Lucifer's Hammer

by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle

  “And that was useful?” Harvey prompted.

  “Useful? It was magnificent! We should do it again!” Sharps’ hands waved around in dramatic gestures. Harvey glanced quickly at his crew. The camera was rolling, and Manuel had that contented look a sound man has when things are going well in his phones.

  “Could we get something like Skylab up there in time?” Harvey asked.

  “Skylab? No. But Rockwell’s got an Apollo capsule we could use. And we’ve got the equipment here at the labs. There are big military boosters around, things the Pentagon doesn’t need anymore. We could do it, if we started now, and we weren’t chicken about it.” Sharps’ face fell. “But we won’t. Too damn bad, too. We could really learn something from Hamner-Brown that way.”

  The cameras and sound equipment were packed away and the crew went out with the PR lady. Harvey was saying his farewells to Sharps.

  “Want some coffee, Harvey? You’re in no hurry, are you?” Sharps asked.

  “Guess not.”

  Sharps punched a button on the phone console. “Larry. Get us some coffee, please.” He turned back to Harvey. “Damnedest thing,” he said. “Whole nation depends on technology. Stop the wheels for two days and you’d have riots. No place is more than two meals from a revolution. Think of Los Angeles or New York with no electricity. Or a longer view, fertilizer plants stop. Or a longer view yet, no new technology for ten years. What happens to our standard of living?”

  “Sure, we’re a high-technology civiliz—”

  “Yet…” Sharps said. His voice was firm. He intended to finish. “Yet the damned fools won’t pay ten minutes’ attention a day to science and technology. How many people know what they’re doing? Where do these carpets come from? The clothes you’re wearing? What do carburetors do? Where do sesame seeds come from? Do you know? Does one voter out of thirty? They won’t spend ten minutes a day thinking about the technology that keeps them alive. No wonder the research budget has been cut to nothing. We’ll pay for that. One day we’ll need something that could have been developed years before but wasn’t—” He stopped himself. “Tell me, Harv, will this TV thing of yours be big or will it get usual billing for a science program?”

  “Prime time,” Harvey said. “A series, on the value of Hamner-Brown, and incidentally on the value of science. Of course, I can’t guarantee people won’t turn to reruns of ‘I Love Lucy.’”

  “Yeah. Oh—thank you, Larry. Put the coffee right here.”

  Harvey had expected Styrofoam cups and machine coffee. Instead, Sharps’ assistant brought in a gleaming Thermos pitcher, silver spoons and sugar-and-cream service on an inlaid teak tray.

  “Help yourself, Harvey. It’s good coffee. Mocha-Java?”

  “Right,” the assistant said.

  “Good.” He waved dismissal. “Harv, why this sudden change of heart by the networks?”

  Harvey shrugged. “Sponsor insists on it. The sponsor happens to be Kalva Soap. Which happens to be controlled by Timothy Hamner. Who happens—”

  Harvey was cut off by shrieks of laughter. Sharps’ thin face contorted in glee. “Beautiful!” Then he looked thoughtful. “A series. Tell me, Harv, if a politician helped us with the study—helped a lot—could he be worked into the series? Get some favorable publicity?”

  “Sure. Hamner would insist on it. Not that I’d object—”

  “Marvelous.” Sharps lifted his coffee cup. “Cheers. Thanks, Harv. Thanks a lot. I think we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

  Sharps waited until Harvey Randall had left the building. He sat very still, something unusual for him, and he felt excitement in the pit of his stomach. It might work. It just might. Finally he punched the intercom. “Larry, get me Senator Arthur Jellison in Washington. Thanks.”

  Then he waited impatiently until the phone buzzed. “He’ll talk to you,” his assistant said.

  Sharps lifted the phone. “Sharps here.” Another wait while the secretary got the Senator.

  “Charlie?”

  “Right,” Sharps said. “Art, I’ve got a proposition for you. Know about the comet?”

  “Comet? Oh. Comet. Funny you mention that. I met the guy who discovered it. Turns out he was a heavy contributor, but I never met him before.”

  “Well, it’s important,” Sharps said. “Opportunity of the century—”

  “That’s what they said about Kahoutek—”

  “God damn Kahoutek! Look, Art, what’s the chance we could get funding for a probe?”

  “How much?”

  “Well, take two cases. Second best is anything we can get. The lab can cobble up an unmanned black box, something that goes on a Thor-Delta—”

  “No problem. I can get you that,” Jellison said.

  “But that’s second best. What we need is a manned probe. Say two men in an Apollo with some equipment instead of the third man. Art, that comet’s going to be close. From up there we could get good pictures, not just the tail, not just the coma; there’s a fair chance we could get pix of the head! Know what that means?”

  “Not really, but you just told me it’s important.” Jellison was silent for a moment. “Sorry. I really am, but there’s no chance. Not one chance. Anyway, we couldn’t put up an Apollo if we had the budget—”

  “Yes we can. I just checked with Rockwell. Higher-risk mission than NASA likes, but we could do it. We’ve got the hardware—”

  “Doesn’t matter. I can’t get you a budget for that.”

  Sharps frowned at the phone. The sick excitement rose in his stomach. Arthur Jellison was an old friend, and Charlie Sharps did not like blackmail. But…“Not even if the Russkis are putting up a Soyuz?”

  “What? But they’re not—”

  “Oh, yes, they are,” Sharps said. And it’s not a lie, not really. Just an anticipation—

  “You can prove that?”

  “In a few days. Rely on it, they’re going up to look at Hamner-Brown.”

  “I will be dipped in shit.”

  “I beg your pardon, Senator?”

  “I will be dipped in shit.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re playing games with me, aren’t you, Charlie?” Jellison demanded.

  “Not really. Look, Art, it’s important. And we need another manned mission anyway, just to keep up interest in space. You’ve been after a manned flight—”

  “Yeah, but I had no chance of getting one.” There was more silence. Then Jellison said, more to himself than Sharps, “So the Russkis are going. And no doubt they’ll make a big deal of it.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  Another silence. Charlie Sharps almost held his breath. “Okay,” Jellison said. “I’ll nose around the Hill and see what kind of reactions I get. But you better be giving it to me straight.”

  “Senator, in a week you’ll have unmistakable evidence.”

  “All right. I’ll give it a try. Anything else?”

  “Not just now.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the tip, Charlie.” The phone went dead.

  Abrupt he is, Sharps thought. He smiled thinly to himself, then punched the intercom button again. “Larry, I want Dr. Sergei Fadayev in Moscow, and yes, I know what time it is over there. Just get him on for me.”

  ■

  The legend of Gilgamesh was a handful of unconnected tales spreading through the Earth’s Fertile Crescent in Asia…and the comet was nearly unchanged. It was still far outside the maelstrom. The orbit of the runaway moon called Pluto would have looked like a quarter held nearly on edge, at arm’s length. The Sun, an uncomfortably bright pinpoint, still poured far less heat across the comet’s crust than had the black giant at its worst. The crust was mostly water ice now; it reflected most of the heat back to the stars.

  Yet time passed.

  Mars swallowed its water in another turn of its long, vicious weather cycle. Men spread across the Earth, laughing and scratching. And the comet continued to fall. A breath of the solar wind, high-velocity protons, flayed its
crust. Much of the hydrogen and helium in its tissues had seeped away. The maelstrom came near.

  March: One

  And the Lord hung a rainbow as a sign,

  Won’t be water but fire next time.

  Traditional spiritual

  Mark Czescu looked up at the house and whistled. It was California Tudor, off-white stucco with massive wood beams inset at angles. They’d be real wood. Some places, like Glendale, had the same style of house with plywood strips to fake it, but not Bel Air.

  The house was large on a large lot. Mark rang the front doorbell. Presently it was opened by a young man with long hair and pencil-thin mustache. He looked at Mark’s Roughrider trousers and boots and at the large brown cases Mark had set on the porch. “We don’t need any,” he said.

  “I’m not selling any. I’m Mark Czescu, from NBS.”

  “Oh. Sorry. You’d be surprised how many peddlers we get. Come on in. My name’s George. I’m the houseboy.” He lifted one of the cases. “Heavy.”

  “Yeah.” Mark was busy looking around. Paintings. A telescope. Globes of Earth, Mars and the Moon. Glass statuary. Steuben crystal. Trip toys. The front room had been set up as for a theater party, couches facing the TV. “Must have been a bitch moving that stuff,” Mark said.

  “Sure was. Here, put that in here. Anything tricky about it?”

  “Not if you know video recorders.”

  “I ought to,” George said. “I’m a drama student. UCLA. But we haven’t had that course yet. You better show me.”

  “Will you be running it tonight?”

  “Nah. I’ve got a rehearsal. Wild Duck. Good part. Mr. Hamner will do it.”

  “Then I’ll show him.”

  “You’ll have to wait, then. He’s not home yet. Want a beer?”

  “That’d go nice.” Mark followed George to the kitchen. A big room, gleaming chrome and Formica everywhere; two double sinks, two gas ovens, two ranges. A large counter held trays of canapés covered with Saran Wrap. There was a desk and bookshelves which held cookbooks, the latest Travis McGee thrillers and Stanislavski’s An Actor Prepares. Only the thrillers and Stanislavski showed any signs of use. “I’d have thought Hamner would find himself an astronomy student—”

  “Last guy here was,” George said. He got out beer. “They fought a lot.”

  “So Hamner fired him.”

  “No, he sent him up to his place in the mountains. Hamner likes to fight, but not when he’s at home. He’s easy to work for. And there’s color TV in my room, and I get to use the pool and sauna.”

  “Hard to take.” Mark sipped at the beer. “This must be one swinging party pad.”

  George laughed. “Like hell. The only parties are when I bring in a show cast. Or like tonight, relatives.”

  Mark eyed George carefully. Pencil mustache. Actor’s fine features. What the hell, he thought. “Hamner gay or something?”

  “Christ, no,” George said. “No, he just doesn’t go out much. I fixed him up with the second lead in our last show. Nice girl, from Seattle. Hamner took her out a couple of times, then nothing. Irene said he was polite and a perfect gentleman until they were alone, then he leaped at her.”

  “She should have leaped back.”

  “That’s what I said, but she didn’t.” George cocked his head to one side. “That’s Mr. Hamner coming now. I recognize the engine.”

  ■

  Tim Hamner went to the side door and into the small suite that he thought of as his home. It was the part of the house he felt most comfortable in although he used the whole place. Hamner didn’t like his house. It had been chosen by the family money managers for resale value, and it had that; it gave him plenty of space to display the things he’d collected; but it didn’t seem like a home.

  He poured himself a short scotch and sank into an Eames chair. He put his feet up on the matching footstool. It felt good. He’d done his duty. He’d gone to a directors’ meeting and listened to all the reports and congratulated the company president on the quarterly earnings. Tim’s natural inclination was to let those who liked playing with money do it, but he’d had a cousin who lost everything that way; it never hurt to let money managers know you were looking over their shoulders.

  Thinking of the meeting reminded him of the secretary at the office. She’d chatted pleasantly with Tim before the meeting, but she’d pleaded a date when he asked her for dinner for tomorrow. Maybe she did have a date. She was polite enough. But she’d turned him down. Maybe, he thought, maybe I should have asked her for next Friday. Or next week. But then if she said no there’d have been no doubt about why.

  He heard George talking with someone out in the living room and wondered idly who it might be. George wouldn’t disturb him until he came out; that was one nice thing about this house, he could have this suite to himself. But then Tim remembered. That would be the man from NBS! With the cut scenes, the ones Tim had liked but hadn’t got into the documentary. He got up in enthusiasm and began changing clothes.

  ■

  Penelope Wilson arrived about six. She had never answered to Penny; her mother had insisted. Tim Hamner, looking at her through the spy-eye in the door, suddenly remembered that she had given up Penelope too. She’d taken to using her middle name, and Tim couldn’t remember it.

  Be brave. He threw the door wide and, letting his agony show, cried, “Quick! What’s your middle name?”

  “Joyce. Hello, Tim. Am I the first?”

  “Yes. You look elegant.” He took her coat. He had known her forever: since grade school, anyway. Penelope Joyce had gone to the same girls’ prep school as Tim’s sister and half a dozen girl cousins. She had been the homely one, with her wide mouth and too-square jaw and a figure best described as sturdy. In college she had begun to bloom.

  She was indeed elegant tonight. Her hair was long and wavy and complexly arranged. Her dress was clean of line and of a color and texture soft to the eye. Tim wanted to touch it. He’d lived with his sister long enough to know how long it must have taken to get that effect, even if he had no hint as to how it was done.

  Wanting her approval was automatic. He waited as she inspected his living room, wondering to himself why he’d never invited her before. Finally she looked up with an expression Tim hadn’t seen her use since high school, when she’d decided she was judge of all morals. “Nice room,” she said approvingly. Then she giggled, ruining the pose.

  “Glad you like it. Damned glad, in fact.”

  “Really? Is my opinion so important?” She was still teasing him with facial expressions from their childhood.

  “Yes. In a few minutes the whole damned family’s going to be here, and most of them haven’t seen this place. You think like they do, so if you like it, they will.”

  “Hmm. I guess I deserved that.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean…” She was laughing at him again. He got her a drink and they sat.

  “I’ve been wondering,” she mused. “We haven’t seen each other for two years at least. Why did you ask me here tonight?”

  Tim was partly prepared for that. She had always been direct. He decided to be truthful. “I was thinking about who I wanted here tonight. A big ego thing, right? The show about my comet. And I thought of Gil Waters, the top of my class at Cate, and my family, and you. Then I realized I was thinking of all the people I wanted to impress most.”

  “Me?”

  “Right. We used to talk, remember? And I never could tell you what I wanted to do with my life. The rest of my family, everyone we grew up with, they make money, or collect art, or race cars, or do something. Me, I only wanted to watch the sky.”

  She smiled. “I’m really flattered, Tim.”

  “You really do look elegant. Your own creation?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She was still easy to talk to. Tim was finding that a pleasant rediscovery when the doorbell rang. The others had come.

  It was a pleasant evening. The caterers had done their job well, so there was
no trouble with the food, even without George to help. Tim relaxed and found he was having fun.

  They listened.

  They never had before. They listened as Tim told them how it had been: the cold, dark hours of watching, of studying star patterns, of keeping the log; of endless hours poring over photographs; all with no result except the joy of knowing the universe. And they listened. Even Greg, who usually made no secret of how he felt about rich men who didn’t pay proper attention to their money.

  It was only a family gathering in Tim’s living room, but he was elated, and nervous, and quiveringly alert. He saw Barry’s smile and headshake and read Barry’s mind from that: What a way to spend a life! He’s actually envying me, Tim thought, and it was delicious. Tim glanced up to catch his sister watching with wry amusement. Jill had always been able to tell what Tim was thinking. He’d been closer to her than either had been to their brother Pat.

  But it was Pat who trapped him behind the bar and wanted to talk.

  “Like your place,” Pat said. “Mom doesn’t know what to make of it.” He tilted his head to indicate where their mother was wandering around the room, looking at gadgets. At the moment she was fascinated by the Kalliroscope’s random and strange patterns. “Bet I know what she’s thinking. Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Bring girls here. Have wild parties.”

  “None of your goddam business.”

  Pat shrugged. “Too bad. Man, there are times when I wish I…to hell with it. But you really ought to take advantage. You won’t have forever. Mom will have her way.”

  “Sure,” Tim said. Why the hell did Pat have to bring that up? His mother would, before the night was over. Timmy, why aren’t you married yet?

  One day I’ll answer, Tim told himself. One day I’ll say it. “Because every time I find a girl I think I could live with, you scare her spitless and she runs away, that’s why.”

  “I’m still hungry,” Penelope Joyce announced.

  “Good Lord.” Jill patted her stomach. “Where do you put it? I want your secret. Only don’t tell me it’s your clothes. Greg says we can’t afford your creations.”