Lucifer's Hammer

“Maybe. If we’re lucky. But what if our luck has all run out?”

“Two ” he went on relentlessly. “Suppose it’s all a scam. We’ll all starve this winter. Suppose that. Maureen, it’s still worth it. If we can put off for an hour, if for a lousy hour we can spare somebody feeling the way I did curled up in the back of my car… Maureen, it’s worth dying just to keep one human being from feeling that way. It is. And you can do that. If it takes an act, put on an act. But do it.”

He meant it. Maybe he was acting too, doing what he had told her to do; but he meant it too, or why would he bother? Maybe he was right. Oh, God. Let him be right. Only You aren’t there, are You?

How much do you believe all this, Harvey Randall? How strong is this resolve of yours? Please don’t lose it, because you make me feel it too. I can share it. She looked up at him and said, very gently, “Do you want to make love to me?”

“Yes.” He didn’t move.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve thought about you for months. Because I won’t feel guilt. Because I want someone to be in love with.”

“Those are good reasons.” She stood, and reached for him. She felt his arms go to her shoulders. He held her, not tightly, looking at her. The wet spot on her back was cold now. Almost she drew away, this wasn’t something casual, not like the last time. This would mean something. It had to.

His hands were warm on her back, and he smelled like sweat and work; an honest smell, not something from a spray can. When he bent to kiss her, it was like an electric shock, and she grasped him and held him, burrowing into him, hoping to lose herself.

Presently they lay on the air mattress, on the open sleeping bag. Gently he held her, and she knew it would be good, and after a long time it was.

Later she lay against him and watched the lightning make strange patterns through the green plastic; and she thought of what she’d done.

Do your job. That’s what life is all about, doing one’s job. Harvey hadn’t really said that, that was Albert Camus, The Plague, but it was what Harvey meant. And doing my job includes a lot of things, but I’m not sure it includes Harvey Randall. There’s a paradox. He tells me what I should be living for, and I know damned well I can’t hold onto it by myself, but what would George do if he knew where I was now?

He’d put Harvey on the road.

“What’s the matter?” Harvey asked. His voice came from a long way off.

She turned to him and tried to smile. “Nothing. Everything. I was just thinking.”

“You shivered. Are you cold?”

“No. Harvey… what about your boy? And Marie’s son?”

“They’re up there, somewhere. And I have to go look for them. I’ve been trying to get Hardy to let me, but he’s been too busy to talk to me. I’ll go without permission if I have to, but I’ll ask once more. I’ll try again tomorrow. No. Not tomorrow. There’s something else tomorrow.”

“The Roman place.”

“Yes.”

“You’re in that?”

“Mark and I seem to have drawn the lucky numbers. With Mr. Christopher and his brother. And Al Hardy. And a few others, I guess.”

“Will there be shooting?” Are you going to be killed?

“Maybe. They shot at Harry. They killed that other man, the one from the dude ranch.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked.

“Terrified. But it’s got to be done. And when it is, I’ll ask Hardy to let me take Mark up to the mountains.”

She didn’t ask him if he had to go. She knew better than that. “Will you come back?”

“Yes. Do you want me to?”

“Yes. But… but I’m not in love with you.”

“That’s all right,” he said. He chuckled. “After all, we hardly know each other. Will you ever be in love with me?”

“I don’t know.” I don’t dare let myself be. “I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone.” There’s no future in it. There’s no future at all.

“You will,” he said.

“Let’s not talk about it.”

There is rain in the Sahara. Lake Chad fills to overflowing, and engulfs the city of Nguigmi. The Niger and the Volta are in flood, drowning millions who have survived the tsunami. In eastern Nigeria the Ibo tribe rises in rebellion against the central government.

Further to the east the Palestinians and Israelis suddenly realize there are no great powers capable of intervening; this time the war will go to a conclusion. The remants of Israel, Jordan, Syria and Saudi Arabia are on the march. There are no jet planes, and little fuel for tanks. There will be no ammunition resupply, and the war will not end until it is fought with knives.

Second Week: Mountain Men

Water poured from the sky. Harvey Randall was almost past noticing, as he hardly noticed the places where the road was gone. It was automatic to avoid the deepest holes, to walk carefully across the mud that flowed in rivers across the blacktop. It felt good to be moving, to stride up the steep winding road into the High Sierra. There were no cars and no people; only the road. He had food, and a knife, and the target pistol. Not much food, and not much ammunition, but he was lucky to have anything at all.

“Hey, Harv, how about we take a break?” Mark called from behind him.

Harvey kept on walking. Mark shrugged and muttered something under his breath, and shifted the shotgun from his right shoulder to his left. He carried the weapon barrel down under his poncho. The weapon was kept dry, but Mark didn’t believe he was dry anywhere. He’d sweated enough that he might as well not have the poncho. It felt like a steam bath inside the rain gear.

Harvey picked his way across a rivulet of water. So far he hadn’t found anyplace that he couldn’t have taken the TravelAll, and he cursed the Senator and his hardnosed assistant; but he did that silently. If he said anything, Mark would agree, and Mark was in enough trouble with Al Hardy. One of these days Mark would get himself shot, or thrown out of the Senator’s Stronghold, and Harvey Randall would have a decision to make.

Meanwhile he could put all his effort into walking uphill. Step. Pause for a tiny fraction of a second, rear knee locked to catch an instant of rest; weight on the forward foot, swing on another step, another instant of rest… Absently Harvey reached into a belt pouch and took out a chunk of dried meat. Bear. Harvey had never eaten bear before. Now he wondered if he’d ever eat anything else. Well, by evening they’d be a good nine miles from the Stronghold, and anything they shot they could keep and eat for themselves. The Senator’s rules again: no hunting within five miles of his ranch.

It made sense. The game would be needed, later, and no point in scaring it away. All of the Senator’s rules made sense, but they were rules, laid down without discussion, orders issued from the big house with nobody to say no except the Christophers, and they weren’t arguing. Not yet, anyway.

It was George Christopher who’d let Harvey go; Hardy hadn’t wanted to risk it. Not that he cared about Harvey, but the weapons and the food Harvey carried were valuable. But Maureen had talked to Hardy, and then George Christopher had come out and given Harvey the supplies and told him about road conditions.

Not a coincidence. Harvey was sure of that. Christopher had no reason at all to help Harvey Randall — and he’d got into the act the day Maureen talked to Al Hardy and her father about it; the day she’d shown any open friendship with Harvey Randall. That made too much sense to ignore.