Footfall

But Takpusseh stirred, and Fathisteh-tulk caught it. “BreakerTwo?”

“They keep secrets. The Soviets speak their own language, though they practice the thuktun-speech too. They know more of the air ducts than we have asked them to learn. Ask us again after Digit Ship Six gives us more prisoners.”

Fathisteh-tulk turned to another source. “Keeper of the thuktun, what have you learned? The prey are described as insane. I remember the pflit of the Homeworld—”

Speaking of the Homeworld to a fellow sleeper, Fistartehthuktun waxed loquacious. “Of course, the pflit reproduced at a furious rate. They were little mottled gray beasts the same colors as the Sunward Forest they lived in. and the way they clustered made fithp look roguish. An individual life meant nothing in the survival strategy of the pflit, so they evolved no defense against predators, and they migrated in swarms, even if the path led off a cliff… What insight are you seeking? The prey throw their lives away, but they don’t breed faster than we do.”

“Probably true,” Takpusseh said.

“You miss my point,’ The Advisor said, “Is it not true that nature shapes life to fit its style of life?”

We’re wasting time, Pastempeh-keph thought, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t speak. A Herdmaster must trumpet softly, lest a suggestion be taken for an order.

“The Life Thukiun tells us so,” Fistarteh-thuktun said slowly. “The Thuktun of the Long Path shows how new forms arise from old. Evolution goes by groups, by herds; but ripper fthuggl live alone, attacking their prey one on one: all rogues. They need room to find prey; they meet only to mate. Fithp surrender in herds, or accept surrender into the victor herd. What style of life has shaped our prey? The prey-they don’t Surrender to superior force. Perhaps they die to guard genes related to theirs. Or—”

“Think of a hunting carnivore,” Takpusseh said in sudden excitement. “Food is scarce, so they scatter. Siblings might be separated by seas or mountains. More dangerous predators come. Might a prey die to kill them, because the marauders might reach its genotypes?”

“But humans are omnivores,” Raztupisp-minz reminded them. “Still, the sky of Winterhome seethed with aircraft before our attack. I think you have it. They do not remain in families. Like ripper fthuggl, individuals go to make their own territory. To kill something dangerous is for the good of all. For surviving heroes it may even mean mating privileges, to judge by our studies of their broadcasts. We believe that they have no specific mating season. Indeed, they do not always remain with one mate!”

The Herdmaster called them back to specifics. “What does this do for us, if true?”

Into the uneasy silence Fathisteh-tulk said, “It makes us aware of the awesome magnitude of our problem. We take surrender in herds, do we? Our prey doesn’t come in herds! A family might be scattered across half the planet!”

“Surely—”

Whatever the Attackmaster was about to say would never be heard. His digits flipped back to cover his skull-the classic reflexive response to threat-as he listened to the shell-shaped phone under his earfiap.

It is not good news. The Herdmaster waited. If there were danger to the ship, both he and the Defensemaster would know instantly. What could be important enough to interrupt this meeting— He knew soon enough.

The Attackmaster took a microphone from his harness. “Flee. Save what we can.” He returned the microphone. “Herdmaster, we no longer have a base in Kansas.”

“How is this?”

“The prey have used thermonuclear bombs. Bombs rise among the orbiting digit ships—”

“But these can be stopped.”

“Stopped, of course. But more bombs fall on our base, and our ships are too busy to stop them. Bombs are rising from both land masses and from the sea.”

“Prom both land masses?” The Advisor looked thoughtful. “You are certain?”

“I am certain of nothing. Advisor. They sow radioactive fire on their own croplands! Herdmaster, I must—”

“Certainly.” The Herdmaster stood, releasing his fithp to their duties. They scattered.

“What now?” he demanded. “What do you make of this?”

Advisor Fathisteh-tulk struck at invisible flies. “1 would not tread on the Breakers’ ground—”

“Your advice, drown you!”

“Soviets and Dawson’s tribe cooperate. When they must. As we hear of our losses, we must not forget this. Go fight your war.” He spoke to the Herdmaster’s back.

Roger Brooks drove south, then angled west. For two days there had been cornfields and no sign of war.

Rosalee was stretched out, taking advantage of the now roomy backseat of the Rabbit. Road conditions had been mixed, good roads alternating with stretches where the highways and intersections were utterly destroyed. It’s still a long way to Colorado Springs. There’s nothing on the radio, and I’m half asleep.

Roger asked, “Carol, are you slept out?”

She hadn’t spoken in hours. Her eyes were wide, doing a continual slow swivel. Shejumped when he spoke and said, “Yeah. I must say, that’s the damnedest convention I ever half saw.”

“I believe it.”

“Though I heard about one in St. Louis that was canceled, and nobody told the Guest of Honor.”

“Why do you go?”

“Oh…mostly we go to meet each other, I guess. And the people who write the books we read.” Flicker of a smile. “There were three men for every two women, and the ratio used to be even better. And fun things tend to happen, like the masquerades and listening to the dirty filksongs—”

“Filksongs?’

“And half a dozen writers going off to di

“I’m sorry about George. But he did get a tank. I don’t think anyone could have stopped him.” Did she blame Roger?

Apparently not. “George. I thought that was stupid, I told him so… George.” Her head was turned away, watching the passing cornfields. She broke a long silence in a sudden rush of words. “It’ll never happen again. It’s all dead! The publishing industry is probably dead, half of science fiction is obsolete, we’re all going to be scrabbling for something to eat for years to come, and how can you hold a convention with no airlines?”

She misses science fiction. If the best troops in the Army can’t drive the aliens out, the whole damn planet is doomed, and she misses science fiction. It came to him, suddenly and frighteningly, that the war might already be lost.

“That first night Nat had a three-pound Lobster Sava

The corner of Roger’s eye had caught light brighter than sunlight. He braked without looking. “What is it?”

“They `it hitting us again!”

He eased the Rabbit over to the dirt rim of the highway before he dared look. One glance was enough. “Don’t look.” He opened the door and slid out, low. “Follow me. Rosalee, wake up and get out on my side! Stay low!”

The blast came, not as bad as he had expected, followed by a wind, followed by another blast and more wind. The Rabbit’s windows rattled. By then all three were crouched on the highway side of the car. There were more bright lights high overhead, and another to the north. When the light died a little, Roger peeked over the hood.

Fiery mushrooms bloomed amidst the Kansas wheat fields.

“Mushrooms. I think this is the real thing,” he said. “Not meteors. Atomic bombs, and that’s occupied territory. Those are ours.”

“Bombing Kansas?”

Roger laughed, and meant it. “If you’ve got a better idea, you should have been in the helicopter. At least we’re fighting back!” He peeked again. There were four fire-mushrooms in view, all a good distance north