Lucifer's Hammer

“Yeah. I managed to forget I don’t know. I’D ask her, huh?”

“Sure. Do that. It’s a cinch I’m not go

“Me neither.” Joh

“I should be the only one with trouble?”

“How’re you getting along?”

“Pretty good.”

Two days later, Delanty was much better — but Baker didn’t have an answer.

He had just returned from taking a vacuum sample, and was alone with Jakov when Baker said, “I can’t stand it.”

“I beg your pardon?” the Russian said.

“Something bothering me. How does Leonilla take a leak in free fall?”

“This concerns you?”

“Sure. It’s not even idle curiosity. One reason we never sent women into space, the design boys couldn’t come up with proper sanitary facilities. Somebody suggested a catheter, but that hurts.” Jakov said nothing. “So how does she do it?” Joh

“That is a state secret. I’m sorry,” Pieter Jakov said. Could he be joking? It didn’t show. “It is time for a new series of solar observations. Will you help me with the telescope, please.”

“Sure.” I’ll ask Leonilla, Joh

“How you doing?” Baker asked.

“Fine,” Delanty said. “Does Houston know?”

“Not from me,” Baker said. “Maybe from Baikunyar. I don’t guess Jakov keeps much from his people. But why should they tell Houston?”

“I hate it,” Rick said.

“Sure you do. So what? You’ve proved whatever you needed to. You’re here, and we got the wings opened out. Christ, man, if you can do that kind of work while you’re sick, they ought to call you Ironman. You’ll be working tomorrow.”

“Yeah. You solve that problem that was bothering you?”

Baker shrugged. “No. I asked Pieter. ‘State secret,’ he said. State secret my ass.”

“Well, maybe we can find out. We’ve sure got enough cameras…”

“Sure. That’ll look good in the report. Two U.S. Air Force officers sneaking into the lady’s powder room with cameras. Well, I’ve got the watch. I’ll go wake up Comrade Brigadier. See you.” Joh

Baker swam toward the Russian’s bunk. In the maze of telescopes and cameras and growing crystals and x-ray detectors Jakov floated, lightly strapped to a nylon web. He was gri

Like he just gave somebody a hotfoot, Joh

State secret my ass.

June: Three

Then let them which be in Judaea flee into the mountains.

The outer receptionist was new, and she didn’t send Harvey Randall on into the big executive suite on the third floor of Los Angeles City Hall. Harvey didn’t mind. There were others waiting out there, and his crew wouldn’t be up with the cameras for a few minutes anyway. He was early for his appointment.

Harvey took a seat and indulged in his favorite game: people-watching. Most of the visitors were obvious. Vendors, political types, all there to see one of the deputy mayors or an executive assistant. One was different. She was in her twenties, and Harvey couldn’t tell if early or late twenties. She wore jeans and a flowered blouse, but they’d come from an expensive shop, not from The Gap. She stared frankly, and when Harvey looked at her she didn’t let her eyes drop in embarrassment. Harvey shrugged and crossed the room to sit next to her. “What’s so interesting about me?” he asked.

“I recognized you. You do TV documentaries. I’ll remember your name in a minute.”

“Fine,” Harvey said.

That did make her look away; but she turned back to him with half a smile. “All right. What is it?”

“You first.”

“Mabe Bishop.” Her accent was definitely native.

Harvey fished into his memories. “Aha. People’s Lobby.” “Right.” She didn’t change expressions, which was curious; most people would be pleased to have a national documentary reporter recognize their name. Harvey was still finding that surprising when she said, “You still haven’t told me.”

“Harvey Randall.”

“Now it’s my turn to say ‘aha.’ You’re doing the comet shows.”

“Right. How did you like them?”

“Terrible. Dangerous. Stupid.”

“You don’t mince words. Mind telling me why?” Harvey asked.

“Not at all. First, you’ve scared the wits out of fifty million halfwits—”

“I did not—”

“And they should be scared, but not of a damned comet! Comets! Signs in the heavens! Evil portents! Medieval crap, when there’s plenty to worry about right here on Earth” Her tones were full and bitter.

“And what should they be scared of?” Harvey prompted. He didn’t really want to know, and cursed himself the instant he said it. It was a reporter’s automatic question, but the trouble was, she’d sure as hell tell him.

She did. “Spray cans ruining the atmosphere, destroying ozone, causing cancer. A new atomic power plant in the San Joaquin Valley making radioactive wastes that will be around for half a million years! The big Cadillacs and Lincolns are burning m-megatons of gasoline. All these things that we’ve got to do something about, things we should be scared of, and instead everyone’s hiding in the root cellar afraid of a comet!”

“You’ve got a point,” Randall said. “Even if I don’t think all of those are good causes—”

“Oh, don’t you? And which ones aren’t?” she demanded. Her voice was full of hate, and readiness for attack.

My, my, Harvey thought. There were times when he wanted to take his reportorial objectivity, roll it tightly and stuff it in an anatomically uncomfortable place about the person of a pompous professor of journalism.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “The reason people are still burning gas in those big comfortable cars is that they can’t get enough electricity to run electric cars. They can’t get electricity because the air’s already full of crap from fossil fuel plants and we’re ru

“Huh?”

Harvey went back to the receptionist. “Tell Joh

Behind him Harvey could hear Mabe Bishop spluttering. It gave Harvey great satisfaction. He went over to the door that led into the executive suite and waited. In a second it buzzed. “Go right in, Mr. Randall,” the receptionist said. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting—”

“’Sall right,” Harvey mumbled. The door let him into a long hall. There were offices on both sides of it. An Oriental of indeterminate age, over thirty and under fifty, came out of one of them.

“Ho, Harv. How long did that quim keep you waiting?”

“Not long. How are you, Joh

“Pretty good. The Mayor’s got a conference ru

“Not really — the crew should be up pretty soon.”

“They’re coming up now,” John Kim said. He was Mayor Bentley Allen’s press secretary, speechwriter and sometimes political manager, and Harvey knew that Kim could be in Sacramento or Washington if he wanted to be; probably would be anyway, if he stayed on with Bentley Allen. “I sent down to have them come up the private elevator.”