Lucifer's Hammer

“That’s for sure.” Bambridge tried to imagine it. An asteroid strike in some remote part of the Soviet Union — would they believe it wasn’t a U.S. sneak attack? Or why remote? Moscow! “But if we’ve gone to alert status, they’ll know it, and it’ll give ’em that much more reason to think we did it,” Bambridge said.

“Sure. And if we haven’t gone to alert, and they see this as a golden opportunity? If the Hammer hits, Washington may be gone, Tom. Washington, New York, most of the eastern seacoast.”

“Shit. All we’d need would be a war on top of that,” Bambridge said. “If the Hammer really does hit, the world is going to be in a big enough mess without starting the Big One to go with it. But if it hits us and not them, they’ll want to finish the job. It’s what I’d do, if I was them.”

“But you wouldn’t—”

“Not from this office,” Bambridge said. “Not even if I got orders that I’ll never, thank God, get.” The General stared at the missile models on the far wall. “Look, what I can do is see that my best people are on duty. Put my top men in the holes, and I’ll be up in Looking Glass myself. But how do I tell a meteor hit from a missile attack?”

“I think you’ll know,” Jellison said.

Outside was night and glory. In the Apollo capsule Rick Delanty was moored to his couch. His eyes were tightly closed and he lay rigid, fists clenched. “All right, dammit. I’ve been sick ever since we came up. But don’t tell Houston. There’s nothing they could do anyway.”

“You damn fool, you’ll starve,” Baker told him. “Hell, it’s no disgrace. Everybody gets space sickness.”

“Not for a whole week.”

“You know better. MacAlliard was sick the whole mission. Not as bad as you, but he had help. And I’m getting Dr. Malik.”

“No!”

“Yes. We haven’t got time for macho pride.”

“That’s not it and you know it.” Delanty’s voice was pinched. “She’ll report it. And—”

“And nothing,” Baker said. “We’re not going to scrub this mission just because you keep puking up your guts.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah. They can’t abort unless I say so. And I won’t. Unless—”

“Unless nothing,” Delanty said. “That’s the whole point. Good God, Joh

“Why?” Baker demanded.

“Because I’m—”

“A gentleman of color?”

“Black. Try to remember.” He tried to grin. “All right, get the lady doc. Something’s got to help. Mothersills, maybe?”

“Best thing is to keep your eyes closed.”

“Which I’m doing, and a fat lot of help I am,” Delanty said. His voice was bitter. “Me, old Iron Ear, space-sick. It’s insane.” He realized Baker had left, and nervously began buttoning up his fly.

The official name was “sustained duty clothing.” Everyone else would have called them long johns. Or a union suit. What the well-dressed spaceman will wear. It’s a very practical costume, but Rick Delanty couldn’t quite hide his nervousness: He wasn’t used to having women see him in his underwear. Especially not white women.

“Man, will the old boys in the back towns in Texas go nuts over this,” he muttered. …

“What is this you have not reported?” Her voice was sharp, totally professional, and blew away any residual thoughts Rick Delanty might have had. She came into the capsule and unclipped a lead from Rick’s union suit. She plugged it into a thermometer readout. The other end of the lead went inside the long johns and up inside Rick Delanty. All astronauts became gun-shy about their anuses — not that it did them any good.

Leonilla said, “Have you eaten anything at all?” She read the thermometer and made a note.

“Nothing that stays down.”

“So you are dehydrated. We will try these, first. Chew this capsule. No — do not swallow it whole. Chew it.”

Rick chewed. “Jesus Christ, what is this stuff? That’s the nastiest—”

“Swallow, please. In two minutes we will try a nutrient drink. You need hydration and nourishment. Do you often fail to report illnesses?”

“No. I thought I could make it.”

“In every space mission approximately one-third of the perso

He drank. It was thick and tasted of oranges. “Not bad.”

“It is based on American Tang,” Leonilla said. “I have added fruit sugars and a vitamin solution. How do you feel? No, do not look at me. It is important that this stay down. Keep your eyes closed.”

“It’s not too bad, this way.”

“Good.”

“But I’m no damned use with my eyes closed! And I’ve got to—”

“You’ve got to rehydrate and stay alive so the rest of us can stay here,” Leonilla said.

Delanty felt something cold on his forearm. “What—”

“A sleeping injection. Relax. There. You will sleep for several hours. During that time I will give you an intravenous. Then when you are awake we can try other drugs. Good-night.”

She went back into the main Hammerlab compartment. There was room in the center of it now; the equipment had been stowed in proper places, and much of the styrofoam packing had been ejected out into space.

“Well?” John Baker demanded. Pieter Jakov asked the same thing, in Russian.

“Bad,” she said. “I think he has not kept water in his system for at least twenty-four hours. Possibly longer. His temperature is thirty-eight point eight. Badly dehydrated.”

“So what do we do?” Baker asked.

“I think the drugs I have given him will keep the drink down. I gave him nearly a liter, and he showed no signs of distress. Why did he not tell us before?”

“Hell, he’s the first black man in space. He doesn’t want to be the last one,” Baker said.

“Does he think he is the only one under pressure to succeed?” Leonilla demanded. “He is the first black man in space, but the physiological differences between races are small compared to those between sexes. I am the second woman in space, and the first failed…”

“It is time for more observations,’; Pieter Jakov said. Leonilla, assist me. Or must you attend to your patient?”

With the gear properly stowed, there was still very little room to spare in Hammerlab. They had found ways to achieve some privacy: Delanty in the Apollo, Leonilla Malik m the Soyuz. Baker and Jakov traded off watchkeeping and slept in Hammerlab when they slept at all. With three to cover the work of four, there wasn’t a lot of time for sleep.

And Hamner-Brown was approaching. Tail-first it came, directly toward them, the tenuous gas that streamed from it already engulfing Earth and Moon and Hammerlab. They took hourly observations, visual, and daily went outside to gather samples of nothing: the thin vacuum of space, bottled to take back to Earth, where sensitive instruments could find a few molecules of a comet’s tail.

At first there was little to see. Only in the direction of the comet was it obvious that the tail was streaming across space to cover hundreds of millions of miles; but later, as it came closer, they could see it in any direction they looked.

When they weren’t watching the comet they could take observations of the Sun. There were another dozen experiments, in crystallography, in thin-film research, to occupy any spare time left from that.

It made for a busy day.

They hadn’t much privacy, but they had some. By mutual agreement and ship design, the personal facilities were in the spacecraft, not the lab capsule. For Baker and Delanty the system was simple enough: a tube to fit over their male members, with a tank to pee in. It flushed.

This time when Baker used the system he felt Delanty’s eyes on him.

“You’re supposed to be asleep. Not watching me piss.”

“You I’m not interested in. Joh