat, then went to the Betamax recorder. "Here it is again," he said.

  The set lit up to show the presidential seal, then the Oval Office. The camera panned in on President David Coffey. The President looked calm and relaxed. Almost too much so, Isadore thought. But he does look very presidential. . .

  "My fellow Americans," Coffey said. "Last night, scientists at the University of Hawaii made an amazing discovery. Their findings have since been confirmed by astronomers at Kitt Peak and other observatories. According to the best scientific information I have been able to obtain, a very large spacecraft is approaching Earth from the general direction of the planet Saturn."

  The President looked up at the camera, ignoring his notes for a moment. He had a way of doing that, of looking into the camera so that everyone watching felt he was speaking directly to them. Coffey’s ability to do that had played no small part in his election. "I have been told that it is not possible that the ship came from Saturn, and that it must have come from somewhere much farther away. Wherever it came from, it is rapidly approaching the Earth, and will arrive here within a few weeks, probably at the end of June."

  He paused to look at the yellow sheets of paper that lay on his desk, then back at the camera again. "So far we have received no communication from this ship. We therefore have no reason whatever to believe the ship poses any threat to us. However, the Soviet Union became aware of this ship at the same time we did. Predictably, their reaction was to mobilize their armed forces. Our observation satellites show that they have begun a partial strategic alert.

  "We cannot permit the Soviets to mobilize without some answer. I have therefore ordered a partial mobilization of the United States’ strategic forces. I wish to emphasize that this is a defensive mobilization only. The United States has never wanted war. We particularly do not desire war at a time when an alien spacecraft is approaching this planet.

  "No American President could ignore the Soviet mobilization. I have not done so. However, I have spoken with the Soviet Chairman, and we have reached an agreement on limiting our strategic mobilization. We are also consulting on a joint response to the alien ship.

  "My fellow Americans, our scientists tell us that this could be the greatest event in the history of mankind. You now know all that we know: a large object, perhaps a mile in length, is approaching the Earth along a path that convinces our best scientific minds that it is under power and intelligently guided. So far there has been no communication with it.

  "We have no reason to believe this is a threat, and we have many reasons to believe this is an opportunity. With the help of God Almighty we will meet this opportunity as Americans have always met opportunities.

  "Good night."

  The Oval Office faded, and news analysts came on. George switched off the set. "We can skip the analysis. Those birds don’t know any more than we do. But you see why I called an alert."

  They had called themselves the Enclave before there was anything more than four men meeting at George and Vicki’s house.

  That was at the tail end of the seventies, when the end of civilization was a serious matter. There were double-digit inflation and a rising crime rate. Iran was holding fifty-odd kidnapped ambassadors and getting away with it. OPEC’s banditry regarding oil prices seemed equally safe. What nation would be next to see the obvious? The United States couldn’t defend itself. The value of her money was falling to its limit: a penny and a half in 1980 money, the cost of printing a dollar bill. U.S. military forces were in shreds, and the Soviets kept building missiles long after they caught up, then passed, the United States’ strategic forces.

  If the economy didn’t collapse, nuclear war would kill you. Either way, there were long odds against survival of the unprepared. The Enclave was born of equal parts desperation and play-acting. Which was more important depended on the morning headlines.

  Things looked better after Reagan was elected. The hostages were returned minutes after the old cowboy took office. . . but the Enclave continued to meet. The dollar ceased to fall, then grew strong. The economy was turning around, the stock market was showing signs of health; but there was no money for the military, and the Soviet Union kept building rockets. The Enclave made lists of what a survivalist ought to own, and checked each other’s stocks. A year’s supply of food, just like the Mormons. Guns. Gold coins. And they dreamed of a place to run, just in case.

  The late eighties: Welfare had not increased to match inflation, and unemployment was down. There might have been a connection. Inflation had slowed too. General Motors had won its lawsuit against the unions, for damages done by a strike, and collected from the union funds; strikes ought to be less common in the future. The weapons of war had moved into a science-fictional realm, difficult for the avenge citizen to assess. But the Soviet space program had been moving steadily outward until they virtually owned the sky from Near Earth Orbit to beyond the Moon.

  The Enclave continued to meet. They had grown older, and generally wealthier. Four years ago they had bought a piece of land outside Bellingham, a decaying city north of Seattle that had been a port and shipyard before the silt moved in and the trade moved south. It was as far from any likely targets of war as anyplace that seemed able to support itself. There had once been a navy shipyard
, but that was long ago.

  They all made money, but they weren’t rich. Their jobs kept them in Los Angeles. Over the years one or another had found wealth or peace or even both in small towns. The dropouts were replaced, and the Enclave endured, an aging group of middle-class survivalists unwilling to break away from Los Angeles and their not inconsiderable incomes.

  All this time they had been meeting, every Thursday night after the dinner hour, like clockwork. Tonight was Monday; they had left work early, and Isadore was getting hungry; the dinner hour should have been just beginning. But the terrible strangeness of this night did not derive from that. Isadore Leiber sought for what it was that was bothering him, and it came, not in strangeness but in familiarity, as he reached for a cigarette.

  Four years ago he’d given up smoking for the last time. He’d given it up, but he borrowed from his friends at every opportunity. Giving up smoking became his lifestyle. It got to where his friends couldn’t stand him: the sight of a familiar face triggered his urge to smoke; he would roll pipe tobacco in toilet paper if he had to. But he was giving up smoking, yes indeed—

  And he was getting ready for the end of civilization, yes indeed. But he’d been doing it for well over a decade, and that had become his lifestyle. Tonight was weird. No laughter, no complaining about fools in Congress—

  Tonight they meant it.

  "I hate the timing," George said. "Corliss is about to graduate, and the rest of the kids won’t like missing the tail end of the school year, and if they do, I don’t."

  There were echoes of agreement. "I can’t go," Isadore said.

  The noise stopped. Jack McCauley said, "What do you mean, can’t?"

  "I can’t quit my job. I can’t take leave, either. George said it, it’s timing. Travel agencies get hectic with summer coming on."

  Jack made a sound of disgust. George asked, "Sick leave?"

  "Mmm . . . a couple of weeks."

  "Wait till, oh, the tenth of June. Jack, this makes sense." George jumped the gun on an automatic protest. "We’re bound to forget something. We’ll keep Iz posted. Ia, you take your two weeks sick leave just before the ETI’s reach Earth. You come up then. Two weeks later you’ll damn well know whether you want to go back to the city."