Lucifer's Hammer

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  Gliding, gliding over the sea. Eileen had been driving for hours over the water. Her slight frown, wide eyes, rigidly upright posture made her a closed universe. Tim dared not speak to her.

  There was nobody to call on them for help now, and nobody to point guns. The headlights and an occasional lightning bolt showed them only water and the rails. In places the rails actually dipped below the water, and then Eileen slowed to a crawl and drove by feel. Once the lightning illuminated the roof of a large house, and six human forms on the peaked roof, all glistening in rain gear; twelve glinting eyes watching a phantom car drive across the water. And again there was a house, but it floated on its side, and nobody was near it. Once they drove for miles past a rectangular array of bushes, a drowned orchard with only the tops of the trees showing.

  “I’m afraid to stop,” Eileen said.

  “I gathered that. I’m afraid to distract you.”

  “No, talk to me. Don’t let me get drowsy. Make me real, Tim. This is nightmarish.”

  “God, yes. I’d know the surface of Mars at a glance, but this isn’t anyplace in the universe. Did you see those people watching us?”

  “Where?”

  Of course, she dared not take her eyes off the rails. He told her about the six people on the roof. “If they live,” he said, “they’ll start a legend about us. If anyone believes them.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I don’t know. A Flying Dutchman legend?” But that was tactless. “We won’t be here forever, though. These tracks’ll take us as far as Porterville, and there won’t be anyone trying to stop us.”

  “You think Senator Jellison will let you in, do you?”

  “Sure.” Even if that hope failed them, they’d be in a safe area. What counted now was a magic trick: driving to Porterville on railroad tracks. He had to keep her mind on that.

  He was not expecting her next remark.

  “Will he let me in?”

  “Are you crazy? You’re a lot more valuable than I am. Remember the observatory?”

  “Sure. After all, I’m such a damn good accountant.”

  “If they’re as organized around Springville as they were in Tujunga, they’ll need an accountant to take care of distributing goods. They may even have a barter system. That could get complicated, with money obsolete.”

  “Now you’re the crazy one,” Eileen said. “Anyone who does his own income tax can keep accounts. That’s everyone but you, Tim. The accountants and the lawyers run this country, and they want everyone to be like them, and they’ve damn near succeeded.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “That’s my point. Accountants are a drug on the market now.”

  “I don’t go in without you,” said Tim.

  “Sure, I know that. The question is whether we go in or not. Are you hungry?”

  “But of course I’m hungry, my child.” Tim reached into the back seat. “Fritz gave us tomato bisque and chicken with rice. Both concentrated. I could put them in front of the heater. Can you drive with one hand?”

  “I guess not, not on this.”

  “Oh, never mind. We don’t have a can opener.”

  One thanks God for small miracles; they’re easier to grasp.

  One small miracle was a road humping out of the sea to cross the tracks. Suddenly the tracks were sunk in blacktop, and Eileen stamped on the brake pedal almost hard enough to send Tim through the windshield.

  They flopped their seats back, rolled into each other’s arms and slept.

  Eileen’s sleep wasn’t calm. She jerked, she kicked, she cried out. Tim found that if he ran the palm of his hand down her spine, she would relax and fall back to sleep, and then he could sleep too, until next time.

  He woke in black night to the scream of wind and the panicky pressure of Eileen’s fingernails and the perilous rocking of the car. Eileen’s eyes were wide, her mouth too firmly set. “Hurricanes,” he said. “The big ocean strikes’ll keep spinning them off. Be glad we found a safe place first.” She didn’t react. “We’re safe here,” he repeated. “We can sleep through it.”

  She laughed then. “I dare you. What happens if one of these hits us while we’re on the tracks?”

  “Then you’d better be as good as you think you are.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” she said, and—incredibly—went back to sleep.

  Tim lay beside her in the howling and the rocking. Did hurricanes overturn cars? You bet they did. When he tired of thinking about that, he thought about how hungry he was. Maybe he could use the bumper to pry open a soup can. After the hurricane passed.

  He dozed…and woke in total silence. There wasn’t even rain. He located a soup can and stepped outside. He managed to bend the bumper a little, but he also tore the soup can open. He swallowed some of the condensed tomato bisque, and that was how he happened to look up.

  He looked up into a wide patch of clear stars.

  “Beautiful,” he said. But he entered the car in some haste.

  Eileen was sitting up. He gave her the soup can. “I think we’re in the eye of the hurricane, if you want to see the stars, look quick and come back.”

  “No, thanks.”

  The soup was cold and gluey. It left them both thirsty. Eileen set the can on the roof to collect rainwater, and they lay down again to wait for morning.

  The rain came again, in frantic violence. Tim reached through the window for the can, and found it gone. He found the abandoned beer can on the floor, pried it open, filled it twice in the rainwater streaming from the car roof.

  Hours later, the rain settled down to a gentle drumming. By then it was full daylight: just enough dirty gray light to see that the sea around them was thick with floating things. There were corpses of dogs and rabbits and cattle, far outnumbered by the bodies of human beings. There was wood in all its forms, trees and furniture and the walls of houses. Tim got out and fielded some driftwood and set it in front of the car heater. “If we ever find shelter, we’ve still got that other can of soup,” he said.

  “Good,” said Eileen. She sat bolt upright at the steering wheel, and the motor was going. Tim didn’t urge her. He knew better than to volunteer for the job, and he knew what it would cost her.

  She shifted into gear.

  “Hold it,” Tim said, and he put a hand on her shoulder and pointed. She nodded and put the car back in neutral.

  A wave came toward them in a long thread of silver-gray. It wasn’t high. When it reached the car it was no more than two feet tall. But the sea had risen in the night until it stood around the tires. The wave slapped against the car and lifted them and carried them and set them down almost immediately with the motor still going.

  Eileen sounded exhausted. “What was that, another earthquake?”

  “I’d say a dam collapsed somewhere.”

  “I see. Only that.” She tried to laugh. “The dam has broken! Run for your lives!”

  “The Cherokees is escaped from Fort Mudge!”

  “What?”

  “Pogo. Skip it,” Tim said. “All that water out there…this won’t be the first dam that went. All of them, probably. Maybe here and there the engineers got spillways open in time. Maybe. But most of the dams are gone.” Which, he thought, means most of the electric power everywhere. Not even local pockets of electricity. He wondered if the powerhouses and generators had survived. Dams could be built again.

  Eileen put the Blazer into gear and started forward, slowly.

  The Southern Pacific tracks took them most of the way to Porterville. The tracks and embankment rose gradually, until what surrounded them was no longer sea, but land that looked as if it had recently risen from the depths: Atlantis returned. Still Eileen kept to the tracks, though her shoulders were shivering with the strain.

  “No people on the tracks, and no stalled cars,” she said. “We’re avoiding those, aren’t we?” They hadn’t, completely; sometimes forlorn groups of refugees, usually in families, trudged along the right-of-way.

 
“I hate to leave them,” Eileen said. “But—which ones should we take? The first ones we see? Be selective? No matter what we do, we’d have the car filled and people on top and there’d still be more—”

  “It’s all right,” Tim said. “We don’t have anyplace to go either.” But he sat brooding, feeling her mood. What right did they have to expect anyone to help them? They weren’t helping anyone themselves…

  South and east of Porterville they rolled down a wet embankment to resume their trek on 190. Tim took over the driving, and Eileen lay in the reclined passenger seat, exhausted but unable to sleep.

  The land looked recently drowned. Studying the broken buildings and fences and uprooted trees, Tim became certain that a flood had come from the direction they were traveling. There was mud everywhere, and Tim had many occasions to feel proud of his judgment. He didn’t think any other car in the world could have got them over some places they passed.

  “Lake Success,” Eileen said. “There was a big lake up there, and the dam must have gone. The road goes right past it…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m wondering if there’s any road there,” she said. They went on, until they reached the junction that should have taken them up into the hills.

  The land was mud everywhere, studded with cars in every possible attitude. There were bodies, but no living human beings. They were glad for the rain. It kept them from seeing very far into the muddy ditch to their left. The road became worse, washed out in places, covered with mud in others. Eileen took over driving again, guessing where the road had been and hoping it was still there under the mud. The Blazer kept moving, but more slowly…

  Then they saw the campfire. A half-dozen cars, some as good as the Blazer. Here were people of all sexes and ages, a gathering of the hopeless. Somehow they’d started a fire, and there was a pile of wood under a plastic shelter. The people stayed in the rain; wood was kept near the fire to dry.

  Tim brought in dry wood from the Blazer. No one spoke to him. The children stared at him with hopeless eyes. Finally one of the men said, “You won’t make it.”

  Tim wordlessly eyed the mudslide ahead. There were tracks in it. If any car could get through…

  “This isn’t the problem,” the man said. “We got past that. But up ahead there’s a bridge out.”

  “So walk—”

  “And a man with a rifle. They don’t talk. First shot was between my wife and myself. I got the impression the second would finish the job. Never even saw the rifleman.”

  So that was it. End of the line. Tim sat beside the fire and began to laugh, softly at first, then in rising hysteria. Two days. Two? Yes. This was Friday, Drowned Muddy Fridae after Hot Fudge Tuesdae and the roads to high ground were gone and you couldn’t get to the Senator’s place. More men with guns. The world belonged to men with guns. Maybe the Senator was shooting. The image was funny, Senator Jellison in full formals, striped trousers and morning coat and rifle, what the successful leader will wear…

  “It works,” Tim said. “Tell your dream and kill it. It works!” He laughed again.

  “Here.” Another man, big, with thick hairy forearms, used a handkerchief to snatch a tin can from the fire. He poured it into a Styrofoam cup, then looked regretful and took a flat pint bottle from his jacket pocket. He splashed in rum, then handed Tim the cup. “Drink that, and don’t lose the cup. And stop it. You’re scaring the kids.”

  So what? But it was natural for Tim to feel ashamed. “Don’t make a scene.” How often had his mother told him that? And told his father that, and told everyone else…?

  The laced coffee tasted good and warmed him. It didn’t help much, though. Eileen brought their remaining can of soup and offered it. They sat in silence, sharing what there was: the soup, instant coffee, and a bit of drowned rabbit broiled on a stick.

  There was very little talking. Finally the others got up. “We’ll strike for north,” one man said. He gathered his family. “Anybody with me?”

  “Sure.” Others joined. Tim felt relieved. They were going away, leaving him with Eileen. Should he go with them? For what? They hadn’t anyplace to go either.

  The others got up and went to their cars, all but the big man who’d offered the coffee. He sat with his wife and two children. “You too, Brad?” the new leader asked.

  “Car’s not working.” He waved toward a Lincoln parked near the mudslide. “Broken axle, I think.”

  “Any gas in it?” the leader asked.

  “Not much.”

  “We’ll try anyway. If you don’t mind.”

  The big man shrugged. The others siphoned no more than a pint of gasoline out of the Lincoln. Their cars were already crowded. There was absolutely no room for anyone else. The expedition leader paused. He looked at them as one looks at the dead. “That’s your plastic tarp. And your instant coffee,” he said. He said it wistfully, but when he got no answer, turned away. They drove off, downhill into the rain.

  Now there were six by the fire. Tim and Eileen, and—“Name’s Brad Wagoner,” the big man said. “That’s Rosa, and Eric, and Conception. Named the boy for my side of the family, girl for Rosa’s. Thought we’d keep that up if we had any more.” He seemed glad of someone to talk with.

  “I’m Eileen, and that’s Tim. We’re—” She stopped herself. “Of course we’re not really pleased to meet you. But I guess I should say it anyway. And we’re very grateful for the coffee.”

  The children were very quiet. Rosa Wagoner hugged them and spoke to them in soft Spanish. They were very young, five or six, not more, and they clung to her. They had on yellow nylon wind-breakers and tennis shoes.

  “You’re stranded,” Tim said.

  Wagoner nodded. He still didn’t say anything.

  He’d make two of me, Tim thought. And he’s got a wife and two kids. We better get out of here before he breaks my neck and takes the Blazer. Tim felt afraid, and was ashamed because the Wagoners hadn’t said or done anything to deserve suspicion. Just that they were here…

  “No place to go anyway,” Brad Wagoner said. “We’re from Bakersfield. Not much left of Bakersfield. I guess we should have struck up into the hills right off, but we thought we’d try to find some supplies in town. We just missed getting washed away when the dam went.” He eyed the steep hill above him. “If this rain would stop, maybe we could see someplace to walk to. You got any plans?” He couldn’t disguise the plea in his voice.

  “Not really.” Tim stared into the dying fire. “I thought I knew somebody up there. Politician I gave a lot of money to. Senator Jellison.” There. That finished it for sure. And now what would they do?

  “Jellison,” Wagoner mused. “I voted for him. Think that would count? Are you still going to try to get up there?”

  “It’s all I can think of.” Tim’s voice held no hope at all.

  “What will you do?” Eileen asked. Her eyes kept straying to the children.

  Wagoner shrugged. “Find some place and start over, I guess.” He laughed. “I built high-rise apartments. Made a lot of money at it, but—I didn’t get as good a car as yours.”

  “You’d be surprised what that one cost me,” Tim said.

  The fire died away. It was time. Eileen went to the Blazer. Tim followed. Brad Wagoner sat with his wife and children.

  “I can’t stand it,” Tim said.

  “Me either.” Eileen took his hand and squeezed. “Mr. Wagoner. Brad…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Come on. Pile in.” Eileen waited until the Wagoners had got into the Blazer, adults in the back seat, children on the floor behind that. She turned and drove down the hill. “I wish we had a good map.”

  “Maps I have,” Wagoner said. He took out a soggy paper from an inner pocket. “Careful, it tears easy when it’s wet.” It was an Auto Club map of Tulare County. Much better than the Chevron map they’d been using.

  Eileen eased the Blazer to a stop and examined the map. “That bridge there, is that the one that’s out?”


  “Yeah.”

  “Look, Tim, if we backtrack and go south, there’s a road up into the hills—”

  “Which beats hell out of spending more time on the Southern Pacific,” Tim said.

  “Southern Pacific?” Rosa Wagoner asked.

  Tim didn’t explain. They drove south until they found a sheltered place on the road, partway up a hill, and they pulled off to sleep. They took turns letting the Wagoners use the seats while they huddled under the plastic tarp.

  “High ground,” Tim said. “It goes north. And east. And that road’s not on the map.” He pointed. The road was gravel, but it looked in good condition—and it looked traveled. It ran in the right direction.

  Eileen was running out of hope, and the Blazer was running out of gas, but she took the road. It wound upward into the hills. It was luck that they’d found it, and more luck that the rain and mud and hurricanes hadn’t ruined it. But no luck could protect them from the roadblock.

  There were four big men, big like football stars or TV-Mafia goons. Guns and size made them look unfriendly, and they weren’t smiling. Tim got out alone, wonderingly. One of the men came down to meet him. The others stood aloof. One of the men looked elusively familiar. Someone he’d seen on the Senator’s ranch? That wouldn’t help; and it was another of the armed men who had come to the barrier.

  Tim told them, crisply (while very aware of how like a wandering tramp he looked), “We’re on our way to visit Senator Jellison.” The imperious voice cost Tim most of his reserves of self-control.

  It hadn’t impressed. “Name?”

  “Tim Hamner.”

  The man nodded. “Spelled how?”

  Tim spelled it, and was somehow glad that the name was not known. The man called behind him, “Chuck, see if Hamner’s on the Senator’s list. H-A-M-N-E-R.”

  One of the guards reacted to that. He came down toward the barricade. Tim was sure he’d seen him before.

  “We’ve got a list of people to let through,” the first guard said. “And, buddy, it’s a short list. We’ve got another list of professions. Are you a doctor?”

  “No—”

  “Blacksmith? Machinist? Mechanic? Tool-and-die maker?”