Hear now this, O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not.
—JEREMIAH 5:21
The contorted moonlet dropped away, dwindled, vanished. Earth grew huge. A flashbulb popped above the Indian Ocean, and was replaced at once by a swelling, darkening fireball. Ring-shaped shadows formed and faded in and around it. Far from the central explosion, new lights blinked confusingly in points and radial streaks.
The Earth's face streamed past, terrifyingly close but receding now. A wave in the cloud cover above the Indian Ocean raced outward, losing its circular shape as it traveled. Northward, it took on a triangular indentation, as if the edge of a blanket had snagged on a nail.
"India," Dawson said. "How fast are you running this tape?"
"Thirty-two times normal," Tashayamp answered.
"What is . . . that?" Alice asked.
"Land masses. The tsunami distorts the clouds," Arvid said.
"So does the ocean floor," Dawson amplified, "but not as much. That's India going under. Those flashes would have been secondary meteors, debris, even water from the explosion thrown out to space and reentering the atmosphere."
That's India going under. Good-bye, Krishna, and Vishnu the elephant god. Jeri shuddered. "Dave took me to India once. So many people. Half a billion."
Arvid stood near. She felt his warmth and wanted to be closer to him.
Tashayamp said, "Number?"
Arvid said, "Eight to the eighth times eight times three."
"Human fithp in India? Where the wave goes now?"
"Yes."
Dmitri spoke rapidly in Russian.
"Stalin thought that way," Arvid snapped.
Dmitri shrugged expressively.
What was that about? Jeri wondered. Arvid didn't like it at all. Stalin? He would have been pleased to have a simple answer to the India "problem." It's easier to deal with "problems" than people.
The distortion in the clouds swept against Africa, then south. Here was clear air, and a ripple barely visible in the ocean . . . but the outline of the continent was changing, bowing inward.
"Cape of Good Hope," Jeri muttered. She watched the waves spread into the Atlantic. Recorded hours must be passing. She found herself gasping and suspected she had been holding her breath. The waves were marching across the Atlantic, moving on Argentina and Brazil with deceptive slowness and a terrible inevitability.
Cloud cover followed, boiling across the oceans, reaching toward the land masses. "My God," Jeri said. "How could you do this?"
"It is not our choice," Raztupisp-minz said. "We would gladly have sent the Foot safely beyond your atmosphere, but your fithp would not have it so."
"Look what you made me do," Alice said in a thick, self-pitying whine. Her voice became a lash. "All the sickies say that—the rogues say that when they've done something they're ashamed of. It was somebody else's fault."
"They can say all they like," Carrie Woodward said. "We know. They came all the way from the stars to ruin the land."
"You should not say such things," said Takpusseh. "You do not want this to happen again. You will help us."
"Help? How?" Dawson demanded.
"You, Wes Dawson, you tell them. More come."
Dmitri spoke again in Russian. Arvid shuddered.
The screen changed again. Clouds moved so unnaturally fast that Jeri thought they were still watching a tape until Takpusseh said. "That is now. Winterhome."
Earth was white. The cloud cover was unbroken.
"Rain. Everywhere," Nikolai said. "The dams are gone. There will be floods."
The Earth was distant now, and no longer turning beneath them. "Synchronous orbit," Nikolai said. "Above Africa. Look!"
White streaks blazed across Earth's night. That was Africa, and the digit ships were going down.
"Go now. Tashayamp, take them," the Bull Elephant said. "Dawson, Raztupisp-minz, stay."
* * *
The Herdmaster waited until the rest had left the theater. Then, before he could speak, Dawson said, "I will not tell my fithp to surrender."
If Dawson made to grip his eyelid, the Herdmaster would simply slap him across the room. He said, "You will. Raztupisp-minz, tell him details, but later. Wes Dawson, did you speak with Fathisteh-tulk?"
"Name not known." Dawson's eyes flicked sideways, at Raztupisp-minz. "Wait. Second in leader status? Advisor?"
"Yes."
"He came to me."
"Raztupisp-minz, you permitted this?"
Breaker-One Raztupisp-minz hesitated, then gestured affirmation. "The Advisor thought he might find an unusual angle of approach. I thought it worth a try."
Takpusseh's thuktun at the time had been the Soviets. Raztupisp-minz had been studying Dawson alone. Balked by Takpusseh, Fathisteh-tulk would have had to go to Raztupisp-minz. "Dawson, what was said?"
The human still lacked skill in the speech of the thuktunthp. Questioning him took more time than the Herdmaster liked, but he persisted.
According to Dawson's tale, when he reached his room after his first foray into the ducts, there was a piece of cloth over his night light, and a fi' was waiting for him. A pressure suit helmet and glove covered its face and digits.
"Then how can you know you spoke to Fathisteh-tulk?" the Herdmaster demanded.
"I make him take it off."
"Did you. How?"
"Reason he was in my room, he will not tell. He asked questions. 'We take Winterhome. Query: is this wrong? We use moons and circling rocks, not want planets. Query: is it true? Tell why. Tell if humans took wealth from space.' "
The rogue human shrugged. "I tell fi', Wes Dawson. Congressman. 514-55-2316."
"I don't understand," said the Herdmaster.
"Warrior under foot of enemy give his name, standing, and number, and not else."
"Wrong. Tell more."
"He said, 'Dawson, you gave your surrender.' I said, 'I not surrendered to you. Who are you? If I talk to you, who is enraged?' "
The arrogant creature actually had a point. "Very proper."
"He take his helmet off. I take the cloth off the light. He said, 'I am the Herdmaster's Advisor. Query: war with Earth is wrong? We want Space, not Earth?' "
"I said, 'Yes.' "
"Of course you did. Go on."
"What is . . ." Dawson tried to wrap his mouth around an unfamiliar fithp word—"fufisthengalss?"
Dissident. "You have no need to know. Speak further."
"He said he is fufisthengalss. Fufisthengalss are many. Fufisthengalss want to go away from Winterhome. I say, 'It sound pretty to me. Query: I can help?'
"He said, 'Give me reasons if Thuktun Flishithy leave Winterhome.'
"I tell him about loot of Moon and Mars and asteroids. Metals. Oxygen bound in rocks and dust. Things to make in free-fall, cannot do under thrust. Power from sunlight, not thinned by Winterhome air, not blocked by Winterhome storms and Winterhome night. We only begin to take the loot of space when you come to take the loot of Winterhome. Let us alone and we move all dirty industry to space, turn Winterhome into . . . into Garden."
"Fathisteh-tulk would have enjoyed hearing that."
"He enjoy. He is hurrying. He leave before I finish. I not see him after." Dawson's digits flicked toward the screen that showed Fathisteh-tulk's corpse. "Some fithp disagree with fufisthengalssthp?"
"Did you have more to tell?"
"Yes. One time we have foolish entertainment given by television. Imaginary fithp from another star come to Winterhome, rob oceans of water for their own planet. No sense. Why not go to Saturn, the ringed gas giant for water, where it is already frozen to be moved with ease, where are no human fithp to shoot back?"
"The tale sounds foolish enough, but—"
"Traveler Fithp are no smarter. Message Bearer is fithp home for eight-squared years or more. Supplied again at Saturn. Could last forever. Why you need to smash Winterhome?"
"That is in my thuktun, not yours. Do you know or guess who killed my Advisor?"
"Many fithp, not one. No fi' does things alone."
This insight was hardly worth the mentioning, save for one thing. The Herdmaster had asked around. Dissidents, warriors returned from Winterhome, mated and unmated females, juveniles: nobody knew anything. It seemed impossible . . . and even Dawson thought so. "You speak well. More?"
The human's shoulders moved. "Not fufisthengalssthp, for Fathisteh-tulk must have been of that fithp. Not human, for he wanted to leave Winterhome unhurt. Did he offend Fistarteh-thuktun? Do fithp kill for what they believe?"
"We do. Why do you suspect Fistarteh-thuktun?"
"I do not. The warmakers, they killed the Herdmaster's Advisor. Are they many? Can you choose one who is nearest to becoming rogue? Smashing Winterhome is a rogue's act. You must have many possible rogues."
The Herdmaster bristled. His urge was to kill the creature on the spot . . . yet he had never even considered the priest. "You have thought this through in detail. Why?"
"We love puzzles like this." Dawson reverted to English, "Detective stories. I have read many. Tell me all you know of the Advisor's death. It may be I can help."
"Another time. Raztupisp-minz, you should not have concealed the Advisor's activities. Did it never strike you that they might have caused his death?"
"No, Herdmaster. How could they?"
Pastempeh-keph splayed his digits. "I can't know that yet. Tell Dawson what to say to his fithp on Winterhome. Afterward I will send you to Winterhome. The African fithp must have one who understands human behavior, and the Breaker fithp must learn more."
Raztupisp-minz gasped, covered his scalp, and said nothing. The Herdmaster turned away. He would never have sent the leaders of the Breaker team into action except as punishment, and the Breaker knew it. Yet he was probably the best choice . . .
In a few 64-breaths there would be spin. The Herdmaster's family mudroom would be available again.
* * *
Jenny had never seen the President look so tired. He wore a faded flowered robe, and his feet were thrust into slippers without socks. He took the cup of coffee Jack Clybourne brought without thanking him, and listened impassively as Jenny and Admiral Carrell delivered their report.
"In South Africa," the President said. "Dr. Curtis was right, then. How do we know?"
"The cable through Dakar is still working," Admiral Carrell said. "We have reports from their government in Pretoria. I wouldn't count on that lasting. Understand, Mr. President, we know very little."
"Is there anything we can do?" the President asked.
Carrell nodded to Jenny.
"We can't think of anything, sir. We could try to send ships, but—"
"But they still have lasers and flying crowbars," President Coffey said. "Tell me, Major, is there anything to oppose them?"
"South African Commandos," Jenny said. "Their National Guard."
"Don't they have a regular army?"
"Yes, sir. They've always had the largest army on the continent. Most of it was on the seacoast."
David Coffey ran both hands through his thinning hair, then carefully smoothed it down. "We can assume they destroyed the rest from orbit. What else?"
"Sir, there is—or at least there was, when we still had communications—a Soviet army about three thousand miles north of their landing zone, but we don't even know if they've heard about the invasion."
And when we call Moscow, nobody answers. We can't count on the Russians.
The President nodded wearily. "They'll see something weird happening in the sky. Can you get a message to them?"
"I don't know. Or if they'd believe anything we said."
"Try, Admiral. So. There's nothing we have that can drive them out?"
Admiral Carrell shrugged. "Nothing I know of. We have a few missile subs. We could order them to attack—except that we can not know the precise areas to strike, and we can be certain they have placed their laser battle stations to protect their troops."
"It took everything we had—everything we and the Russians had—to burn them out of Kansas," the President said. "I guess it's obvious. We won't throw them out of South Africa."
Jesus. Is he giving up?
"So long as they control space they can do as they will," Admiral Carrell said. "Suppose we throw them out of Africa. There are millions of asteroids in the solar system. Perhaps the will drop the next one on Colorado Springs. Or perhaps they bring in a series of smaller ones to land in San Francisco Bay, Lake Michigan, Chesapeake Bay . . ."
"Admiral, must we surrender?"
Carrell snorted. "You're in command, Mr. President. I'm from Annapolis. For two years my table was just under the banner, 'Don't give up the ship.' Certainly I won't."
"But—"
"Archangel," Admiral Carrell said.
Coffey snorted. "Do you really believe in a spacecraft powered by atomic bombs?"
"It has to work," Carrell said.
"You're saying that's our only hope."
"I know of no other."
"I see." The President looked thoughtful. "So everything depends on keeping secrets. If they learn, if they so much as get a hint that—" He frowned. "I've forgotten. Bellingham?"
"Yes."
"They blast Bellingham, and we're finished. All right. If that's our best hope, let's protect it. I want a personal progress report. Jenny."
"Sir?"
"Send Jenny, Admiral. Promote her and send her up there." He looked around the room and saw Jack Clybourne.
"Jack—"
"Yes, sir?"
"You must feel useless here."
"Yes, sir. Hell, most of the time the only person who's armed who can get within a mile of you is me."
"You know security procedures. Go with Colonel Crichton and look into what they've set up at Bellingham." The President ruined his hair again. "I should put on a swimsuit and go talk to the Dreamer Fithp."
Jenny thought, What?
He grinned at her fleetingly. "The sci-fi writers, they cheer me up. They don't tell me horrible things aren't happening, I don't mean that. But it doesn't seem to bother them. They think bigger than that. Like an interstellar war is a great way to build up to the real story. And that tame snout of theirs—It helps to know that they will surrender if we can just hit them with something hard!"
* * *
Dawson appeared in the cell something more than an hour after the rest arrived. He was shaking. He looked about at several sets of more or less questioning eyes, and he said, "They want me to tell the Earth to surrender."
The Russians' eyes met. Arvid grinned and Dmitri shrugged and Nikolai's expression went quite blank.
"I won't do it," Wes Dawson said. "Vidkun Quisling, Pierre Laval, Benedict Arnold, I'd be remembered longer than any of them!"
Dmitri asked, "Why would you consider it?"
Wes flopped on his back on the padded aft wall. Looking at the featureless ceiling, he said, "There's a symbol. It looks like a fi' on its back. It means 'Don't bomb me.' People can paint it on greenhouses and hospitals and trucks carrying food . . . like a Red Cross. But if they use it wrong, it'll be rocks from the sky again."
"If you do not speak, you cannot make food shipments safe?" Dmitri demanded.
"Yeah. There was some other stuff. Threats, mostly. Another Foot." Wes shuddered. "I won't tell them that."
"We have no evidence that they have other asteroids ready to drop," Arvid said.
"They don't need them. There are plenty more where they got that one," Jeri said. "Or in the asteroid belt. It might take a few years, but they've got years. They've already spent, what—?"
"Fifteen years just since they reached the solar system. Sure they can bring another, and another. But it's worse than that."
Alice demanded, "What could be worse than another Foot?"
"They'll go to the Moon," Wes said. "They don't need to go to Saturn, or the asteroids! They've wiped us off the Moon. The gravity's low, and they can get as much Moon rock as they want."
No. God, why? Jeri wanted to curl into a tiny ball. "Wes, what will you do?"
"You tell me. I need help."
And all the time they're listening, watching, while we talk about it.
"Perhaps," Arvid said, "just perhaps it would be better if you make this speech. It would have to be carefully done. We could help you prepare." He looked significantly at Wes.
"They want me to talk the human race into surrendering! They'll tell me what to say. If I say something else, they'll cut me off. What's the good of that?"
Arvid glanced casually at the watching camera. "One must paraphrase."
A long moment passed. Then Wes mused, "Of course, the fithp will need help with their phrasing. Their English isn't that good . . ."
"But yours is."
* * *
The rest were asleep. Alice curled in a protective ball, one arm thrown across her face, the other reaching to clutch the wall rug. They had never been given blankets; they slept in the clothes they wore. Thuktun Flishithy had gone over to spin gravity, and Alice could feel an eccentricity, a wobble. Dmitri snored with a sound like complaint. Alice uncurled. The hell with it.
Congressman Dawson slept a few feet from the rest, on his side, with his head pillowed on one arm. Alice watched him, Sleeping, he looked quite harmless. Yet he frowned in his sleep "Foot," he muttered. "Feet. Giant mee . . . meteoroid imp . . ."
Everybody in Menninger's had nightmares. It wasn't rare for Alice to wake in the middle of the night. Then she would watch and listen . . . and the others weren't any better off than she was. She used to wonder about that. If she'd spent any amount of time in a dorm, she thought, she would have known she wasn't unusual.
And if she hadn't been sent to a girls' high school, she might have grown used to . . . persons of the male persuasion. She'd have known how to handle them, like other women did. If her parents—
"Dinosaurs. Oh, God, like the dinosaurs . . ." Dawson said in a breathy moan. Alice had never seen a man whimper.
Poor bastard. He could tell the world how to safeguard their food and hospitals, but what would they remember? Wes Dawson urging them to surrender to the horrors. Wes Dawson, traitor.
Unfair! Learning what the horrors had planned, Wes Dawson had tried to tear the nose and eyelid off Teacher Takpusseh. He'd told Mrs. Woodward about it in Alice's hearing. Alice tried to picture that. It must have been a short fight.
So safe, so harmless, asleep; but he was the only one who had fought back.
Greatly daring, Alice reached out and touched Wes Dawson's wrist. Too little pressure would tickle him, too much would wake him.
He stopped breathing, and so did Alice. Then, "I can kill them. They can die," Wes said. His face relaxed; his lips parted slightly and he was deep asleep.
After a moment Alice curled up beside him.