Footfall by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle Read Free Book Online

thought, not very many officers had. At the bottom it said “By order of the President of the United States ,” and below that was “For the President, James F. Frantz, Chief of Staff.”
    “Those came in about an hour ago,” the lieutenant said. “And it’s all I know. We’re a training command, Captain.”
    “All right, Lieutenant, but someone will have to go to my hotel. I have things there, and the bill has to be paid.”
    “Yes, ma’am, Major Johnston said I’d have to take care of that. I’ll send your bags on to you, only I don’t know where to send them.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t think the White House would be the right address for a captain. But that’s the only place listed on those orders.”
    Jeanette nodded, more to herself than to the lieutenant. Whenever she was in Washington , she stayed at Flintridge with her aunt and uncle, so that was no problem. Only it was probably a “hurry up and wait” situation. There wasn’t any need for her at the White House. Not that urgently, and probably not at all. The President would want to confirm the sighting, but before she could get to Washington he’d have a dozen others to tell him about the mysterious — what? She giggled.
    “Penny for your thoughts,” Richard Owen said.
    “What do we call it?” she asked. “UFO? But it isn’t flying.”
    Lieutenant Brassfield looked puzzled. “UFO? All this is over a flying saucer?”
    “Yes,” Jeanette said.
    “Hey, now wait a minute …”
    “It’s all true,” Richard Owen said. “We’ve spotted an alien spaceship. It’s on its way to Earth. Captain Crichton called the Army.”
    “Maybe I better not know any more about this,” Brassfield said.
    Jeanette thought of Richard Owen’s upcoming press conference and laughed. “It won’t hurt. Lieutenant, do you have anyone in Kona? Or somebody who can get there fast?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Good. Have him go to the Kamehameha Hotel and collect my bags. He’s to be careful with my uniform, but get it packed. All my stuff. Then drive like hell to meet us where that helicopter is picking us up. If I’m going to the White House, I am damned if I’ll go bare-legged!”
    KGB Headquarters was across the city square from the Institute. It was a drab brick building, in contrast to the Institute’s pillars and marble facade. Pavel Bondarev walked briskly across the square. It was a pleasant day, warm enough that he did not need an overcoat.
    A new man sat at the reception desk in KGB headquarters. He looked very young. Pavel Bondarev grimaced, then shrugged. What cannot be cured must be endured. He had learned patience, and he forced himself to be still, although he was bursting with the news.
    A long line of citizens waited in front of the reception desk. Men in ill-fitting suits, women in stained skirts and scarves, farmers, workers, minor factory officials: they all held forms to be signed, permission slips of one kind or another. Today there were not so many farmers; in fall there would be hundreds wanting to sell the produce from their tiny private plots.
    Bondarev shook his head. Absurd, he thought. They should be working, not standing in lines here. But it is typically Russian, and if they didn’t stand in lines they wouldn’t work anyway. They’d just get drunk.
    If there were not residency controls, everyone would live in Moscow. Once while visiting Washington he’d heard a song at an American’s party: “How you going to keep them down on the farm?” It was evidently a problem for the Americans as well as the Russians.
    He walked past the line. A man at the head of the line, roundfaced like Boris Ogarkov, glared at him sullenly but didn’t say anything. Bondarev stood at the desk. Two men were at another desk nearby. He thought he recognized the one who was typing a report on a battered machine of German make. Bondarev wondered idly if the typewriter had been brought to Russia by the Wehrmacht. It was certainly old enough.