Lucifer's Hammer

by Larry Niven

  She frowned down at him. Others had gone mad after less than Dan Forrester had faced. “Paint store?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think so. There was a Standard Brands at the edge of Porterville. It was flooded, I think.”

  Dan tried to discipline his thoughts. “Perhaps they kept things in plastic bags. What about fertilizer? You have that? Ammonia, for instance. They use it for—”

  “I know what they use it for,” Maureen said. “Yes, we have some. Not enough for the crops.”

  Forrester sighed again. “It may not get to the crops. Or maybe we can use it where we’ll be able to grow crops later. Were there many swimming pools? A swimming-pool supply store?”

  “Yes, there was one of those. It’s underwater now—”

  “How deep?”

  She looked at him sharply. He looked terrible, but his eyes were quite sane. He knew what he was asking. “I don’t know. It will be on Al Hardy’s maps. Is it important?”

  “I think so — ” He stopped abruptly. He was listening. In the other room they were talking about a nuclear power plant. Forrester stood up. He had to hold onto the chair. “Would you help me go in there, please?” His voice was apologetic, but somehow there was no way to refuse him. “Oh — one more thing. A filling station. I’ll need some drums of grease solvent.”

  Maureen, mystified, helped Forrester down the hall toward the living room. “I don’t know. We have a filling station here, but it was very small. There were bigger ones in Porterville, of course, but they were under the dam and were flooded pretty badly. Why? What can you make with all that?”

  Forrester had reached the living room and went in hanging on Maureen’s arm. Johnny Baker stopped talking and stared at him. So did the others. “Sorry to interrupt,” Forrester said. He looked around helplessly for a chair.

  Mayor Seitz was nearest to him and got up from the couch. He went back to the library for a folding chair while Forrester took the Mayor’s place on the couch. Forrester blinked rapidly at the others. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Did someone ask where the San Joaquin Nuclear Plant is?”

  “Yes,” Al Hardy said. “I know it was out there somewhere, but hell, it has to be underwater. It was right in the middle of the valley. It can’t be working—”

  “It was on Buttonwillow Ridge,” Forrester said. “I looked on a map, and that’s about forty feet higher than the land around it. But I thought it would be flooded too, and I wasn’t able to get down to the edge of the San Joaquin Sea because of the cannibals.”

  Hardy looked thoughtful. Eileen Hamner hurried out and came back with a map. She spread it out on the floor in front of the Senator and he and Hardy stared at it.

  Maureen Jellison went across the room and sat on the floor near Johnny Baker. Their hands sought each other and clasped involuntarily.

  “We have that area about fifty feet underwater,” Al Hardy announced. “Hugo, are you sure the plant’s operating?”

  “The Angels think so. As I said, it set them wild.”

  “Why?” Christopher asked.

  “It’s a Holy War,” Hugo Beck said. “The Angels of the Lord exist only to destroy the forbidden works of man. What’s left of industry. I watched them tear into what was left of a coal-powered station. They didn’t use guns or dynamite. They swarmed over it with axes and clubs and hands. It was already wrecked, you understand. It had been flooded. But when they got through, you couldn’t tell what it had been. And all the time Armitage was shouting at them to do the work of the Lord!

  “He preaches every night, same theme. Destroy the works of man. Then three days ago — I think it was three days…” Hugo counted on his fingers. “Yeah. Three days ago they heard that nuclear plant was still going. I thought Armitage would burst a blood vessel! From that moment on it was constant: Destroy that Citadel of Satan. Look, nuclear power! Kind of the epitome of everything the Angels hate, you know? It even had Jerry Owen excited. He used to talk about how they might save a few things. Hydroelectric plants, maybe, if they could be rebuilt without hurting the Earth. But he hated nuclear power plants before Hammerfall.”

  “Do they destroy all technology?” Al Hardy asked.

  Hugo Beck shook his head. “Sergeant Hooker and his people kept anything they think they can use, anything that might have military value. But they were all agreed, they didn’t want that nuclear plant in the valley. Jerry Owen talked about how he knew ways to wreck it.”

  “We can’t let them do that,” Dan Forrester said. He leaned forward and spoke intently. He had forgotten where he was, the long tramp northward, possibly even Hammerfall itself. “We have to save the power plant. We can rebuild a civilization if we have electricity.”

  “He’s right,” Rick Delanty said. “It’s important—”

  “It’s important that we stay alive, too,” Senator Jellison said. “But we have heard that the New Brotherhood has over a thousand troops, possibly many more. We can put five hundred in the field, and many of them will not be well armed. Few have any training. We will be lucky to save this valley.”

  “Dad,” Maureen said. “I think Dr. Forrester has some ideas about that. He asked me about… Dan, why did you want to know about grease solvents and swimming-pool supply shops? What were you thinking about?”

  Dan Forrester sighed again. “Maybe I shouldn’t suggest it. I had an idea, but you may not like it.”

  “For God’s sake, man,” Al Hardy said. “If you know something that can help us, say it! What?”

  “Well, you’ve probably already thought of it,” Forrester said.

  “Goddamm — ” Christopher began.

  Senator Jellison held up his hand. “Dr. Forrester, believe me, you won’t offend us. Please, what did you have in mind?”

  Forrester shrugged. “Mustard gas. Thermite bombs. Napalm. And I think we can make nerve gas, but I’m not sure.”

  There was a long silence, then Senator Jellison said, low and under his breath but everybody heard, “I will be dipped in shit.”

  The Expedition

  The world must end tonight,

  And Man pass out of sight,

  But now and then we’ll pine,

  For the things that we’ve left behind…

  European Ballad, A.D. 1000

  Tim Hamner ate his dinner while Eileen packed clothing into a makeshift backpack. There was a strong chill wind coming down from the slopes of the Sierra. It blew wispy sleet past the cabin, but failed to find any chinks. Eileen’s tiny kerosene lamp gave off a warm glow, and the stove kept the kitchen warm and dry. Tim was relaxed for the moment. He stared into the vent opening of the stove, watching the tiny blue flames curl and rise. “Trouble rather the tiger in his lair,” he said.

  Eileen looked up. “What?”

  “From the introduction of a science fiction story by Gordon Dickson. I don’t know if it’s a real quote or something Dickson made up. It went, ‘Trouble rather the tiger in his lair than the sage among his books. For to you Kingdoms and their armies are things mighty and enduring, but to him they are but toys of the moment, to be overturned with the flick of a finger.’ ”

  “Can he really do it?” Eileen asked.

  “Forrester? He’s a magician. If Forrester says he can make napalm and bombs and mustard gas, he can do it.” Tim sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to. I was brought up to hate poison gas. Of course, I don’t suppose it matters whether it’s gas or a bullet; dead is dead.” He reached for his rifle, then took an oily rag from a bag on the table and began wiping the barrel.

  “Do you have to go?” Eileen demanded.

  “We agreed not to talk about it,” Tim said.

  “I don’t care what we agreed. I don’t want you to go… I-”

  “I don’t like the idea much myself,” Tim said. “But what can we do? Forrester insisted. He’ll stay here and make terrible weapons to defend the Stronghold if we send reinforcements to the power plant.” Tim shook his head in admiration. “He’s the only man in the wor
ld who could blackmail both the Senator and George Christopher. You wouldn’t think he’d have the nerve, with all those apologies and eye blinking and everything, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to say one word more about weapons until they promised.”

  “But why you?” Eileen demanded. She packed a newly knitted pair of socks. The wool had been carded from dog fur.

  “What else am I good for?” Hamner asked. “You know better than me. You helped Hardy work up the schedules. I can’t farm, I’m not as good an engineer as Brad, I don’t ride horses well so I can’t go with Christopher’s Paul Revere troop… I may as well be part of the suicide squad.”

  “For God’s sake don’t talk like that.” She left off the packing and came over to stand beside him.

  He patted her belly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back if I have to swim.” He laughed. “Or pull our famous Flying Dutchman act and drive over the water again. I intend to see our son or possibly daughter. Or twins? You already look somewhat like an inverted question mark.” Dammit, he was babbling, the fear was showing through.

  “Tim…”

  “Don’t make it harder, Eileen.”

  “No. Well, you’re all packed.”

  Tim punched the button on his watch. “We have an hour before we leave,” he said. He stood and grabbed her. “Gotcha.”

  “Tim…”

  “Ye-ess?”

  Whatever she had been about to say, she said instead, “Did you get our reservations at the Savoy?”

  “They were all booked up. I found someplace closer.”

  “Goody.”

  There were a dozen of them, led by Johnny Baker. Three of Deke Wilson’s ranchers. Jack Ross, a Christopher brother-in-law. Tim wasn’t surprised to see Mark Czescu and Hugo Beck among the volunteers. He recognized most of the others as valley ranchers, but one man, middle-aged and far too small for his clothes, was a stranger. Tim went over to him and introduced himself.

  “Jason Gillcuddy,” the man said. “I saw your TV programs. Glad to meet you.”

  “Gillcuddy. I’ve heard that name. Where?”

  Jason smiled. “From my books, maybe? More likely you heard it here. Harry and I are both married to Donna, used to be Donna Adams. Her mother raised pluperfect hell about that.”

  “Oh.” Tim followed Gillcuddy’s look to Harry and a slim girl, blonde, not more than nineteen, standing near Eileen. He pitched his backpack into the truck. The rifle was slung over his shoulder. “How long?” he asked.

  “They’re waiting for something,” Jason said. “I don’t know what. No point in standing here. See you.” Jason went over to Harry and the girl. She embraced Gillcuddy while Harry stood watching.

  Wonder what Hardy thinks of that? Tim thought. He likes everything neat. And what does it make Jason and Harry? Brothers-in-law? Husbands-in-law? The arrangement made sense, with Harry out on his rounds for weeks at a time. Someone had to work the Chicken Ranch while Harry was out. Tim found Eileen with Maureen Jellison. “My comet sure plays games with cultural patterns,” he said. He inclined his head toward Harry and Jason and Donna.

  Eileen took his hand and held tightly.

  “Hi, Maureen,” Tim said. “Where’s General Baker?”

  “He’ll be out in a moment.”

  Eileen and Maureen and Donna, they all had the same look. Tim had an impulse to laugh, but he didn’t. They looked exactly like the women in the old John Wayne movies, when the cavalry troop was about to ride out through the gates. Had they seen the movies, or had John Ford captured a truth?

  A light truck drove up, and two ranch-hands jumped down. Chief Hartman got out of the cab. “Easy with that,” Hartman said. He looked around, then came over to Tim and Maureen. “Where’s the General?” he asked.

  “Inside.”

  “Okay. Best more than one knows anyway. Mr. Hamner, come look. We brought your radio gear.” He pointed to the boxes that the ranchers were loading in with the expedition baggage. “The set runs off a car battery. That other box contains a beam antenna. You get that to the highest place you can find, and point it at us. From the power plant that’s twenty degrees magnetic. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to hear you. We’ll listen from five minutes to until five minutes after each hour. Channel thirteen. And assume the New Brotherhood’s listening in. You got all that?”

  “Yes.” Tim repeated the instructions.

  Johnny Baker came out of the house. He carried a rifle and wore a pistol on his belt. Maureen went to him and held him possessively.

  There certainly were a lot of grim faces showing tonight. Tim decided that looking nonchalant was a waste of effort. Mark Czescu looked indecently cheerful; but that fit. Tim had heard him asking Harry the Mailman, in all innocence, “What are we calling this, the War of Harry’s Truck?” Mark didn’t know why they were fighting, and didn’t care.

  Hugo Beck was grimmer than the rest. If the Angels got their hands on the apostate, he’d have reason… but maybe he had reason now. Nobody was going near him. Poor bastard.

  “What the hell are we waiting on?” Jack Ross demanded. He was built like a Christopher, a massive, choleric man. There were three fingers missing from his left hand and a scar that ran clear to his elbow, the result of an argument with a harvesting machine. His fine blond mustache was nearly invisible, a mere token.

  “The scouts,” Baker said. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Rick Delanty seemed in a foul mood. He went to Baker, ignoring the others standing by. “Johnny, I want to go with you.”

  “No.”

  “Dammit—”

  “I’ve explained before,” Baker said. He took Delanty off to one side. Tim could barely hear their voices. He strained to catch it, eavesdropping or no. “We can’t risk all of the last astronauts,” Baker said. “We can’t leave one Russian here alone, and Russians wouldn’t be any use anyway. This is a diplomatic mission. They might not be welcome.”

  “Fine. Leave them here and take me.”

  “And who watches out for them, Rick? They’re our friends, and we promised. ‘Visit our home,’ we said. ‘You’ll have a native guide,’ we said. You saw the way some of these farmers reacted. Russians are not popular just now.”

  “Neither are blacks.”

  “But you are. You’re a space hero here! Rick, we promised them, and we came down in their capsule.”

  “Fine. You stay. I’ll go. Dammit, Johnny, that power plant is important.”

  “I know that. Now, just remember where we’re going, and tell me what anyone will think if he sees a black man’s face from a distance. You can’t play ambassador. Shut up and soldier, Colonel Delanty.”

  Rick was silent for a moment. Finally: “Yes, sir. I’d file a protest, but I don’t know the Inspector General’s address.”

  Baker clapped Delanty on the shoulder, then came back to Tim. If he’d caught him eavesdropping, he didn’t mention it. “They want you inside,” he said.

  Hamner blinked. “Right.” He went up to the ranch house, still holding Eileen’s hand. The swelling of her pregnancy was just beginning to show, but it threw her balance off, so that she stumbled and had to brace herself against his arm.

  Jellison, Hardy and Dan Forrester were in the living room. Forrester thrust papers encased in a Ziploc Bag into Tim’s hands. “These are some more ideas I had. General Baker has copies too, but…”

  “Right,” Tim said.

  “If you get a chance, scout out the west shore,” Al Hardy said. “We’d like to know what’s going on over there. And there’s a list of stuff you might be able to use.”

  Tim looked at the papers in his hands. Through the plastic he could see only the top sheet. It was a list: iron oxide (found in paint stores, called red pigment, red spell; also found in the rust pile in automobile wrecking yards; or can be scraped from any rusty iron and ground finely); powdered aluminum (found in paint stores as a pigment); plaster of paris…

  The list was long, and most of the it
ems seemed useless. Tim knew better. He knew that on the other sheets in the stack were the means for turning those common items into deadly weapons. He looked at Forrester. “I’d hate to have you mad at me.”

  Forrester looked embarrassed. “I remember everything I read, and I read a lot.”

  “Have you ever done any skin diving?” Al Hardy asked.

  Strange question. “Yes.”

  “Thought so,” Hardy said. “Turns out you and Randall weren’t the only ones to think of that idea. The fishing camp down by Porterville salvaged some scuba gear. They’re selling it to us along with the boats.” Hardy looked darkly at Forrester. “This expedition is expensive. You wouldn’t believe how expensive. We had to trade for the boats, and they’ll use gasoline we don’t have enough of. And all those sacks of stuff you’re taking with you. Good fertilizer…”

  “I’m sorry,” Forrester said.

  “Sure,” Hardy said. “Hamner, there are towns out in the valley. Under water. We’re hoping either you or Baker will have a chance to do some salvage work. Both of you have scuba experience, but the only wet suit we could buy turns out to be small. I don’t know if Baker can get into it, which means you may have to do the diving. There’s another list in that packet of papers Forrester gave you. Stuff we need. But give his first priority.”

  “And we want information,” Senator Jellison said. He sounded tired, and Tim thought he looked gray, but perhaps it was only the pale yellow kerosene light. “We’ve had short radio contact with people on the other side of the San Joaquin Sea,” Jellison said. “There were oil fields out there, lots of them, and there seem to be survivors. They were friendly enough on the radio, but you never can tell. Anyway, find out what you can. Maybe the power-plant people know. We can use allies. Baker has authority to make deals. You don’t, but you know conditions here better than Johnny does. He’ll need your advice.”

  Tim looked thoughtful. “Everybody has assumed the people at the power plant will be friendly,” he said. “What if they’re not? I thought my observatory… anyway, what if they’re not?”