Lucifer's Hammer

“Whoa!” Mark cried. “Enter, O Prince. Welcome back, Harry, they’re getting worried about you up at the big house. Put your hands on the rail, Hugo, Spread your legs. You carrying heat?”

“You saw me unload the pistol,” Hugo said. “It’s in the waistband. And the kitchen knife. I need that for eating.”

“We’ll just put those in the bag,” Mark said. “You probably won’t be eating here. I won’t say goodbye, Hugo. I’ll see you on the way out.”

“Up your nose.”

Mark shrugged. “What happened to your truck, Harry?”

“They took it.”

“Somebody took your truck? Did you tell them who you were?” Mark was incredulous. “Hell, this means war. They were wondering whether to take a big force Outside. Now they’ll have to.”

“Maybe.” Harry didn’t seem as pleased as Mark thought he would.

Dan Forrester cleared his throat. “Mark, did Charlie Sharps get here all right? There would have been a couple of dozen people with him.”

“Was he coming here?”

“Yes. Senator Jellison’s ranch.”

“We never saw him.” Mark looked embarrassed. So did Harry. It must be common enough to them, Dan thought sadly: Someone never got somewhere, and the only question was, would the survivor make a scene?

Harry broke an uncomfortable silence.

“I’ve got a message for the Senator, and Dr. Forrester isn’t walking so good. Have you got transportation?”

Mark looked thoughtful. “Guess we’d better telegraph that request in,” he said. “Wait here. Watch the road for me, Harry, I’ll be right back.” Mark spread both hands wide and waved from his waist, making it look casual like a shrug so that Hugo Beck wouldn’t figure out that he was signaling, then went off into the bushes.

Dan Forrester watched with interest. He’d read his Kipling. He wondered if Hugo Beck had.

The sun was falling behind the mountains; golden light and violent reds showed beneath the edges of the cloud cover. Sunrises and sunsets had been spectacular since Hammerfall, and, Dan Forrester knew, they would be for a long time. When Tamboura blew up in 1814, the dust it sent into the sky kept sunsets brilliant for two years; and that was only one volcano.

Dan Forrester sat in the cab of the truck with the taciturn driver. Harry and Hugo Beck were in back under a tarpaulin. There was no other traffic on the road, and Forrester appreciated the compliment they’d paid him. Or was it for Harry? Perhaps both together were worth the gasoline when neither alone would have been. They drove through a light drizzle, and the truck heater felt good on Dan’s feet and legs.

There were no dead bodies. It was the first thing Dan noticed: nothing dead to be seen. The houses looked like houses, with someone living in every one of them. A few had sandbagged defenses, but there were many that had no signs of defenses at all. Strange, almost weird, that there should be a place where people felt safe enough to have glass windows without shutters.

And he saw two flocks of sheep, as well as horses and cattle. He saw signs of organized activity everywhere — newly cleared fields, some being plowed with teams of horses (no tractors that he could see), others still in process of clearing with men working to carry boulders and pile them into stone walls. The men generally had weapons on their belts, but not all of them were armed. By the time they came to the large driveway up to the big stone house, it had sunk in: For a few minutes, possibly for as much as a whole day, Dan Forrester was safe. He could count on living until dawn.

It was a strange feeling.

There were men waiting for them on the porch. They waved Dan Forrester on into the house without speaking to him. George Christopher jerked his thumb at Harry. “They need you inside,” he said.

“In a minute.” Harry helped Hugo Beck get down from the truck, then lifted off Forrester’s backpack. When he turned, George had his shotgun pointed at Hugo’s midsection.

“I brought him,” Harry said. “You must have heard that on the telegraph.”

“We heard about Dr. Forrester. Not this creep. Beck, you were put on the road. I sent you out myself. Didn’t I remember to say ‘Don’t come back’? I’m sure I did.”

“He’s with me,” Harry repeated.

“Harry, have you lost your mind? This scummy little thief isn’t worth—”

“George, if I have to start going around Christopher territory, the Senator will no doubt tell you any news he thinks you should hear.”

“Don’t push it,” George said; but the shotgun moved slightly, so it wasn’t pointed at anyone. “Why?”

“You can put him back on the road if you like,” Harry said. “But I think you should listen to him first.”

Christopher thought about it for a moment. Then he shrugged. “They’re waiting inside. Let’s go.”

Hugo Beck stood before his judges. “I came bringing information,” he said, too softly.

His judges were few. Deke Wilson, Al Hardy, George Christopher. And the others. It struck Harry as it had the rest: The astronauts looked like gods. Harry recognized Baker from his photograph on the cover of Time, and it wasn’t hard to know who the others were. The lovely woman who didn’t speak must be the Soviet kosmonaut. Harry burned to talk to her. Meanwhile, there were other things to be said.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Harry?” Al Hardy asked. His tone made it a sincere question, as if he were half certain that Harry had lost his mind. “You’re the information service. Not Beck.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I thought you should have this firsthand. It’s a little hard to believe.”

“And that I can believe,” George Christopher said.

“Don’t I get a seat?” Harry asked. Hardy waved him toward a chair and Harry settled back, wishing that Hugo would show more backbone. His behavior reflected on Harry. This reception wasn’t what Harry was used to, and it was Beck that caused it. No china cups and coffee. No shot of whiskey.

The balance of power was life and death at the Stronghold. One played the game well or stayed out of it. Harry tried to stay out of it, enjoy his utility without getting involved in local politics. This time he’d had to play. Had he seriously offended Christopher? And did he give a damn? It was strange, how Harry’s macho instincts had kicked in after Hammerfall.

“We put him on the road,” George Christopher was saying. “Him and that Jerry Owen, on my orders. Hell, even the Shire threw them out, and those scummy jerks tried to live by stealing off the rest of us, and Owen tried teaching communism to my ranch-hands! Beck comes back in over my dead body.”

There was a chuckle from the back of the room, from either Leonilla Malik or Pieter Jakov. No one paid any attention. There was nothing humorous in the situation, and Harry wondered if he’d gone too far. “While you’re discussing Hugo Beck, Dr. Forrester is about dead on his feet,” Harry said. “Can you do something for him, or does it depend on getting Beck settled first?”

Al Hardy didn’t look away from the center of the room, where Christopher was glaring at Beck. “Eileen,” he called. “Take Dr. Forrester out to the kitchen and take care of him.”

“Right.” Eileen came in; she must have been standing in the hall. She led Dan Forrester out. The astrophysicist followed woodenly, clearly about to pass out from exhaustion.

Hugo Beck licked his thick lips. “I’ll settle for a meal,” Hugo said, sweating. “H-hell, I’d settle for a stale soda cracker. I just want to know you’re still here.”

That earned him puzzled looks. “We’re here,” said Al Hardy. “Have you got information or not? I haven’t wakened the Senator yet, and he wants to talk to Harry.”

Hugo gulped. “I’ve been with the bandits. The New Brotherhood Army.”

“Son of a bitch,” Deke Wilson said.

“How long?” Al Hardy demanded. He was suddenly alert. “Did you learn anything?”

“Or,” Christopher asked, “did you just run the first chance you got?”