Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain.—ROBERT BURNS,
"It was A' for Our Rightfu' King"
Son of a bitch! Sergeant Ben Mailey shepherded his charges off the helicopter and watched them climb into the staff car. The President! Son of a bitch! He grinned widely, then sobered. It took a war to get the President Inside. And I'm not going in with him.
Jenny ushered the President into the Command Center. She had enjoyed her previous trip Inside. Maps and screens showed what was going on across the nation. You could see everything at a glance. A dozen Army and Air Force officers sat at consoles. Large screens flashed with maps of the United States. Aircraft in flight, major trains, and larger ships showed up as blobs of light on the maps.
But there weren't many lights, and many of the harbors showed dark splotches. Rail centers like Omaha had pinpoint dark spots as well.
Jack Clybourne followed them into the cavernous room. He looked puzzled, and Jenny felt sorry for him. There was no real need for a presidential bodyguard, not here in the national command center. His job was done the moment they got the President into the Hole, but nobody had thought to tell him that.
And I sure won't.
Admiral Carrell stood to attention as the President entered. So did the mustached civilian who'd been seated with him. Admiral Carrell wore a dark civilian suit, but he looked very much an officer. "Glad to see you, sir."
"Thank you."
He sounds a million years old, and I feel older. I look like a witch—She felt giddy, and suppressed an insane desire to giggle. Suppose Admiral Carrell inspects my uniform, with wrinkles and unbuttoned buttons and—and I'm drunk on fatigue poisons. We all are. I wonder when the Admiral slept last?
"The cabinet will be coming later," Coffey said. "That is, State and Interior will be. We're dispersing some of the others so that—I don't really know the aliens' capabilities."
Admiral Carrell nodded. "They may know the location of this place," he said.
"Could they do anything if they did know?"
"Yes, sir. They hit Boulder Dam with something large and fast, no radioactive fallout. As my Threat Team keeps telling me, they're throwing rocks at us. Meteorites. They have lasers that chew through ships. Mr. President, I don't know what they could do to Cheyenne Mountain."
They, they, they, Jenny thought. Our enemy has no name!
"Let's hope we don't find out, then. What is the situation? What about the Russians?"
"They've been hit badly, but they're still fighting. I don't know what forces they have left." Admiral Carrell shook his head. "We're having the devil of a time getting reports. We used up half our ICBM's last night, firing them straight up and detonating in orbit. The aliens got half of what was left. They seem to have targeted dams, rail centers, harbors—and anyplace that launched a missile. I presume they did the same to the Soviets, but we can't know."
"We can't talk to them?"
"I'm able to communicate with Dr. Bondarev intermittently. But he doesn't know the status of his forces. Their internal communications are worse than ours, and ours are nearly gone." Carrell paused a moment and leaned against a computer console.
He's an old man! I never really saw it before. And that's scary—
"What about casualties?" the President demanded.
"Military casualties are very light—except for F-15 pilots who launched satellite interceptors. Those were one hundred percent. We've lost a number of missile crews, too.
"Civilian casualties are a little like that. Very heavy for those living below dams or in harbor areas, and almost none outside such areas."
"Total?"
Carrell shrugged. "Hard to find out. I'd guess about a hundred thousand, but it could be twice that."
A hundred thousand. Vietnam killed only fifty thousand in ten years. Nobody's taken losses like that since World War II.
"Why don't you know?" the President demanded.
"We depend heavily on satellite relays for communications," Carrell said. "Command, control, communications, intelligence, all depended on space, but we have no space assets left."
"So we don't know anything?"
"Know?" Admiral Carrell shook his head again. "No, sir, we don't know anything. I do have some guesses.
"Something seems to have driven their large ship away; at least it withdrew. The Soviets attacked it heavily. According to Bondarev they probably damaged it, but if he has any evidence for that, he hasn't told me about it."
Jenny cleared her throat. "Yes?" Carrell asked.
"Nothing, sir. We all know about claims. If I were a Soviet official and I'd just expended a lot of very expensive missiles, I'm sure I'd claim it was worthwhile too."
The President nodded grimly. "Assume it wasn't damaged."
"Yes, sir," Carrell said. "It's very hard to track anything through the goop in the upper atmosphere—and above, for that matter. The aliens have dumped many tons of metallic chaff. This gives some very strange radar reflections.
"As far as we can tell, they've left behind a number of warships, but the big ship withdrew. We think they headed for the Moon." Admiral Carrell's calm broke for a moment. "God damn them, that's our Moon."
"Have we heard from Moon Base?"
"Not ours, and the Soviets have lost contact with theirs. I think they're gone."
Fifty billion dollars. Most of our space program. Damn!
The President looked older by the minute. "What do we know about their small ships?"
Carrel shrugged. "They have several dozen of them. We say small, but the smallest is the size of the Enterprise. I mean the aircraft carrier! We shot some of them out of space. I know we got two, with a Minuteman out of Minot Air Force Base. Then they clobbered Minot. We think the Russians got a couple too."
"None of which explains why they ran away," the civilian said.
"Mr. President, this is Mr. Ransom, one of my Threat Team," Admiral Carrell said, "He and his colleagues are the only experts we have."
"Experts?"
"Yes, sir. They're science-fiction writers."
Who else? And the President isn't laughing . . .
"Why did they run away, then, Mr. Ransom?"
"We don't know, and we don't like it," Ransom said. "Back in the Red Room you can get a dozen opinions. Curtis and Anson are back there trying to get a consensus, but I don't think they'll do it. The aliens could have their mates and children aboard that main ship. They came a long way."
"I see," David Coffey said. He looked around the big control room. "Is there somewhere I can sit down?"
"You'd do better to get some rest," Admiral Carrell said.
"So should you."
"After you, sir. Someone has to be on duty. We might get through to the Russians again."
This time Jenny couldn't help laughing. When the President and Admiral Carrell stared at her, she giggled, then sobered quickly. "I never thought we'd be so eager to hear from the Russians."
Carrell's smile was forced. "Yes. It is ironic. However—"
He broke off as red lights flashed and a siren wailed through the enormous room. The Admiral took a headset from one of the sergeants. After a moment he said, "They haven't all left. They just hit a major highway junction."
"Highway junctions. Railroad yards. Dams." the President muttered.
"Yes," Admiral Carrell agreed. "But not cities or population centers. San Diego but not New York harbor. Cities along major rivers are flooded, some severely. Some parts of the country are—undamaged but have no electricity. Others are without power, and effectively isolated. Some places have electric power and are utterly untouched. It's an odd way to fight a war."
* * *
Message Bearer hummed. The vibration from the main fusion drive was far higher than any normal range of hearing; but it shook the bones, and it was always there. Sleepers and spaceborn alike had learned to ignore it during the long days of deceleration into Winterhome system. It could not be sensed until it was gone.
. . . It was gone. Thrust period was over. The floor eased from under the Herdmaster and he floated. Six eights of digit ships had been left behind to implement the invasion, while Message Bearer fell outward toward the Foot. The acceleration, the pulses of fusion light and gamma rays, had been blocked by the mass of Winterhome's moon. Let Winterhome's masters try to detect her, an inert speck against the universe.
The Herdmaster blew a fluttering sigh. Several hours of maneuvers had left him exhausted. It was good to be back in free-fall, even for a few minutes.
"That's over," he said. "Now we'll trample the natives a little and see what they do."
"It's their terrain. We will lose some warriors," Fathisteh-tulk's lids drooped in sleepy relaxation, and the Herdmaster spared him a glare. The Herdmaster's Advisor had himself been Herdmaster; he could have saved the Herdmaster this chore, spared him for other work . . . except that spaceborn warriors might not take his orders. He was a sleeper; his accent marked him.
So he was being unjust. But Fathisteh-tulk enjoyed the situation. The Herdmaster sighed again and turned to the intercom. "Get me Breaker-Two."
Takpusseh too spoke with the archaic sleeper accent, He stood at a desk littered with alien artifacts.
"You have spoken with the prey," the Herdmaster asked.
"I have spoken with one of them, Herdmaster. This one is of the Land Mass Two herd that babbled to us as we approached. Some of the others speak that language, but they are not part of that herd."
"What have you learned?"
"Herdmaster, I do not know what we learned from that interview. Certainly that herdless one did not submit."
The Herdmaster was silent for a moment. "It was helpless?"
"Herdmaster, I sent an armed octuple to fetch it. I left it naked, and required it to stand before my table. It demanded explanations. It was abusive!"
"Yet it lives? You show remarkable restraint."
Takpusseh vented a fluttering snort. "I did not understand all it said at the time. It was only after it was sent back to the restraining pen that we listened carefully to the recordings. Herdmaster, these are alien beasts. They do not obey properly. It will take time to make them a part of the Traveler Herd."
"Perhaps, being herdless, it is insane. Were there others of its herd in the satellite?"
"Yes. It said that its mate had been killed in the attack."
"It is insane, then. Kill it."
"Herdmaster, there is no need for haste. It speaks this language the prey call English far better than do the others."
"Have the others submitted?"
"Herdmaster, I believe they have."
"The herdless one comes from the continent with the most roads and harbors and dams. Surely the most advanced herd will not all be insane."
"Surely not, Herdmaster."
"Do you have advice?"
"Herdmaster, I believe we should continue the plan. Trample the prey before we speak with them. If they are arrogant in defeat, they must be impossible before they are harmed."
"Very well. Will you continue to speak with this one?"
"Not without new reason. I found the interview painful. I will speak with it again when we have obtained more of its herd. Perhaps it will regain its sanity. Until then, Breaker-One Raztupisp-minz will study the herdless one. He chooses not to speak with it."
The Herdmaster twitched his digits against his forelegs. Takpusseh was being tactful. Raztupisp-minz was not fluent in the language of the prey.
"The other prisoners are in my domain, but we house them together," Breaker-two Takpusseh finished.
"Do any of them submit?"
"I have had no opportunity to examine the others while Message Bearer maneuvers violently. Instead, we have experimented with their living conditions. We gave them cloth from the great stores they kept in the orbiting habitat. They draped themselves with it. We gave them water and watched how much they used, and analyzed their excreta. We change their environment. How do they treat their food? Which of our foods can they tolerate? Do they like more oxygen, or less? Warm air or cold? To what extent can they tolerate their own exhalations?"
"I expect they breathe the air mixture of Winterhome."
"Of course, but where on Winterhome? Equator or poles? High altitude or low? Wet or dry? We are learning. They like pressure anywhere between sea level and half that. They can tolerate our air mix but prefer it dryer. They cover their skins with cloth even when far too hot; that deceived us for a time. They drink and wash with clean water and ignore mud. Their food is treated; they have to wet it and heat it. They would not eat ours. And in the process of experiment, we gave them strong incentive to learn to speak to us."
The Herdmaster laughed, a fluttering snort. "Of course they would like to tell you to stop. Can they speak?"
"We have begun to teach them. It is easier with those who speak the language called English. I see no need to learn the others' language. The herdless one called—Dawson—can translate until they gain skill at our speech. Their mouths are not properly formed. One day I think there will be a compromise language; but they will never be taken for ordinary workers of the Traveler Herd, even in pitch dark. The smell is distinctive."
"Are they in good condition?"
"The dark-skinned one is unresponsive and doesn't eat. I think he must be dying. He too is herdless. The other four seem ready for training."
"The other herdless one will die as well."
"Perhaps. He seems in health. We must watch him. Herdmaster, from what region do you intend to take prisoners?"
"You have no need to know."
"Herdmaster, I must know if Dawson will have companions of his own herd. I must know if he is insane, or if all those of his herd act so strangely."
"He is insane," the Herdmaster said.
"Lead me, Herdmaster."
"Perform your task. I gave no order."
"Thank you. Herdmaster, it is likely that he is insane. Surely he has never been as far from his herd as he is now. But we must know."
The Herdmaster considered. "Very well. We will attempt to seize and keep a foothold in Land Mass Two, North, the source of most of the electromagnetic babble. We will take prisoners."
"As many as possible, Herdmaster: I require females and children. It would also be well to have immature and aged, cripples, insane—"
"I have other priorities, but the warriors will be told. How shall we identify the insane?"
"Never mind. Some will go insane after capture."
"Anything else?"
"I would like to show the prisoners some records."
"Good. Where? The communal mudroom? My officers and their mates are clamoring to see the natives."
"I'm not sure they're ready for . . . Lead me. We will display them, but not in the mudroom. Use the classroom. They'll have to get used to us sooner or later—"
"And my fithp must get used to them. We'll be starting spin immediately. You can put your show on afterward. Will you show them the Podo Thuktun?"
"No! They're not ready. They wouldn't know what it means. Fistarteh-thuktun would stomp me flat."
The Herdmaster disconnected. Fathisteh-tulk, who had not spoken during the exchange, said, "Takpusseh was a good choice. Many sleepers have lapsed into lethargy since the awakening. Takpusseh has kept his enthusiasm, his sense of wonder."
"Yes. Why has he no mate? He is of the age, and his status is adequate . . . though as a sleeper he lost rank, of course—"
"His mate did not survive the death-sleep."
"Ah." The Herdmaster pondered. "Advise me. Shall I expect these prisoners to develop into cooperating workers? Can they persuade their race to surrender without undue bloodshed?"
"You know my opinion," the Herdmaster's Advisor said. "We don't need this world or its masters. We are not dirtyfeet. We should be colonizing space, not inhabited worlds."
Dirtyfeet: only sleepers used that term for those who had remained comfortably behind on the homeworld. The spaceborn felt no need to insult ancestors who were forever removed in space and time.
Never mind; Fathisteh-tulk had raised another problem. "Odd, that a spaceborn should hear this from a sleeper. You know my opinion too. We came to conquer Winterhome. Regulations require that I consult you as to methods."
"Do you intend that our prisoners shall not learn of the Foot?"
The Herdmaster frowned. "It is standard procedure . . ."
A fluttering snort answered him. "Of course. A soldier should never know more than he must, for he might be captured and accepted into the enemy's herd. But how could the forces of Winterhome rescue our prisoners without taking Message Bearer herself? In which case all is already lost."
"I suppose so. Very well—"
"Wait, please, Herdmaster. My advice."
"Well?"
"Your judgment was right. Tell them what they must know. Tell them that they must submit, and show them that we can force them to obey. Then let them speak to their people. But we must not depend upon their aid."
"Breaking them into the Traveler Herd is the task of the Breakers. Takpusseh and Raztupisp-minz are conscientious."
"Even so. Don't let them know all. They are alien."
* * *
The Kawasaki was an LTD 750 twin with a belt drive, an '83 model which Harry had bought at the year-end sale in '84. He had saddlebags for it and a carry rack for his guitar. Two weeks ago he had borrowed Arline Mott's pickup truck and taken the engine in.
He was driving the same pickup truck now, and he felt guilty about it.
He'd telephoned Arline at 5:00 AM., before she'd been up or able to listen to the radio. "I'll have it back by noon," he'd said.
Since Arline didn't get up before noon, that wouldn't be a problem. She'd put the key outside her door and gone back to bed.
She ought to be getting the hell out of Los Angeles!
If I'd told her, Harry thought. But if I didn't call her, who would? And she'd be in bed until noon anyway. So all I have to do is get the damn truck back to her.
He pulled into a 76 station. There were three cars ahead of him. He filled the truck, then filled two gas cans Arline kept in the back. Least I can do for her.
Gas was still being sold at the pump prices. That couldn't last.
He drove North along Van Nuys Boulevard. The tools and all of the Kawasaki except the engine were in the back. It was still in pieces. A glance at Road and Track Specialties, which specialized in racing motorcycles, sent him off on a daydream. He really ought to steal one of those. It would get him there faster and more dependably, if he didn't get himself arrested, and certainly the emergency justified it . . . he drove past without slowing, and on to Van Nuys Honda-Kawasaki.
His walk slowed as he passed through the salesroom. His money hadn't stretched far enough. He needed a new fender, spare brake and clutch levers, a fairing . . . Jesus, that Vetter Windjammer fairing was nice. I could use the emergency thousand that Wes keeps—Only that wouldn't work. That thousand belonged to Carlotta, and Harry intended to take it to her. Not all, but as much as possible.
No Vetter fairing, then. Just tie-down straps, and paper bags to put his hands in. He stepped up to the counter, next to a bulky, younger man.
"Hairy Red," the man said. Harry almost recognized him; the name wouldn't surface. "How they hanging?"
"This is the day nobody knows that," Harry said. "Did you see the light show?"
"Damn right. I'm getting out."
"I'm headed east. I could use a partner."
"North looks safer," the half stranger said. Harry nodded; he agreed. When a clerk appeared he paid the rest of what he owed out of Wes Dawson's thousand. He paid for the engine repairs and restrained the urge to buy anything. He might need money more.
He brought truck and engine to the parking lot across the alley from the motorcycle shop. The transistor radio was telling the world that there had been a horrible mistake. The aliens had attacked certain parts of the United States and the rest of the world, but now they were going away. The delegation that had been aboard the Soviet Kosmograd had been taken aboard by the aliens. Negotiations were proceeding. Citizens should remain calm. Anyone who could go to work should do that. Conserve electricity and water. Don't waste anything. There would be inconveniences. Expect rationing soon.
That was one station. On another, the announcer was hysterical. The Martians had landed in New Jersey.
The one thing that every station announced was that all military and police personnel were to report for duty immediately.
Harry began to work.
An hour later he had some appreciation of what he'd lost.
Harry felt the urgency (what was happening now around Carlotta Dawson? And where, in hell or heaven, was Congressman Wes?) and the certain knowledge that hurrying was a mistake. His vertebrae, dreaming that they had become solid bone, woke to grating agony as he lifted and twisted and crouched and crawled. He worked muscles that had forgotten their function. They protested and were ignored. He worked as he had to, letting details fill his mind from edge to edge. It was like the calm from being ripped on marijuana, or (he presumed) from transcendental meditation. He had read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance long ago.
It was killing labor, and Harry was drenched with sweat. He was old, old. But the Kawasaki was a motorcycle again.
This would be a hellish shakedown tour for a newly mounted engine. Harry smoked while the crankcase drained onto the weeds. He refilled it with a very light oil. He started the engine and let it run for the life span of a cigarette. He drained the engine again and refilled it with a heavier oil.
Puffing, he began to pack the Kawasaki. The sleeping bag went on the rack. It would normally carry his guitar, but not this trip! He'd already turned that over to Lucy Mott for safekeeping. He ran his spare cables alongside the working cables, ready to be attached in an instant. He reached into the fuel tank's wide-mouthed fill—was there anyone to see?—to attach the gold peso and the dimes. Carlotta Dawson's .45 auto went under the seat, with two clips. The .25 Beretta was in his jacket pocket. A one-quart botta bag was more convenient than a canteen for drinking while riding; he'd want to fill it before he left.
What had he forgotten? He had spare belts, high-speed belts built for industry, which fit the cycle and cost a quarter as much as store-bought. He checked everything: spare oil, ratchet set, screwdriver set, four wrenches, electrical tape, spare fuses, a can of hydraulic oil for the brakes. Tubing cut to fit. Spare clothing in a plastic garbage bag. The binoculars.
Finally he buckled on the wide kidney belt. It reduced his stomach by inches, and made him feel ten years younger.
He went to the head shop next door for cigarettes. There was only one clerk, and Harry was surprised to see her.
"Ruby?"
"Yeah, man. How's it, Harry?"
"I thought you'd be in the mountains by now," Harry said.
She looked puzzled.
"Aliens? Space war? Lights in the sky?"
She laughed. "What you need, Harry?"
"Two cartons of Pall Mall. No filter. Ruby, you told me about it."
She got out the cigarettes. Harry handed her money, and she gave him back change. No premium price. "Told you about what?"
"What I said. Space War."
She laughed again. "I thought I remembered calling somebody; was that you?" She laughed some more. "Wow, that Colombian stuff is strong, Harry. I really thought it was real!"
He was still shaking his head when he got outside. It was tough loading the Kawasaki into the truck, but he got help from the guys in the shop.
Got to return the truck, he told himself. Got to.
Fifteen hundred miles, near enough. Wish I didn't have to take the truck back. Ought to get started . . . Hell, it's only five miles to Arline's place. Damn near on the way. Let's get it done.
If he'd been in a car, he'd never have made it.
All the highways out of Los Angeles were jammed. Cars all over the road. Cars stalled on the wrong side of the road, people driving on the left side, anything to get out. And then the first wrecks, and the endless fields of cars behind them.
Many were piled high with clutter. Baby cribs. Footlockers. A typewriter. Blankets, toys, any damned thing you could think of, lashed on top of the cars. One king-size mattress on top of a car full of kids.
There weren't many police, and where there were any, they were turning people back. Harry had to take out Dawson's letter a dozen times, until he was good with the spiel.
"I'm Congressman Wes Dawson's assistant," Harry would say. "He's aboard the alien ship. I have to look after his wife."
One of the national guardsmen even said "sir" to Harry after he'd seen the letter.
"Heard much, Sergeant?"
"No, sir. They hit Hoover Dam. We know that much. Seem to have hit a lot of dams and power plants and railroad yards. Nobody knows why. Now they've gone."
Harry nodded sagely. "Thanks." Then he couldn't resist. "Carry on, Sergeant," he said, and roared off.
By mid-afternoon he was through the Cajon Pass, headed east across the Mojave Desert. His back had begun to hurt.