Footfall

“Look at the sky, you silly buzzard,” a gravelly voice said. “What the hell do you think all the lights are?”

Harry watched and thought as a flame curved around the western horizon, flared and died. Then two more. No question what that was. And now what do I do?

Stay and watch the house. Only — Jesus. Congressman Wes was in Kosmograd! And Carlotta Dawson would be in western Kansas by now, present situation unknown. If she’d taken the gun … if she’d been the type to take the .45. But she wasn’t.

The radio began the peculiar beep beep of an incoming news bulletin.

“We have an unconfirmed report that San Diego harbor has suffered a large explosion,” the announcer said. He sounded like a man who’d like to be hysterical but who’d used up all his emotions.

Maybe I should go help Carlotta. Wes would want me to. Jesus, how?

The Kawasaki was in pieces. There hadn’t been nearly enough money for everything that should have been done to it, and Harry hadn’t wanted to push. He’d done most of the work himself, as much as he could. But only the Honda shop could rebuild the engine: He’d finished taking the bike apart and carried the engine in, and as far as he knew it was ready. It had better be.

There must be others watching tonight. They’d sure as hell know by morning.

Harry watched and thought and made his plans. (That long blue flame had formed again, and this time it didn’t seem to be dying. Stars rising from the west seemed to be reaching for it until threads of green light touched them; then they flared and vanished. The blue flame crept east, accelerating. The binoculars showed something at the tip. Harry’s eyes watered trying to make out details.)

Then he went inside and washed his face.

Carlotta didn’t like him. And so what? Harry opened Dawson’s liquor cabinet and opened a bottle of Carlos Primera brandy. Sixty bucks a bottle; but it was all that was left. He poured a good splash, looked at it, thought of pouring some back, and drank half.

Carlotta doesn’t like me. The country’s at war with aliens. Wes asked me to look after things. Nothing I can do here, and if I stay here long I’ll be here, and for good.

He went to the telephone and dialed the Kansas number Carlotta had left. It rang a long time. Then a voice, not sleepy. Male. “Mrs. Carlotta Dawson. Please,” Harry said. He could sound official when he wanted to.

It took a moment. “Yes?”

“Harry Reddington, Mrs. Dawson. Is there anything you want me to do?”

“Harry — Harry, they don’t know what happened up there.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you?”

“I don’t know.”

Carlotta Dawson’s voice dissolved in hisses. Another voice came on the line. “Is this an official telephone call?” it asked through the static. Then the line went dead.

Harry emptied his glass. Now what? She didn’t say. And if I stay in Los Angeles tomorrow, I’ll be in Los Angeles forever …

He drank half an inch more brandy and closed the bottle. Firmly.

When he left he was in clean shirt and a sports jacket that was years old but had almost never been worn. He carried ID and a sleeping bag and Congressman Dawson’s letter. At 3:30 A.M. he was on the front steps of the Security Pacific National Bank, spreading his sleeping bag.

Pavel Bondarev stared at the blank screen. All around him officers and aides at the command and communications consoles began to speak at once, and the babble brought him to life. “Colonel, I wish this chatter to cease.”

“Da, Comrade Director.” Colonel Suvorov was efficient if unimaginative. He shouted, and the cacophony of voices died away.

The aliens had fired on Kosmograd. He had seen that much before all communications were lost. The aliens had fired without warning, without provocation.

An amber light blinked insistently. Pavel lifted the scrambler telephone. “Da, Comrade Chairman.”

There was only a soft hiss, then a sudden rush of static. The officers at the command consoles burst into chatter again.

“What has happened?” Bondarev demanded.

“A high-altitude nuclear explosion. Perhaps more than one. The pulse effect has crippled our telephones,” Suvorov reported.

“I see.” And without communications — Bondarev felt rising panic. The scrambler phone was dead. “Get me Marshal Shavyrin.”

“There is no answer,” Suvorov said.

“It is vital. Use another means. Use any means,” Bondarev ordered. He fought to keep his voice calm. The scrambler telephone remains silent. Is the Chairman in communication with anyone else? Perhaps not. Perhaps we are safe.

“I have Shavyrin,” Colonel Suvorov said.

“Thank you.” Pavel put on the headset. “Comrade Marshal—”

“Da, Comrade Director?”

“Have you launched any missiles?”

“No, Comrade Director. I have received no instructions from the Defense Council.”

Bondarev discovered that he had been partially holding his breath. Now he let it out slowly. “You understand that the aliens have fired on Kosmograd?”

“Comrade Director, I know someone has. Two of my generals believe this a Western trick—”