Read Online Footfall by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle - Free Book Online Page B

“Bureau of Public Roads Research,” but now it admitted that the CIA building was invisible in the trees at the end of that road. Jenny paid it no attention. She’d been there before.
    The aliens are coming, and I’m famous, Jenny thought. “Who are we seeing at the White House?”
    Gillespie shrugged. “Probably the President.”
    “Oh, dear. I don’t know anything,” Jenny said. “Nothing I didn’t tell you on the telephone yesterday.”
    He shrugged again. “We’ll just have to play it as it lies.”
    “Yes, but … Ed, I don’t even have any guesses!”
    “Neither do I, but we’re the experts,” Gillespie said. “After all, we knew about it first…”
    They crossed the Potomac and drove along the old Chesapeake and Ohio canal. The morning drizzle had stopped, and the sun was trying to break through overhead. A dozen or more joggers were out despite the chilly morning. Jenny closed her eyes.
    Gillespie and the driver were in a heated argument. The driver didn’t understand anything Ed was saying. He was also getting nervous, while Gillespie got angrier.
    “What’s the matter?” Jenny asked.
    “Damn fool won’t follow directions.”
    “Let me. Where are we?”
    “Damned if I know — that’s the problem. We crossed a bridge a minute ago. One I never saw before. Had buffaloes on it.”
    “Buffaloes? Oh. We’re near the Cathedral,” Jenny said. She looked around. They were in a typical Washington residential neighborhood, older houses, each with a screened porch. “Which way is north?”
    Gillespie pointed.
    “Okay.” She leaned forward. In New York, they had Plexiglas partitions to seal the driver away from his passengers, but there weren’t any here. “Go ahead, then left.”
    The Pakistani driver looked relieved. They drove for a couple of blocks, and Jenny nodded satisfaction. “It’s not far now. We’re on the wrong side of Connecticut Avenue, that’s all.”
    Gillespie was still angry. “Why the hell can’t they get drivers who speak English?” he demanded. “All the people out of work in this country. Or say they’re out of work. And none of the damn airport taxi drivers at our nation’s capital can speak English. The goddam politicians wouldn’t know that, though, would they? They have drivers to pick them up at the airport…”
    Now that she’d dozed off, she wanted to sleep again, but she stayed awake to direct the driver. Finding Flintridge Manor on its hill in Rock Creek Park could be plenty tricky even if you’d been there before. “They won’t let Washington cabs pick people up at Dulles,” she said.
    Which was strange, if you thought about it, since it was a federal airport, operated by the Federal Aviation Administration, and reachable only by a federally constructed throughway. Why shouldn’t cabs licensed in Washington be able to pick up passengers at Dulles? But they couldn’t, and nothing was going to be done about it, just as nothing would be done about a hundred thousand other bureaucratic nightmares, and why worry about it? The government had more immediate problems coming at them out of the sky.
    Then again, maybe the aliens would solve it all. Those advanced creatures could be carrying a million-year-old quantified science of government and a powerful missionary urge, and the government’s problems would be over forever.
    Flintridge nestled in colonial splendor atop a large hill. There weren’t a dozen places like it in Washington. From its big columned porch you couldn’t see another house. Most of the woods surrounding Flintridge were part of Rock Creek National Park, which was perfect because no one could build there, while the Westons didn’t have to pay taxes on the park property.
    Jenny directed the taxi up the gravel drive. Phoebe, the Haitian maid, came to the door, saw them, and dashed back inside. A few moments later her uncle came out.
    Colonel Henry Weston had inherited most of the money; Jenny’s mother’s share had been