Footfall

“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, Ia. 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,” Parry 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—”