Lucifer's Hammer

The hot dry wind known as the Santa Ana blew across the Los Angeles hills, clearing the city of smog. Lights glittered and danced in the early darkness. Harvey Randall, his wife, Loretta, beside him, drove his green Toronado with the windows open, relishing the summer weather in January. When they arrived at the Sutter place he turned the car over to the red-jacketed attendant, and paused while Loretta adjusted her smile before moving through the big front doors.

They found the usual mob scene for a Beverly Hills party. A hundred people were scattered among the little tables, and another hundred in clumps; a mariachi group in one corner played gay background music and the singer, deprived of his microphone, was still doing pretty well telling everyone about the state of his corazon. They greeted their hostess and parted: Loretta found a conversation, and Harvey located the bar by searching out the thickest cluster of people. He collected two gin and tonics.

Bits of conversation ricocheted around him. “We didn’t let him on the white rug, you see. So the dog had the cat ‘treed’ in the middle of the rug and was pacing sentry duty around the perimeter…”

“…was this beautiful young chick one seat ahead of me on the plane. A real knockout, even if all I could see was her hair and the back of her head. I was thinking of a way to meet her when she looked back and said, ‘Uncle Pete! What are you doing here?’ ”

“…man, it’s helped a lot! When I call and say it’s Commissioner Robbins, I get right through. Haven’t had a customer miss a good option since the Mayor appointed me.”

They stuck in his mind, these bits and pieces of story. For Harvey Randall it was an occupational hazard of the TV documentary business; he couldn’t help listening. He didn’t want to, really. People fascinated him. He would have liked to follow up some of these glimpses into other minds.

He looked around for Loretta, but she was too short to stand out in this crowd. Instead he picked out high-piled hair of unconvincing orange-red: Brenda Tey, who’d been talking to Loretta before Harvey went to the bar. He made for that point, easing past shoals of elbows attached to drinks.

“Twenty billion bucks, and all we got was rocks! Those damn big rockets, billions of dollars dropped into the drink. Why spend all that money out there when we could be—”

“Bullshit,” said Harvey.

George Sutter turned in surprise. “Oh. Hello, Harv… It’ll be the same with the Shuttte. Just the same. It’s all money thrown down the drain—”

“That turns out not to be the case.” The voice was clear, sweet and penetrating. It cut right through George’s manifesto, and it couldn’t be ignored. George stopped in midsentence.

Harvey found a spectacular redhead in a green one-shoulder party gown. Her eyes met his when he looked at her, and he looked away first. He smiled and said, “Is that the same as bullshit?”

“Yes. But more tactful.” She gri

A woman’s breast and shoulder rubbed playfully against Harvey’s arm. That had to be Loretta, and it was. He handed her her drink. His own was half gone. When Loretta started to speak he gestured her silent, a little more rudely than he usually did, and ignored her look of protest.

The redhead knew her stuff. If careful reason and logic could win arguments, she won. But she had a lot more: She had every male’s eye, and a slow southern drawl that made every word count, and a voice so pure and musical that any interruption seemed stuttered or mumbled.

The unequal contest ended when George discovered that his drink was empty and, with visible relief, broke for the bar.

Smiling triumph, the girl turned toward Harvey, and he nodded his congratulations.

“I’m Harvey Randall. My wife, Loretta.”

“Maureen Jellison. Most pleased.” She frowned for half a second. “I remember now. You were the last U.S. newsman in Cambodia.” She shook hands, formally, with Harvey and Loretta. “And wasn’t your newscopter shot down over there?”

“Twice,” Loretta said proudly. “Harvey brought his Air Force pilot out. Fifty miles of enemy lines.”

Maureen nodded gravely. She was fifteen years younger than the Randalls, and seemed very self-possessed. “So now you’re here. Are you natives?”

“I am,” Harvey said. “Loretta’s from Detroit—”

“Grosse Pointe,” Loretta said automatically.

“—but I was born in L.A.” Harvey could never quite bring himself to tell Loretta’s half-truth for her. “We’re scarce, we natives.”

“And what do they have you doing now?” Maureen asked.

“Documentaries. News features, mostly,” Harvey said.

“I know who you are,” Loretta said in some awe. “I just met your father. Senator Jellison.”

“That’s right.” Maureen looked thoughtful, then gri

Harvey frowned. The name seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Why?”

Loretta said, “Hamner? A young man with a frightening grin?” She giggled. “He’s a teensy bit drunk. He wouldn’t let anyone else talk. At all. He owns half a comet.”

“That’s him,” Maureen said. Her smile made Loretta feel part of a conspiracy.

“He also owns a lot of soap,” Harvey said.

It was Maureen’s turn to look blank.

“I just remembered,” Harvey said. “He inherited the Kalva Soap Company.”

“May be, but he’s prouder of the comet,” Maureen said. “I don’t blame him. Dear old Dad could have been President once, but he’s never come close to discovering a comet.” She sca

Harvey felt Loretta tugging at his arm, and reluctantly looked away from Maureen. When he looked back someone else had snared her. He went to fetch another pair of drinks.

As always, Harvey Randall drank too much and wondered why he came to these parties. But he knew; Loretta saw them as a way to participate in his life. She didn’t enjoy his field trips. The one attempt to take her on a hike with their son had been a disaster. When she went with him on location she wanted to stay in the best hotels, and if she dutifully came to the small bars and gathering places Harvey preferred, it was obvious that she was working hard to hide her unhappiness.

But she was very much at home at parties like this one, and tonight’s had been especially good. She even managed a private conversation with Senator Jellison. Harvey left her with the Senator and went to find more drinks. “Light on the gin, Rodriguez. Please.”

The bartender smiled and mixed the drink without comment. Harvey stood with it. Tim Hamner was alone at one of the little tables. He was looking at Harvey, but the eyes were dreamy; they saw nothing. And that smile. Harvey made his way across the room and dropped into the other chair at the table. “Mr. Hamner? Harvey Randall. Maureen Jellison said I should say ‘Comet.’ ”

Hamner’s face came alight. The grin broadened, if that were possible. He took a telegram out of his pocket and waved it. “Right! The sighting was confirmed this afternoon. Hamner-Brown Comet.”

“You skipped a step.”

“She didn’t tell you anything? Well! I’m Tim Hamner. Astronomer. Well, not professional, but my equipment’s professional. And I work at it — anyway. I’m an amateur astronomer. A week ago I found a smear of light not far from Neptune. A dim smear. It didn’t belong there. I kept looking at it, and it moved. I studied it long enough to be sure, and then I reported it. It’s a new comet. Kitt Peak just confirmed it. The IAU is naming it after me — and Brown.”