by Larry Niven
And Hamner-Brown was approaching. Tail-first it came, directly toward them, the tenuous gas that streamed from it already engulfing Earth and Moon and Hammerlab. They took hourly observations, visual, and daily went outside to gather samples of nothing: the thin vacuum of space, bottled to take back to Earth, where sensitive instruments could find a few molecules of a comet’s tail.
At first there was little to see. Only in the direction of the comet was it obvious that the tail was streaming across space to cover hundreds of millions of miles; but later, as it came closer, they could see it in any direction they looked.
When they weren’t watching the comet they could take observations of the Sun. There were another dozen experiments, in crystallography, in thin-film research, to occupy any spare time left from that.
It made for a busy day.
They hadn’t much privacy, but they had some. By mutual agreement and ship design, the personal facilities were in the spacecraft, not the lab capsule. For Baker and Delanty the system was simple enough: a tube to fit over their male members, with a tank to pee in. It flushed.
This time when Baker used the system he felt Delanty’s eyes on him.
“You’re supposed to be asleep. Not watching me piss.”
“You I’m not interested in. Johnny… how does Leonilla manage it? In space”
“Yeah. I managed to forget I don’t know. I’D ask her, huh?”
“Sure. Do that. It’s a cinch I’m not gonna.”
“Me neither.” Johnny opened a valve. Urine jetted from the Apollo into space. Frozen droplets formed a cloud around the craft, like a new constellation of stars, and gradually dissipated. “Why the hell did you get me worrying about that again?”
“I should be the only one with trouble?”
“How’re you getting along?”
“Pretty good.”
Two days later, Delanty was much better — but Baker didn’t have an answer.
He had just returned from taking a vacuum sample, and was alone with Jakov when Baker said, “I can’t stand it.”
“I beg your pardon?” the Russian said.
“Something bothering me. How does Leonilla take a leak in free fall?”
“This concerns you?”
“Sure. It’s not even idle curiosity. One reason we never sent women into space, the design boys couldn’t come up with proper sanitary facilities. Somebody suggested a catheter, but that hurts.” Jakov said nothing. “So how does she do it?” Johnny demanded.
“That is a state secret. I’m sorry,” Pieter Jakov said. Could he be joking? It didn’t show. “It is time for a new series of solar observations. Will you help me with the telescope, please.”
“Sure.” I’ll ask Leonilla, Johnny thought. Before we get down, anyway. He glanced sideways at the Russian. Maybe Jakov didn’t know either.
“How you doing?” Baker asked.
“Fine,” Delanty said. “Does Houston know?”
“Not from me,” Baker said. “Maybe from Baikunyar. I don’t guess Jakov keeps much from his people. But why should they tell Houston?”
“I hate it,” Rick said.
“Sure you do. So what? You’ve proved whatever you needed to. You’re here, and we got the wings opened out. Christ, man, if you can do that kind of work while you’re sick, they ought to call you Ironman. You’ll be working tomorrow.”
“Yeah. You solve that problem that was bothering you?”
Baker shrugged. “No. I asked Pieter. ‘State secret,’ he said. State secret my ass.”
“Well, maybe we can find out. We’ve sure got enough cameras…”
“Sure. That’ll look good in the report. Two U.S. Air Force officers sneaking into the lady’s powder room with cameras. Well, I’ve got the watch. I’ll go wake up Comrade Brigadier. See you.” Johnny Baker floated out of the Apollo capsule and across Hammerlab. It was quiet out there; Leonilla was asleep in Soyuz, Delanty strapped down in Apollo, and Jakov supposedly catching a nap before going on watch.
Baker swam toward the Russian’s bunk. In the maze of telescopes and cameras and growing crystals and x-ray detectors Jakov floated, lightly strapped to a nylon web. He was grinning at the bulkhead. When Johnny reached him, the grin blinked out.
Like he just gave somebody a hotfoot, Johnny Baker thought. And was caught in the act.
State secret my ass.
June: Three
Then let them which be in Judaea flee into the mountains.
Matthew 24
The outer receptionist was new, and she didn’t send Harvey Randall on into the big executive suite on the third floor of Los Angeles City Hall. Harvey didn’t mind. There were others waiting out there, and his crew wouldn’t be up with the cameras for a few minutes anyway. He was early for his appointment.
Harvey took a seat and indulged in his favorite game: people-watching. Most of the visitors were obvious. Vendors, political types, all there to see one of the deputy mayors or an executive assistant. One was different. She was in her twenties, and Harvey couldn’t tell if early or late twenties. She wore jeans and a flowered blouse, but they’d come from an expensive shop, not from The Gap. She stared frankly, and when Harvey looked at her she didn’t let her eyes drop in embarrassment. Harvey shrugged and crossed the room to sit next to her. “What’s so interesting about me?” he asked.
“I recognized you. You do TV documentaries. I’ll remember your name in a minute.”
“Fine,” Harvey said.
That did make her look away; but she turned back to him with half a smile. “All right. What is it?”
“You first.”
“Mabe Bishop.” Her accent was definitely native.
Harvey fished into his memories. “Aha. People’s Lobby.” “Right.” She didn’t change expressions, which was curious; most people would be pleased to have a national documentary reporter recognize their name. Harvey was still finding that surprising when she said, “You still haven’t told me.”
“Harvey Randall.”
“Now it’s my turn to say ‘aha.’ You’re doing the comet shows.”
“Right. How did you like them?”
“Terrible. Dangerous. Stupid.”
“You don’t mince words. Mind telling me why?” Harvey asked.
“Not at all. First, you’ve scared the wits out of fifty million halfwits—”
“I did not—”
“And they should be scared, but not of a damned comet! Comets! Signs in the heavens! Evil portents! Medieval crap, when there’s plenty to worry about right here on Earth” Her tones were full and bitter.
“And what should they be scared of?” Harvey prompted. He didn’t really want to know, and cursed himself the instant he said it. It was a reporter’s automatic question, but the trouble was, she’d sure as hell tell him.
She did. “Spray cans ruining the atmosphere, destroying ozone, causing cancer. A new atomic power plant in the San Joaquin Valley making radioactive wastes that will be around for half a million years! The big Cadillacs and Lincolns are burning m-megatons of gasoline. All these things that we’ve got to do something about, things we should be scared of, and instead everyone’s hiding in the root cellar afraid of a comet!”
“You’ve got a point,” Randall said. “Even if I don’t think all of those are good causes—”
“Oh, don’t you? And which ones aren’t?” she demanded. Her voice was full of hate, and readiness for attack.
My, my, Harvey thought. There were times when he wanted to take his reportorial objectivity, roll it tightly and stuff it in an anatomically uncomfortable place about the person of a pompous professor of journalism.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “The reason people are still burning gas in those big comfortable cars is that they can’t get enough electricity to run electric cars. They can’t get electricity because the air’s already full of crap from fossil fuel plants and we’re running out of fossil fuels, and damned fools keep delaying the nuclear plants that might get us ou
t of that particular box.” Harvey stood up. “And if I ever hear the words ‘spray can’ and ‘ozone’ again, I’ll track you down wherever you hide and throw up in your lap.”
“Huh?”
Harvey went back to the receptionist. “Tell Johnny Kim that Harvey Randall is out here, please,” he said. His voice was commanding. The new receptionist looked at him in alarm, then turned to her intercom.
Behind him Harvey could hear Mabe Bishop spluttering. It gave Harvey great satisfaction. He went over to the door that led into the executive suite and waited. In a second it buzzed. “Go right in, Mr. Randall,” the receptionist said. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting—”
“’Sall right,” Harvey mumbled. The door let him into a long hall. There were offices on both sides of it. An Oriental of indeterminate age, over thirty and under fifty, came out of one of them.
“Ho, Harv. How long did that quim keep you waiting?”
“Not long. How are you, Johnny?”
“Pretty good. The Mayor’s got a conference running overtime. Community-development thing. Mind waiting a see?”
“Not really — the crew should be up pretty soon.”
“They’re coming up now,” John Kim said. He was Mayor Bentley Allen’s press secretary, speechwriter and sometimes political manager, and Harvey knew that Kim could be in Sacramento or Washington if he wanted to be; probably would be anyway, if he stayed on with Bentley Allen. “I sent down to have them come up the private elevator.”
“Thanks,” Harvey said. “They’ll appreciate that—”
“Hah. The conference is breaking up. Let’s go in and see Hizzoner until the crew gets up.” Kim led Harvey down the hall.
There were two offices. One was large, with expensive furniture and thick rugs. Flags hung on the walls, and there were trophies and plaques and framed certificates everywhere. Past the ornate formal outer office was a much smaller room, with an even larger desk. This desk was piled high with papers, reports, books, IBM print-outs, and memos. Some of the memos held large red stars. A few held two red stars, and one had three. The Mayor was just picking that one up when Kim and Harvey Randall came in.
He looks good, Randall thought as the Mayor read the memo. Los Angeles’ second black mayor. He’d kept to a winning game: He was tall and fit and dressed like a wealthy professional man, which he’d been before getting into politics.
His mixed blood showed, and his education showed because he let it. Bentley Allen was not going to talk down to people. He didn’t need the political jobs; he was technically on leave from a tenure appointment on the faculty of a wealthy private university.
“Documentary, Mr. Randall?” Bentley Allen asked. He initialed the memo and put it in an OUT tray.
“No, sir,” Johnny Kim answered. “Evening news this time.”
“So what’s newsworthy about me tonight?” the Mayor asked.
“Fallout from the documentaries,” Harvey Randall said. “Network news, all networks. What are public officials doing on the day Hamner-Brown doesn’t hit Earth.”
“All networks?” Johnny Kim asked.
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t have been a bit of pressure on that, would there?” Kim asked. “Like from an off-white house on Pennsylvania Avenue?”
“Might have been,” Harvey admitted.
“And what The Man wants is good vibes,” the mayor said. “Keep calm, cool and collected on Hot Fudge Sundae.”
“Which falls on a Tuesdae next week,” Harvey responded automatically. “Yes, sir—”
“So what if I screamed panic?” Mayor Allen asked. There was a gleam of amusement in his eye. “Or said, ‘Here’s your chance, brothers! Burn whitey out! Get yours, you’ll never get a better time’?”
“Aw, bullshit,” Harvey said. “I thought everybody wanted to be on the evening national news.”
“You ever get impulses like that?” Bentley Allen asked. “You know. Irresistible impulses to do the one thing that would put you in a new line of work? Such as spilling a martini down the dean’s wife’s dress? Which, I may add, I did once. Purely accidental, I assure you, but look where it got me.”
Now Harvey really did look worried, and Mayor Allen let the grin play across his face. “Needn’t worry, Mr. Randall. I like this job. Or another one, in a somewhat larger office back east…” He let his voice trail off. It was no secret that Bentley Allen would like to be the first black President; there were serious political managers who thought he could do it in another dozen years or so.
“I’ll be a good boy,” Mayor Allen said. “I’ll tell the people how we expect full attendance in all city offices, and I’ll be right here — well, literally here, but I’ll tell them there,” he added, pointing to the ornate office. “And I expect all my top people to set the same example. I may or may not say that I’ll have a color TV going, because I’m damned if I’m going to miss a show like that.”
“Business as usual with time off for a light show,” Harvey said.
The Mayor nodded. “Of course.” His face took on a serious look. “Privately, I’m a bit worried. Too many people taking off. Do you know that almost every U-Haul trailer in the city has been rented? By the week. And we’ve even had a big surge of requests for time off from my police and firefighters. Not granted, of course. All leaves canceled on Hot Fudge Sundae.”
“Worried about looting?” Harvey asked.
“Not enough to say so in public. But yes,” Mayor Allen said. “Looting and burglaries with all the homes that have been or will be abandoned. But we’ll handle it. If your crew is set up out there, we’d better get to it. I’ve a meeting with the director of Civil Defense in half an hour.”
They stood and went into the outer office.
The traffic on Beverly Glen was nice. Very light for a Thursday evening. Harvey drove with a wide grin. I’ve got a hell of a story, he thought. Even if I never get another foot in the can, I’ve got a story. Not only do millions think the world’s going to end, but millions more hope so. It shows in their attitudes. They hate what they’re doing, and keep looking nostalgically at the “simple” life. Of course they won’t voluntarily choose to be farmers or live in communes, but if everybody has to…
It didn’t really make sense, but people’s attitudes often didn’t. That didn’t bother Harvey Randall at all.
And there’d be another great story in follow-up. The day after the world didn’t end. That’s a good title for a book Harvey thought. Of course there’ll be a thousand novelists scrambling to beat each other into print. Books with titles like Chicken Little, and The Day the World Didn’t End (not as good as his title) and Rock, Won’t You Hide Me? Come to that, some of the radio stations were playing disaster-religious songs twenty-four hours a day, and end-of-the-world preachers were doing a land-office business.
There were also the Comet Wardens, a Southern California sect who were putting on white robes and praying the comet away. They’d staged a couple of stunts to get publicity, and about half their leaders were out on bail for blocking traffic or getting into the outfield during televised baseball games. That had stopped; a judge had ordered that no more be released on bail until next Wednesday…
Hell, I could write a book, Harvey thought. I ought to. I never wanted to before, but I’m literate, and I’ve done the research. I’m way ahead of the flock. The Day After the World Didn’t End. No. No good. Too long, for one thing. I can call mine Hammer Fever. And of course there’ll be plenty of publicity, we’ll have a show on the air just afterward.
I could even make some money on this. A lot of money. Enough to pay off the bills and take care of the tuition at Harvard School for Boys and…
Hammer Fever. I like it.
Only one problem. It’s real. Like a war scare.
He’d found that everywhere. Coffee, tea, flour, sugar, any staple capable of being hoarded, was in short supply. Freezedried foods were gone. Clothing stores reported runs on rain gear (in southern California, with the next rains du
e in November!). You couldn’t find outdoorsman’s clothing anywhere, no surplus hiking boots in the stores. And nobody was buying suits, white shirts, or neckties.
They were buying guns, though. There wasn’t a firearm to be bought in Beverly Hills or the San Fernando Valley. There wasn’t any ammunition, either.
Backpacking stores were sold out of everything from hiking boots to trail food to fishing equipment (more hooks than flies; you could still get dry flies, but only the expensive American-made ones, not the cheap ones from India). There weren’t any tents to be had, nor sleeping bags. There was even a run on life jackets! Harvey grinned when he heard that one. He’d never seen a tsunami himself, but he’d read about them. After Krakatoa a great wave had deposited a Dutch gunboat miles inland at an elevation of two hundred feet.
Then there were the mail-order “survival packages” that had been sold for the past few weeks. They’d not be getting any more orders, of course, not this close to Hammerfall. Maybe — just maybe — they weren’t intending to deliver? Have to look into that. There were four companies selling them. For from fifty to sixteen thousand dollars you could get anything from just a food supply to the whole thing in one lump. The foods were nonperishable and constituted a more or-less-balanced diet. (Which religious sect was it that required all its members to keep a year’s supply of food? They’d been doing that since the Sixties, too. Harvey made another mental note. They’d be worth interviewing, after That Day had passed.)
The cheap outfits were food only. There was progressively more, up to the sixteen-grand package, which included a Land Cruiser, clothing from thermal underwear out, machete, sleeping bag, butane stove and tank, inflatable raft, almost anything you could name. One included membership in a survival club: You were guaranteed a place if you could get there, somewhere in the Rockies. The different companies didn’t sell identical items, and none of the four included guns (courtesy of Lee Harvey Oswald; and how many people has the ban on mail-order guns saved or killed, depending on whether or not the Hammer falls?).
