Lucifer's Hammer

“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.

Al Hardy didn’t like guard duty. It didn’t do him much good to dislike it. Somebody had to pull guard, and the ranchhands 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 paper work 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 day. 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:

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 scopesighted 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?”