Lucifer's Hammer

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  “What have you got for playboy, retired? Or astronomer?” Tim remembered Brad Wagoner. “Or building contractor?” He had a thought as he said it, but he was interrupted.

  A voice came from a parked truck. “No Hamner.”

  “Sorry,” the guard said. “We don’t want you blocking the road, so we’d be obliged if you’d move that car to where we can’t see it. And don’t come back.”

  If you tell your dreams, they won’t come true. Tim started to turn away. But—

  But you don’t go off to die without even trying. He saw Eileen and Rosa Wagoner staring out at him from the car. Their faces said it all. They knew.

  Other roads in? Nuts. The car was almost out of gas, and suppose they found one? These people knew the country. If there was a good way in, they had it covered.

  Walk? Senator Jellison’s ranch ended at a great white monolith the size of an apartment building, and maybe they could get that far—and get shot—

  And anyway, Tim thought, if I’m good for anything, it’s talking. No use at all creeping around in the bushes. He turned back to the barricade. The guard looked disappointed. His rifle wasn’t quite pointed at Tim. “Your car works fine, and you’re not hurt,” the man said. “I’d leave it at that—”

  “Chescu,” Tim shouted. “Mark Chescu!”

  “That’s Czescu,” one of the men answered. “Hello, Mr. Hamner.”

  “You were going to let me leave? Without even talking to me?”

  Mark shrugged. “I’m not really in charge here.”

  “Fucking-A you’re not,” one of the big men said.

  “But…Mark, can we talk?” Tim demanded. “I have an idea—” He thought fast. There was something Wagoner had said. He built apartments. But…

  “We can talk,” Mark told him. “It won’t do a lot of good.” He handed his rifle to one of the others and came around the barrier. “What’s to talk about?”

  Tim led him to the Blazer. “Brad, you said you built apartments. Contractor or architect?”

  “Both.”

  “I thought so,” Tim said. He spoke quickly, words in a rush. “So you know concrete. And construction work. You could build a dam!”

  Wagoner frowned. “I suppose—”

  “See!” Tim was triumphant. “Dams.” He pointed to the Auto Club map. “See, there are powerhouses, dams, all along the road up from here, all the way up into the Sierra, and those dams will be gone, but some of the little powerhouses will still be there, and I know enough about electricity to get them running if somebody can build the dam. You have here a complete electrical contracting team. That ought to be worth something.” Tim was lying through his teeth, but he didn’t think any of these people would know enough about electricity to trip him in an exam.

  And he did know the theory, even if he was a bit hazy about the practical aspects of polyphase alternators.

  Mark looked thoughtful.

  “Goddammit,” Tim shouted. “I gave Jellison fifty thousand dollars back when that was real money! You can at least tell him I’m here!”

  “Yeah. Let me think about it,” Mark said. The story made sense. And Tim Hamner had been a friend of Harvey Randall’s. If Hamner had gone off without recognizing him, Mark could have forgotten that, but not now. Harv would find out, and Harv might not like it. And fifty big ones. Mark hadn’t spent much time with the Senator, but Jellison had this old-fashioned air and he might think that was important. And besides, that bit about dams and powerhouses—it added up. Mark would have let them in. Only he couldn’t. The Christophers wouldn’t let him. But they still listened to Jellison.

  Mark eyed the other man in the car. A big man. “Army?” he asked.

  “Marine Corps,” Wagoner said.

  “Can you shoot?”

  “All Marines are riflemen first. Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll give it a try.” Mark went back to the roadblock. “This guy seems to be an old friend of the Senator’s,” Mark said. “I’ll go tell him.”

  The big guard looked thoughtful. Tim held his breath. “He can wait,” the man said finally. He raised his voice. “Pull off to the side. And stay in the car.”

  “Right.” Tim got into the Blazer. They jockeyed it until it was almost in the ditch. “If somebody comes here in a fighting mood, we don’t want to get hit by stray bullets,” he said. He watched Mark kick a motorcycle to life and drive away.

  “Is fighting likely?” Rosa Wagoner asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tim said. He huddled in the seat. “Now we wait. And see.”

  Eileen laughed. She pictured Tim trying to rewind a huge generator. “Cross your fingers,” she said.

  ■

  “You knew him; I didn’t,” Senator Jellison said. “Any use?”

  Harvey Randall looked thoughtful. “I honestly don’t know. He got here. That’s a lot in his favor. He’s a survivor.”

  “Or lucky,” Jellison said. “Hamner, as in Hamner-Brown. He wasn’t lucky for the world. Yeah, I know, discovery isn’t invention. Mark, you say the other guy’s an ex-Marine?”

  “Says he is. Looks it, Senator. That’s all I know.”

  “Six more people. Two women and two kids.” Jellison looked thoughtful. “Harvey, you put any stock in this scheme to get the power plants working again?”

  “The idea sounds useful—”

  “Sure, but can Hamner do it?”

  Harvey shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, Senator. He’s a college man. He must know something besides astronomy.”

  “And I owe him,” Jellison said. “Question is, do I owe him enough? It can get hungry here this winter.” He looked thoughtful again. “The guy who discovered the comet. That tells me one thing. He’s probably got patience. And we could sure as hell use a lookout up on top of the crag, somebody who’d really watch. Let Alice move around a bit instead of sticking in one place.

  “And a Marine who may or may not be able to build dams. Officer or enlisted, Mark?”

  “Don’t know, Senator. I’d guess officer, but I just don’t know.”

  “Yeah. Well, I always did like the Marines. Mark, go tell Mr. Hamner this is his lucky day.”

  Mark’s face said it all. Tim knew when Mark came to the car. They were safe. After all of it, they were safe. Sometimes dreams do come true, even if you tell them.

  The Stronghold: Two

  The importance of information is directly proportional to its improbability.

  Fundamental theorem of information theory

  Al Hardy didn’t like guard duty. It didn’t do him much good to dislike it. Somebody had to pull guard, and the ranch hands were more useful elsewhere. Besides, Hardy could make decisions for the Senator.

  He looked forward to giving up the whole thing. Not too long, he thought. Not too long until we won’t need guards at the Senator’s gate. The roadblock stopped most intruders now; but it didn’t get them all. A few walked up from the flooded San Joaquin. Others came down from the High Sierra, and a lot of strangers had got into the valley before the Christophers began sealing it off. Most would be sent on their way, and they’d heard the Senator could let them stay on. It meant a lot, to be able to talk to the Senator.

  And the Old Man didn’t like sending people away, which was why Al didn’t let many get up to see him. It was part of his job, and always had been: The Senator said yes to people, and Al Hardy said no.

  There’d be a flood of them every hour if they weren’t stopped, and the Senator had important work to do. And Maureen and Charlotte would stand guard if Al didn’t, and to hell with that. The only good thing about Hammerfall, women’s lib was dead milliseconds after Hammerstrike…

  Al had paperwork to do. He made lists of items they needed, jobs for people to do, worked out details of schemes the Senator thought up. He worked steadily at the clipboard in the car, pausing when anyone came to the drive.

  You couldn’t tell. You just couldn’t tell. The refugees all looked alike: half-drowned and half-starved, and worse every da
y. Now it was Saturday, and they looked just awful. When he’d been Senator Jellison’s aide, Al Hardy had judged himself a good judge of men. But now there was nothing to judge. He had to fall back on routine.

  These wandering scarecrows who came on foot, leading two children and carrying a third; but the man and woman both claimed to be doctors and knew the lingo…specialists, but even the woman psychiatrist had had GP training; they all did. And that surly giant was a CBS executive; he had to be turned back to the road, and he didn’t stop swearing until Hardy’s partner wasted a round through the side window of his car.

  And the man in the remains of a good suit, polite and speaking good English, who’d been a city councilman out in the valley there, and who’d got out of his car, got close to Al and showed the pistol hidden in his raincoat pocket.

  “Put your hands up.”

  “Sure you want it this way?” Al had asked.

  “Yes. You’re taking me inside.”

  “Okay.” Al raised his hands. And the shot went through the city councilman’s head, neat and clean, because of course the signal was Al raising his right hand. Pity the councilman had never read his Kipling:

  Twas only by favour of mine, quoth he, ye rode so long alive,

  There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,

  But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.

  If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,

  The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row.

  If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,

  The Kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly…

  A truck came up to the drive. Small truck, thin hairy man with mustache drooping. Probably a local, Al thought. Everyone around here drove a small truck. By the same token he might have stolen it, but why drive to the Senator’s home with it? Al got out of the car and splashed through muddy water to the gate.

  To all of them Alvin Hardy was the same: “Show your hands. I’m not armed. But there’s a man with a scope-sighted rifle and you can’t see him.”

  “Can he drive a truck?”

  Al Hardy stared at the bearded man. “What?”

  “First things first.” The bearded man reached into the bag on the seat beside him. “Mail. Only I’ve got a registered letter. Senator will have to sign for it. And there’s a dead bear—”

  “What?” Al’s routine wasn’t working so well. “What?”

  “A dead bear. I killed him early this morning. I didn’t have much choice. I was sleeping in the truck and this enormous black hairy arm smashed the window and reached inside. He was huge. I backed up as far as I could, but he kept coming in, so I took this Beretta I found at the Chicken Ranch and shot the bear through the eye. He dropped like so much meat. So—”

  “Who are you?” Al asked.

  “I’m the goddam mailman! Will you try to keep your mind on one thing at a time? There’s five hundred to a thousand pounds of bear meat, not to mention the fur, just waiting for four big men with a truck, and it’s starting to spoil right now! I couldn’t move him myself, but if you get a team out there you can maybe stop some people from starving. And now I’ve got to get the Senator’s signature for this registered letter, only you better send somebody for the bear right away.”

  It was too much for Al Hardy. Far too much. The one thing he knew was the Beretta. “You’ll have to let me hold that weapon for you. And you drive me up the hill,” Al said.

  “Hold my gun? Why the hell should you hold my gun?” Harry demanded. “Oh, hell, all right if it makes you happy. Here.”

  He handed the pistol out. Al took it gingerly. Then he opened the gate.

  “Good Lord, Senator, it’s Harry!” Mrs. Cox shouted.

  “Harry? Who’s Harry?” Senator Jellison got up from the table with its maps and lists and diagrams and went to the windows. Sure enough, there was Al with somebody in a truck. A very bearded and mustachioed somebody, in gray clothes.

  “Mail call!” Harry shouted as he came up onto the porch.

  Mrs. Cox rushed to the door. “Harry, we never expected to see you again!”

  “Hi,” Harry said. “Registered letter for Senator Jellison.”

  Registered letter. Political secrets about a world dead and burying itself. Arthur Jellison went to the door. The mail carrier—yes, that was the remains of a Postal Service uniform—looked a bit worn. “Come in,” Jellison said. What the devil was this guy doing—

  “Senator, Harry shot a bear this morning. I better get some ranch hands out to get it before the buzzards do,” Al Hardy said.

  “You don’t go off with my pistol,” Harry said indignantly.

  “Oh.” Hardy produced the weapon from a pocket. He looked at it uncertainly. “Senator, this is his,” he said. Then he fled, leaving Jellison holding the weapon in still more confusion.

  “I think you’re the first chap to fluster Hardy,” Jellison said. “Come in. Do you call on all the ranches?”

  “Right,” Harry said.

  “And who do you expect to pay you, now that—”

  “People I bring messages to,” Harry said. “My customers.”

  That hint couldn’t be ignored. “Mrs. Cox, see what you can find—”

  “Coming up,” she called from the kitchen. She came in with a cup of coffee. A very nice cup, Jellison saw. One of his best. And some of the last coffee in the world. Mrs. Cox thought well of Harry.

  That at least told him one thing: He handed over the pistol. “Sorry. Hardy’s got instructions—”

  “Sure.” The mailman pocketed the weapon. He sipped the coffee and sighed.

  “Have a seat,” Jellison said. “You’ve been all over the valley?”

  “Most places.”

  “So tell me what things are like—”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Harry had been nearly everywhere. He told his story simply, no embellishments. He’d decided on that style. Just the facts. Mail truck overturned. Power lines down. Telephone lines gone. Breaks in the road, here, and here, and ways around on driveways through here and across there. Millers okay, Shire still operating. Muchos Nombres deserted when he’d gone back with the truck, and the bodies—oops, getting ahead of himself.

  He told of the murder at the Roman place. Jellison frowned, and Harry went to the table to show him on the big county engineer’s map.

  “No sign of the owners, but somebody shot at you, and killed this other chap?” Jellison asked.

  “Right.”

  Jellison nodded. Have to do something there. But—first tell the Christophers. Let them share the risks of a police action.

  “And the people at Muchos Nombres were coming to find you,” Harry said. “That was yesterday, before noon.”

  “Never got here,” Jellison said. “Maybe they’re in town. Good land there? Anything planted?”

  “Not much. Weeds, mostly,” Harry said. “But I have chickens. Got any chicken feed?”

  “Chickens?” This guy was a gold mine of information!

  Harry told him about the Sinanians and the Chicken Ranch. “Lots of chickens left there, and I guess they’ll starve or the coyotes will get them, so you might as well help yourself,” Harry said. “I want to keep a few. There was one rooster, and I hope he lives. If not, maybe I’ll have to borrow one…”

  “You’re taking up farming?” Jellison asked.

  Harry shuddered. “Good God, no! But I thought it’d be nice to have a few chickens running around the place.”

  “So you’ll go back there—”

  “When I finish my route,” Harry said. “I’ll stop at other places on the way back.”

  “And then what?” Jellison asked, but he already knew.

  “I’ll start over again, of course. What else?”

  That figures. “Mrs. Cox, who’s available as a runner?”

  “Mark,” she said. Her voice was disapproving; she ha
dn’t made up her mind about Mark.

  “Send him to town to find out about these tourists from Muchos Nombres. They were supposed to have come looking for me.”

  “All right,” she said. She went off muttering. They needed the telephones working again. Her daughter was talking about a telegraph line last night. There were plans in one of her books, and of course the wires were still around, the old telephone lines.

  After she sent Mark off she made lunch. There was plenty of food just now: scraps from what they were canning, gleanings from the garden patches. It wouldn’t last long, though…

  Harry had even been out of the valley. He traced the road on the map. “Deke Wilson’s on my route,” Harry said. “He’s organized about the way you are. About thirty miles southwest.”

  “So how did you get back in?” Jellison demanded.

  “County road—”

  “That’s blocked.”

  “Oh, sure. Mr. Christopher was there.”

  “So how in hell did you get past him?” Jellison asked. Nothing would surprise him now.

  “I waved at him, and he waved at me,” Harry said. “Shouldn’t he have let me by?”

  “Of course he should have.” But I didn’t think he had that much sense. “Did you tell him all this?”

  “Not yet,” Harry said. “There were some other people trying to talk to him. And he had his rifle, and four other big guys with him. It didn’t seem the proper time for a friendly chat.”

  There was more. The flood. Harry’s story confirmed what Jellison already knew, the San Joaquin was a big inland sea, a hundred and more feet deep in places, water lapping to the edges of the hills. Almond groves torn to shreds by hurricanes. People dead and dying everywhere. There would be a typhoid epidemic for damned sure if something wasn’t done, but what?

  Mark Czescu came in. “Yes, sir, the people from Muchos Nombres came into town yesterday,” he said. “Tried to buy food. Didn’t get much. I guess they went back to their own place.”

  “Where they’ll starve,” Harry said.

  “Invite them to the town meeting,” Jellison said. “They’ve got land—”

  “But they don’t know anything about farming,” Harry said. “I thought I’d mention that. Willing to work, but don’t know what they’re doing.”