Footfall Read online

  "It’s still costing us a pair of strong arms," Jack groused.

  Isadore decided he liked the idea. "I’ll ask Clara if she wants to take the kids up early. Maybe we’ll want to keep them in school as long as we can."

  "All right, it can’t be helped," Jack said. "But the rest of us are going, right?" He snowballed on before there could be an answer. "Bill and Gwen are already up at the Enclave. We’ve got the second cistern system running, and he’s got the top deck poured on the shelter. Bill says the well has to be cleaned out, but we can do that with muscle when we get there." He pursed his lips in a familiar gesture. "One thing, Ia. You come up a full week before the ETI’s get here. Cut it any finer, and you may not make it at all. When people really believe in that ship, God knows what they’ll do."

  "If the Soviets give us that long," George said.

  Jack frowned. "For that matter, if there’s any alien ship at all. Maybe this is something the Russians cooked up."

  They all shrugged. "No data," Isadore said. "But you’d think the President would know."

  "And he’d sure tell us, right?" Jack said. "Iz, are you sure you want to wait?"

  "Yeah, I have to." Christ, he’s right, Isadore thought. Who the flick knows what’s happening? Aliens, Russians—a nuclear war could ruin your whole day. "I think Clara will go up early," he said. "I’ll have to ask her."

  The others nodded understanding.

  When they’d first started the Enclave, they made a decision. One vote per adult, but all the votes of a family would be cast by one person. The theory was simple. If a family couldn’t even agree on who represented it, what could they agree on?

  There’d been a problem at first, because Isadore thought Clara ought to vote rather than him, but she didn’t get along with Jack, or maybe Jack didn’t get along with her. There’d been too many arguments. After the first year things had settled in, and only the men voted, but Isadore often went off to ask Clara’s opinion before making a decision.

  "Who else goes?" Jack demanded.

  The inevitable question struck each of them differently. Jack was already belligerent. George looked disconcerted, then guilty.

  "Well. . . us, of course," he said. "Our wives and children."

  "Of course. Who else? Who do we need, who do we want? John Fox?"

  Isadore laughed. "Hell, yes, we want Fox. He’s a better survivor than any of us. That’s why he’s not coming. I talked to him. He’ll be camping somewhere in Death Valley, and that’s fine for him, but he didn’t invite me along."

  "What if Martie shows?"

  "Aw, hell, Jack."

  Martin Carnell had been with the Enclave for a time. He’d lasted long enough to help buy the house and land in Bellingham. Then. . . maybe he’d run into financial trouble. He’d quit. Later he’d moved further north into the Antelope Valley.

  "You read me wrong, George. I just want to point out that he’s got some legal rights. We’re betting that won’t matter much, but suppose he shows up at the gate? Before or after the ETI’s get here."

  "We’ve turned that place into a fortress since he quit. Expensive." Isadore grinned at them. "What he owns is something like half his fair share. Awkward."

  "Yah. Well, I see him sometimes, and he’s still single. There’s just him—"

  "And those damn Dobennans," George said.

  "Is that bad? We can use some guard dogs. We’ll make him build his own kennels."

  "These are show dogs. They’re gentle and dignified and everybody’s friend. Anything else would cost Martie some prizes. They’re not guard dogs."

  "Would looters know that?"

  A silence fell. Jack said, "Shall we let him in if he shows at the gate? Assuming he’s got equipment and supplies. But I see no reason to phone him up and invite him."

  There were nods, and some relief showed. George said, "Harry Reddington wants to come."

  Two heads shook slowly. Jack McCauley asked, "Have you seen Hairy Red lately?"

  George hesitated, then nodded. "We used to be friends. I guess we still are. Hell, we took motorcycles up along the Pacific Coast Highway one time. Three hundred miles. We’d stop in a bar and Harry would sing and play that guitar and get us our drinks that way, and maybe our dinners. Hairy Red the Minstrel. I—"

  "Lately?"

  "Yeah, I’ve seen him lately."

  "He looks like he’s about to have twins, and he has to use that cane. It isn’t because he had those accidents." Jack shook his head in bewildered pity. "Rear-ended twice in two weeks, in two different cars, and neither of them had head rests! Typical of Harry. But that’s not the point. The insurance company’s been fastshuffling him for two years, and his lawyer tells him he won’t win if he’s too healthy when he gets on the stand." Now Jack’s speech slowed and his enunciation improved, as if he were making a point for someone who didn’t quite understand English. "Harry Red has been letting his insurance company tell him to stay sick! So he doesn’t exercise, and he lets his belly grow like a parasite—"

  "All right, all right. Ken Dutton?"

  "He had his chance."

  "Interesting mind. He collects some odd stuff, and it all seems to make sense. Maybe we’re too much alike, the four of us."

  "George, you offered to let him in. He waffled. Now there’s something coming, and suddenly it’s not fun and games anymore. He could have got in when it was fun and games—Why didn’t he? Was it the money?"

  "Oh, partly. Not just the dues for the Enclave, but the gear we make each other buy. He has to pay alimony. . . Only he’s got gear. It’s just not like ours. And partly it’s because he never really gets all the way into anything."

  "Hardly a recommendation. What has he got for weapons?"

  George smiled reluctantly. "That crossbow. It’d kill a bear, that thing, and it’s advertised as ‘suitable for SWAT teams.’ And his liquor, he calls it ‘trade goods,’ and he really does keep an interesting bar—"

  "A crossbow. And a rocket pistol! I’ve seen his little 1960s Gyrojet. How many shells has he got for it? It’s for damn sure they’ll never make any more. He could have been in and he didn’t pay his dues, George!"

  Isadore said, "You could say the same about Jeri Wilson. We want her, don’t we?"

  "You’re married, Iz. And I’m very married."

  "Martie isn’t. John Fox isn’t, and we’d take him. There are men we want besides us, aren’t there? Do we want the men seriously outnumbering the women? I don’t think we do."

  "We can’t invite the whole city," Jack said. "We don’t have the room. Izzie, who else are you going to try to drag in? You knew we wouldn’t have Harry, and you wouldn’t want him anyway—"

  "It’s just that a month from now . . . I can see us all being terribly apologetic."

  "The hell you say," said Jack.

  "This could be our invitation to join the Galactic Union. It could be a flock of. . . funny looking alien grad students here to give us cheap jewelry for answering their questions—"

  George made a rude noise. Jack, at least, looked more thoughtful than amused. Isadore steamed on through the interruption. "—and who knows what they might consider cheap jewelry? Okay, so we’re going off to hide. Somebody has to. Just in case. But I can hear the remarks from some people I like, because we left them outside."

  Jack’s look was stony. "Remember a science-fiction story called ‘To Serve Man’?"

  "Sure. They even made, a Twilight Zone out of it. About an alien handbook on how to deal with the human race."

  George smiled— "Some science-fiction fans actually published the cookbook—" and sobered. "Yeah. Somebody has to hide till we know what they want. And just in case, we do not take liabilities."

  5

  SEE HOW THEY RUN

  Do unto the other feller the way he’d like to do unto you an’ do it fust.

  —EDWARD NOTES WESTCOTT, David Ilarum (1898)

  COUNTDOWN: H MINUS SIX WEEKS

  The Areo Plaza Mall was deep underground
, with four-story shafts reaching high to street level. Around the corner from the government bookstore was a B. Dalton’s, and near that was a radio station with its control room in showcase windows. A few people with nothing better to do sat on benches watching the radio interviewer. His guest was a science-fiction author who’d come to plug his latest book but couldn’t resist talking about the alien ship.

  The government bookstore had been crowded all day. Ken Dutton noticed Harry shuffling in, but was too busy to hail him.

  Harry Reddington was still using a cane. Ken remembered him as a biker. He still had the massive frame, but it had turned soft years ago. He’d trimmed his beard and cut his hair short even before the two successive whiplash accidents. He might have lost some weight lately—he’d claimed to when Ken saw him last—but the belly was still his most prominent feature. He stopped just past the doorway and looked around at shelves upon shelves of books and pamphlets before he sought out Ken Dutton behind the counter. "Hi, Ken."

  "Hello, Harry. What’s up?"

  Harry ran his hand back through graying scarlet hair. "I was listening to the news. Not much on the intruder. It’s still coming . . . and I got to thinking how most of these books will be obsolete an hour after that thing sets down."

  "Some will." Dutton waved toward a shelf of military books. "Others, maybe not. History still means something. Some will go obsolete, but which books? Maybe medicine. Maybe they’ve got something that’ll cure any disease and they’re just dying to give it away."

  "Yeah." Harry didn’t smile. "I remember there’s one on how to take care of a car—"

  "More than one."

  "Cars and bikes and . . . and bicycles, for that matter. Okay, maybe they’ve got matter transmitters. Talked to George today?"

  "No. I guess I should have," Dutton said. Hell’s bells. I should have joined that survivalist outfit when I had a chance. Now. "I’ll call after we close."

  "Good luck," Harry said.

  "You talked to them?"

  "Yeah. They’re not recruiting. But they’re running scared. Scared of the aliens a little, and of the Russians a lot." Harry looked thoughtful. "George mentioned a book on cannibal cookery. Supposed to be funny, but it was well-researched, he said—"

  "We don’t carry it. And, Harry, I’m not sure I want to think you’ve got a copy."

  "Well, you never know Harry couldn’t keep it up, and laughed. All right, but maybe what we’ll need is survival manuals. I thought I’d come in and look around."

  The shelves had been seriously depleted. Harry chose a few and came to the counter. "There was a new book from the Public Health Service, on stretching exercises. Got it in yet?"

  "Sure, but we’re out. Others had the same thought you did." "Ken, you’re actually one of the Enclave group, aren’t you?"

  Ken hesitated. "They invited me in. I haven’t moved yet." And maybe it’s too late, maybe not. Jesus.

  "Are you hooked for dinner?"

  "I don’t know. Need to make a phone call." He went to the back room and dialed George’s number. Vicki answered.

  "Hi," Ken said. "Uh—this is Ken Dutton."

  "I know who you are."

  "Yes—uh—Vicki, is there a meeting tonight?"

  "Not tonight. Call tomorrow."

  "Vicki, I know damned well there’s a meeting!"

  "Call tomorrow. Anything else? Bye, then.’ The phone went dead.

  Ken Dutton went back out to the customer area and found Harry. "No. I don’t have anything on tonight. Let’s eat here in the plaza. Saves us worrying about rush hour."

  * * *

  Jeri Wilson kissed her daughter, and was surprised at how easy it was to hold her smile until Melissa went up to her room. She’s a good-looking ten-year-old, Jeri thought. Going to be pretty when she grows up.

  Melissa had Jeri’s long bones and slender frame. Her hair was a bit darker than Jeri’s, and not quite so fine, but her face was well shaped, pretty rather than beautiful.

  Jeri waited until she heard the toilet flush, then waited again until the light under Melissa’s door vanished.

  She’d sleep now. She’d be exhausted.

  So am I. Jeri’s smile faded. It had been such a wonderful day, the nicest for weeks, until she came home to find the mail.

  She went to the living room. An expensive breakfront stood there, and she took out a red crystal decanter and a matching crystal glass. We bought this in Venice. We couldn’t really afford the trip, and the glassware was much too expensive. God, that was a beautiful summer.

  The sherry came from Fedco, but no one ever noticed the sherry. They were too enchanted with the decanter. She poured herself a glass and sat on the couch. It was impossible to stop the tears now.

  Damn you, David Wilson! She took the letter from her apron pocket. It was handwritten, postmarked Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, and it wasn’t signed. She thought the handwriting looked masculine, hut she couldn’t be sure.

  "Dear Mrs. Wilson," it said. "If you’re really serious about keeping your husband, you’d better get out here and do something right away, ‘cause he’s got himself a New Cookie."

  Of course he has a New Cookie, Jeri thought. He’s been gone almost two years, and he filed for divorce six months ago. It was inevitable. . .

  Inevitable or not, she didn’t like to think about it. Pictures came to mind: David, nude, stepping out of the shower. Lying with David on the beach at Malibu, late at night long after the beach had closed, both of them buzzed with champagne. They’d been celebrating David’s Ph.D., and they made love three times, and even if the third time had been more effort than consummation it was a wonderful night. After the first time she’d turned to him and said, "I haven’t been taking my pills—"

  "I know," he said.

  She liked to think Melissa was conceived that night. Certainly it happened during that wonderful week. Five months later, Jeri quit her job as general science editor for UCLA’s alumni magazine. David’s education was finished, he’d found a great job with Litton Industries, and they could enjoy themselves. . .

  She sipped her sherry, then, convulsively, drained the glass. It was an effort to keep from throwing it on the floor. Who am I so damned mad at?

  At myself. I’m a damned fool. She crumpled the letter, then smoothed it out again. Then poured more sherry. No matter how often she wiped her eyes, they filled again.

  She’d had three glasses when the phone rang. At first she thought she’d ignore it, but it might be about Melissa. Or it might even be David; he still called sometimes. What if it’s him, and he says he needs me?

  "Hello."

  "Jen, this is Vicki."

  "Oh

  "You’ve heard the news?" Vicki asked.

  How the devil would you know about David— "What news?"

  "The alien spaceship." What?"

  "Jeri, where have you been all day? Hibernating?"

  "No, Melissa and I drove up to the Angeles Crest. We had a picnic."

  "Then you haven’t seen the news. Jen, the astronomers have discovered an alien spaceship in the solar system. It’s coming to Earth."

  Aliens. Coming to Earth. She heard the words, but they didn’t make any sense. "You’re not putting me on?"

  "Jeri, go turn on Channel Four. I’ll call back in half an hour. We have to talk."

  Saturn. They were coming from Saturn, and no one knew how long they’d been there. Jeri remembered a TV monitor at JPL. Three lines twisted into a braid, and David’s grip on her arm was hard enough to hurt.

  That was a lot mote than ten years ago! I was about twenty. I had David, and everything was wonderful.

  The phone rang just as the news program was ending. Jen lifted the receiver. "Hello, Vicki."

  "Hi. Okay, you watched the news?"

  "Yes." Jeri giggled.

  "What?"

  "Aliens from Saturn, that’s what! Vicki, I’ll bet they were there when the Voyager probe went past. I remember all the bull sessions after that probe. John Dem
ing and Gregory and —and David and I, trying to think how an orbiting band of particles could be twisted like that. David even said ‘aliens,’ once. But he wasn’t serious."

  "Yes, well, that’s what we need to talk about," Vicki said. "We’ve decided—the Enclave is going north. To Bellingham. You and Melissa are invited."

  "Oh. Why?"

  "Well, for one thing, you and David were part of the group for a long time."

  "That’s one reason," Jeri said. "What are some others?"

  Vicki Taje-Evans sighed. "Because you know science-and all right, because you’re pretty and unattached, and we may need to attract a single guy."

  An interesting compliment. I’m glad they think I’m pretty, at my age . . . "I see. So I can be a playmate for Ken Dutton."

  "Jeri, he wasn’t invited."

  "Good."

  "I thought you liked Ken. In fact, I thought—"

  You can keep that thought to yourself, Vicki Tate-Evans.

  Of course it was true. Ken Dutton had invited himself to dinner with Jeri and David after his wife left him, and when David moved to Colorado, Ken continued to come over. She wasn’t interested in an affair, although it was pretty difficult sleeping alone. She missed David a lot, and in every way, and Ken wasn’t unattractive, and he was very attentive. The night she learned that David had filed for divorce, Ken had been there, and held her, and listened to her, and in a blind rage she seduced him. For a few days he’d shared her bed. Then she found out what he was thinking.

  "He thought I’d be convenient," Jeri said. "He wouldn’t have to drive far. Somehow that didn’t seem a good foundation for a relationship."

  "Oh." Vicki laughed awkwardly. "Anyway, he’s not invited.

  In fact I was supposed to tell you not to invite him. Well. That’s good. Jeri, we’ll be going up to Bellingham this week. Isadore and Clara will stay down here until a few days before the aliens come. We’d like you to come up with us, but you could wait and go up with Isadore if you want."