Footfall

“I say it were better that a millstone were tied about their necks, and they were cast into the sea! Thou, Lord, shall have them in scorn. Consume them in thy wrath, consume them that they may perish, and know that it is God that ruleth unto the ends of the world!”

She fell silent.

What will they do? They can’t be afraid of curses. God, my God, have you forsaken all of us? Are you there? Are you listening? Can you listen?

Tashayamp waited.

God, let us out of here!

“Return to your place,” Tashayamp told them. “Follow the guards.” She herself departed with the Bull and the Priest.

“Eat them. Rage and eat them, that they will die and know that God leads everywhere. That’s as near as I can translate,” Tashayamp finished.

“You see!” Fistarteh-thuktun trumpeted. “Of course we might have learned something by dissecting the creature, but this we would have lost! We have never before witnessed such a ceremony.”

“And what do you think you have learned?”

“I was wrong,” said the priest. “Despite their shape, they are not totally alien. We can lead them. Herdmaster, do you see it? They have no Predecessors. None lead them, they must lead themselves. They have made for themselves the fiction of a Predecessor!”

Pastempeh-keph signaled assent. “It must be a fiction. This God would hardly have tolerated our incursions. I wonder how they see him? Does their God have thumbs? And they give him male gender …”

“I ca

“I think so. We have a book of words from Kansas. I will examine fear.”

They had reached the bridge. The warrior on duty covered his head. “Herdmaster, a message. Chintithpit-mang wishes to spea to you.”

“I hear.”

“We shall be their Predecessors,” Fistarteh-thuktun said. “I must learn more. I wish I could go down to Africa.”

“You may not. We need you here. Get your data from Takpusseh-yamp. Tashayamp, is your mate—”

“Easily distracted, but at your service,” Tashayamp said, an the mating scent thickened in the air.

The Herdmaster left them there. The bridge was busy; some site in Africa was about to get a consignment of meteors. The Herdmaster settled onto his pad and tapped at the console.

Chintithpit-mang was a brown ball in the center of his cell. The Herdmaster watched him for a bit. Huddled in his misery, he might have been asleep but for his nostril and digits, which moved restlessly, as if they had independent life.

Eight days! Give him credit, that’s a tough-minded fi’. The Herdmaster said softly, “Chintithpit-mang, speak to me.”

The fi’ started convulsively. He looked toward the camera. “Herdmaster, I will speak to the dissidents.”

“You have done so. I recorded our last conversation, and broadcast it. What would you tell them?”

“Fathisteh-tulk said that human help would be beyond price in the conquest of space, with their ambitious plans and their smaller food intake and dexterous digits. Winterhome must be conquered and the humans broken into the Traveler Herd.”

“This is what you said an eight-day past. What have you to add? You should have helped Fathisteh-tulk.”

“Herdmaster, I would have joined the argument against the Advisor. The human attacked first.”

“You let him die.”

“He would have destroyed the dissident cause.”

“He has. You have no other to speak for you. Why did you hide the corpse?”

Chintithpit-mang’s digits were tight across his skull, as if welded. “I was in shock! The Advisor betrayed us! If the human were caught, he might repeat Fathisteh-tulk’s words!”

“Dawson holds his peace better than you have. You weren’t trying to protect Dawson. Must I return you to the silence of your cell?”

“I heard a snoring sound.”

“When?”

“A 64-breaths or so after the human left the Advisor for dead. I still didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. I heard a snoring sound. I turned and his chest was heaving.”

“Speak further.”

“I knew what he’d say. The dissidents … we would have … I pushed his face in the mud. I pushed mud in his mouth. The sno

It was whas the Herdmaster had expected to hear; yet he had hoped. “What shall I do with you now, Chintithpit-mang? I ca

“Kill me. Gather the herd as tradition requires.”

“We are roguish enough these days. I ca

“Yes, if I am allowed.”

“You are sent, not allowed. Forever, Chintithpit-mang. I can grasp the pressures that made you rogue, but if such happens again, you will be trampled.” The Herdmaster tapped at keys.

And that is well done. Chintithpit-mang will serve us well. I will send down others of the Year Zero Fithp. Let them make amends in Africa. He tapped more keys. The picture changed.

Wes Dawson was… ru

“Wes Dawson.”

Dawson turned as he ran, to face the camera. He said nothing. The desperate longing to hear another’s voice… might have been present, but the Herdmaster saw no trace of it.

He said, “Chintithpit-mang tells me that he killed the Advisor. Fathisteh-tulk was still alive when you released him.”

Dawson’s mouth twitched upward at the corners. In fair fithp he said, “I do it better next time.”

Pastempeh-keph turned off the screen. Just whose mind was being broken by this treatment?

Spinward around the curve of the mudroom there were the sounds of splashing and soft-trumpeted gossip. Shreshleemang ignored it. Her status had become uncertain when her mate’s confession was broadcast. This was an embarrassment to her friends. These days they avoided her. Shreshleemang understood this, and resented it nonetheless. She could do nothing about it. She lolled in the mud with eyes half closed.

She grew aware of others gathering around her. They rested in the mud, quiet, but she could feel their eyes. When it became clear that they would not go away, she said, “I remember a time when the mudroom was a refuge from the day’s cares.”

“There was never such a time,” said Chowpeentulk. “The mudroom has forever been a pond of politics.”

Shreshleemang looked up. Chowpeentulk and K’turfookeph seemed to be coolly studying her. K’turfookeph said, “Your mate is not to be trampled. He will be returned to Africa.”

“He told me himself. He has already departed.”

“Shreshleemang, you should join him.”

Shreshleemang surged from the mud. With the greatest effort she managed to curb her bellow. “The Herdmaster may send me where he wills. Have you come as his emissary?”

“No. You are a mated female of the Traveler Herd, with no stain on your character. Will you listen?”

She sank back. “I will.”

“He needs you. Males go rogue far more easily without a mate to steady them. Chintithpit-mang lives close against that barrier.”

“Yes, for he has crossed it.”

“Africa is being conquered, but there remain many human rogues in the pacified territory. Effective warriors are needed. Chintithpit-mang is one of the best, but the jungle hunters live under terrible strain. Often they hunt alone, as if already rogue. Unmated, Chintithpit-mang will be rogue within a 64-days. Mated, he can be an effective leader.”

“Yes, he needs me. He has destroyed the dissident cause, he has humiliated me personally. Do I need him?”