“The asteroid strike will be an ocean strike. They like things wet. Vaporizing a billion tons of seawater won’t bother them at all. I guess it’s time to talk to the President again.”
Shoshone was a short strip of civilization in the midst of alien wilderness: a market, a gas station, a primitive-looking motel, a diner. The population must once have been about twenty. Now, at first glance, there were none.
He drove up the dirt track behind the motel. The track led through a field of immature tumbleweeds, still growing, not yet nomadic. They were well distributed, as if cultivated, or as if the plants had made agreements between them: this three square feet is mine, you get the same, intrude at your peril. But the plants looked dead and dried, the kind of plant that ought to grow in Hell.
Martin Carnell drove on through, slowly. Fox had described Shoshone to him once. Where were those caves?
He spotted Fox’s truck.
He parked beside the truck and went wandering on foot. There was a timeless feel here, as if nobody could possibly be in a hurry.
Martin turned the dogs loose into the desert. They dashed about, enjoying their freedom, running back to make contact and dashing away over the small knolls. He missed Sunhawk. At fifteen years Sunhawk had gotten too old. Marty had had to put him to sleep, just before Ken’s Stone Soup Party.
Marty wandered up and down the low rock hills. Presently he found the rooms.
Five of them, dynamite-blasted into the rock. They were roughly rectangular, with shelves and, in one instance, a door. All the comforts of home, he thought. Miners? Miners would think in terms of dynamite. What were they after, bauxite? Had there been real caves to be shaped?
Marty crossed the low ridge, puffing. On the other side were more caves, and John Fox dressed in khaki shorts and a digger hat, looking up at him.
Fox didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Hello, Marty. I heard you clumping around. The rock carries sound.”
“Hello, John. I’m carrying some perishables. You’re invited to dinner.”
“Is it just you?”
“Me and the dogs. That’s Darth, he’s just a puppy,” Darth had come running up to sniff at Fox before rejoining his master.” and I’ve got Lucretia and Chaka and — here, this’s Othello.” The dogs were behaving, more or less.
“How are things in Los Angeles?”
“Not good. Short of food, no electricity in spots… but mainly there’s a feel. I think the snouts are going to start bombing cities any minute now.”
“Why?”
“No reason. Anyway, I got out.”
“What are your plans?”
“Stay here, if you don’t mind a neighbor. I have fresh artichokes. And avocados and bay shrimp. Also fresh.” Fox looked doubtful. “A case of wine, too.” Fox stood up.
“Okay.”
Thus in the highest position there is the least freedom of action.
It was exhausting work. Jeri hated it. Machines can do this. They have machines to do it. Why us? The why didn’t matter. She didn’t know what the fithp would do if she refused to work, but she didn’t want to find out.
Raztupisp-minz sent them out in groups, but no one objected if they separated. Jeri didn’t think the fithp would ever understand the human need for privacy, simply to be alone some of the time, but they were beginning to accept it. They can watch us. Better work. Wearily she took up the cleaning materials and began.
“You are diligent.”
The voice from behind startled her. “Oh. Hello, Commander Rogachev.”
“Arvid. We have no rank here.” He laughed cynically. “We have achieved an equality that Marx would have admired, although perhaps not in quite the way he envisioned.”
“I thought you were a good communist.”
He shrugged. “I am a good Russian. You work too hard. Take a short rest.”
“But they—”
He lowered his voice. “Dmitri says, and I agree, that we must not show them our true strength. If you work hard, they will expect hard work always. You harm the others if you do too much work.”
“Sounds like a good excuse — all right. Lord knows I’m tired.” She stretched out in midair, letting the weak gravity slowly take her to the air-shaft walls. “Feels good to relax. I would kill for a cigarette.”
Arvid snorted. “There is nothing to kill. There is nothing to smoke, either.” It wasn’t that funny, but she wanted to laugh, and she did. Playing up to the nearest hero?
Shut up.
“So. You are here with your daughter. Where is your husband?”
“Drowned.”
“I am sorry.”
“So am I. We hadn’t lived together for a year, but — I was going to meet him, and the snouts blew up a dam, the first night, I guess the same time they captured you. His house was below it.”
Arvid pointedly looked away.
He’s nice. Or trying to be. “Are you married?”
