Footfall

“Major! Major, wake up!”

Je

“Message from Australia, ma’am. They’ve seen it!”

Oh my God. She strained to open her eyes and peered through sleep at her watch. Five A.M.

“Comin’ fast, about an hour to impact,” Sergeant Ferguson said.

“The Admiral—”

“Mailey already woke him up. ’Scuse me, ma’am, I got to get the others.”

The Threat Team had split into two groups around the coffeepot and the large globe. Ransom and Curtis already had coffee, and were tracing paths on the globe.

“Water. I was sure of it,” Ransom said.

“Sure,” Curtis muttered. “Why at bloody dawn?”

“Why water?” a naval officer asked.

Ransom didn’t look up from the globe. “Lieutenant, a meteorite that size actually does more damage if it hits water. It’ll rip through the water and the ocean floor into the magma. The energies don’t go back to space; the water absorbs them, and you get even more heat from the exposed magma. It all goes into boiling the ocean. We think a quarter of a billion tons of seawater may vaporize. Salt rains all over the world …”

Je

“Lots,” Curtis said. “Look.” He traced a path northward from the Indian Ocean. “Bays. They fu

“We have to warn them!”

“I’m sure the Aussies have done that,” Ransom said.

“It does not matter.” Admiral Carrell’s voice was even.

Je

“We have no reliable communications with East Africa. I believe that Mr. Ransom is correct and that the Australians have sent a warning, but if not—”

“They’ll know soon enough,” Curtis said. “What about ships? Subs? We still have communications with the submarine fleet, don’t we?”

“In fact, yes,” Carrell said. “Our long-wave devices still function. I have already given the appropriate orders.”

Reynolds came over with coffee. Curtis pointed to a spot on the globe. Reynolds bent to examine it.

“Tsunamis. Hurricanes. I wish we knew exactly where it’ll hit,” Curtis said. “Maybe we could tell just how much weather slop will get into the Northern Hemisphere.”

“Lots,” Ransom said. “It’s too near the equator.”

“Mess up both hemispheres,” Reynolds said. “Neat.”

“Fear, fire, foes,” Curtis muttered. “Tsunamis, hurricanes, rainstorms…” He stood with a satisfied look. “One thing, it won’t hurt Bellingham.”

“That’s a comfort,” someone said.

“Goddam right it is,” Curtis said. “About the only one we’ve got.”

“As strategy it’s hard to beat,” Joe Ransom said. “Look when the tidal waves—”

“Shut up,” a young naval officer shouted. “Later, man, but for now just shut up.”

Je

To the east: the island of Madagascar would shadow Mozambique and South Africa, a little. The waves would wash Tanzania, Kenya, the Somali Democratic Republic, wash them clean of life. Northeast, it would wash the Saudi Arabian peninsula. The Arabian Sea would focus the wave; a mountain range of water would march into Iran and Pakistan. That’s the end of OPEC, Je

India would be covered north to the mountains. The Bay of Bengal would focus the wave again: it might cross Burma as far as China. The islands of the Java Sea would be inundated. The wave would wash across western Australia…

“My God,” the naval officer said in sudden realization. “They’ll try to land afterward, of course, but where?”

“That’s why it’s such a—”

“Marvelous strategy, yes, Mr. Ransom,” Admiral Carrell said. “Where would we send our fleets? India? Saudi Arabia? Australia? Africa?”

“South Africa,” Curtis said. “Look here. Most of the industry and white population are down at sea level. Tsunamis will wreck all that. Beyond the coast is the Drakensberg escarpment, up to the high plateau country, and that’ll survive just fine. So they land at Joha

Admiral Carrell bent over to examine the globe. “Perhaps …”

A horp warbled through the room. “Now hear this. Ten minutes to estimated time of impact.”

The room fell silent.

Herdmaster Pastempeh-keph felt the tiny thrust decrease further as he made his way to the bridge.

Matters there ran over smooth trails. Koothfektil-rusp turned to say, “The Foot is on target. The Defensemaster may break us loose at any time.”

“Do it,” said Pastempeh-keph. “Defensemaster, you lead now.” He settled himself on his pad and set his claws on the recessed foothold bars.

A recording bellowed for attention throughout the huge ship. “Take footholds! Take footholds! Thrust in eight breaths.”

The Herdmaster’s claws tightened on the bars. What can go wrong? The drive won’t fail us; we’ve been ru

As the pitted and gouged mass of nickel and iron moved away, a magnificent blue-and-white crescent moved into view. Thrust built up, and the Herdmaster felt himself sagging into the pad. His muscles, grown slack in low gravity, protested. He welcomed the feeling of gravity.

At a thrust higher than homeworld gravity, acceleration peaked. Then the motors on the digit ships began to fire, and thrust rose again. The crescent was dead aft, growing tremendous. Message Bearer was accelerating outward and backward from Winterhome.

The Foot would strike ahead of Message Bearer. The impact point would still be in view.

The Herdmaster summoned a view of the humans’ quarters. They’d reached the restraint cell safely; they were on their bellies on the padding. It looked uncomfortable.

Thrust dropped in increments as pairs of digit ships left their moorings around the aft rim. The Herdmaster watched their pulsing drive flames curve away. They must decelerate more drastically to take up orbit about Winterhome. The last four merely took up station alongside the mother ship. If something deadly rose from Winterhome, they might be of help.

But nothing broke the curdled clouds. The terminator swung round until half the disk was lighted, and the Foot was invisible against the night side. There, just inside the shadow, a red pinpoint flare! The pinpoint glowed orange, then white, then blinding white, all within the fraction of a breath. Herdmaster Pastempeh-keph contracted his pupils. It wasn’t enough. He turned away. The lurid light on the walls of the control complex flared, and held, and dimmed. He turned back.

A white flare was dimming, expanding, reddening. Rings of cloud formed and vanished around an expanding hemisphere of flame. Clouds spread outward through the stratosphere, hiding what was beneath.

Fistarteh-thuktun spoke formally. “Our footprint is on their sea bed.”

“Attackmaster, it’s right in the middle of that stretch of water. Is that where you wanted it?”

“Exactly on target,” said Koothfektil-rusp.

“Well done.”

Message Bearer was passing Winterhome at sixty makasrupkithp per breath; but Winterhome’s rotation kept the Footprint in sight. A fireball stood above the planet’s envelope of air. It clung to the mass of the planet like a flaming leech.

Light reflected orange from a solid stretch of cloud cover. The fireball stood in a ring of clear air. A ring-shaped ripple beneath the cloud sheet expanded outward at terrible speed. The ripple picked up distortions as it traveled.