Lucifer's Hammer

“Thanks,” Harvey said. “They’ll appreciate that—”

“Hah. The conference is breaking up. Let’s go in and see Hizzoner until the crew gets up.” Kim led Harvey down the hall.

There were two offices. One was large, with expensive furniture and thick rugs. Flags hung on the walls, and there were trophies and plaques and framed certificates everywhere. Past the ornate formal outer office was a much smaller room, with an even larger desk. This desk was piled high with papers, reports, books, IBM print-outs, and memos. Some of the memos held large red stars. A few held two red stars, and one had three. The Mayor was just picking that one up when Kim and Harvey Randall came in.

He looks good, Randall thought as the Mayor read the memo. Los Angeles’ second black mayor. He’d kept to a wi

His mixed blood showed, and his education showed because he let it. Bentley Allen was not going to talk down to people. He didn’t need the political jobs; he was technically on leave from a tenure appointment on the faculty of a wealthy private university.

“Documentary, Mr. Randall?” Bentley Allen asked. He initialed the memo and put it in an OUT tray.

“No, sir,” Joh

“So what’s newsworthy about me tonight?” the Mayor asked.

“Fallout from the documentaries,” Harvey Randall said. “Network news, all networks. What are public officials doing on the day Hamner-Brown doesn’t hit Earth.”

“All networks?” Joh

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t have been a bit of pressure on that, would there?” Kim asked. “Like from an off-white house on Pe

“Might have been,” Harvey admitted.

“And what The Man wants is good vibes,” the mayor said. “Keep calm, cool and collected on Hot Fudge Sundae.”

“Which falls on a Tuesdae next week,” Harvey responded automatically. “Yes, sir—”

“So what if I screamed panic?” Mayor Allen asked. There was a gleam of amusement in his eye. “Or said, ‘Here’s your chance, brothers! Burn whitey out! Get yours, you’ll never get a better time’?”

“Aw, bullshit,” Harvey said. “I thought everybody wanted to be on the evening national news.”

“You ever get impulses like that?” Bentley Allen asked. “You know. Irresistible impulses to do the one thing that would put you in a new line of work? Such as spilling a martini down the dean’s wife’s dress? Which, I may add, I did once. Purely accidental, I assure you, but look where it got me.”

Now Harvey really did look worried, and Mayor Allen let the grin play across his face. “Needn’t worry, Mr. Randall. I like this job. Or another one, in a somewhat larger office back east…” He let his voice trail off. It was no secret that Bentley Allen would like to be the first black President; there were serious political managers who thought he could do it in another dozen years or so.

“I’ll be a good boy,” Mayor Allen said. “I’ll tell the people how we expect full attendance in all city offices, and I’ll be right here — well, literally here, but I’ll tell them there,” he added, pointing to the ornate office. “And I expect all my top people to set the same example. I may or may not say that I’ll have a color TV going, because I’m damned if I’m going to miss a show like that.”

“Business as usual with time off for a light show,” Harvey said.

The Mayor nodded. “Of course.” His face took on a serious look. “Privately, I’m a bit worried. Too many people taking off. Do you know that almost every U-Haul trailer in the city has been rented? By the week. And we’ve even had a big surge of requests for time off from my police and firefighters. Not granted, of course. All leaves canceled on Hot Fudge Sundae.”

“Worried about looting?” Harvey asked.

“Not enough to say so in public. But yes,” Mayor Allen said. “Looting and burglaries with all the homes that have been or will be abandoned. But we’ll handle it. If your crew is set up out there, we’d better get to it. I’ve a meeting with the director of Civil Defense in half an hour.”

They stood and went into the outer office.

The traffic on Beverly Glen was nice. Very light for a Thursday evening. Harvey drove with a wide grin. I’ve got a hell of a story, he thought. Even if I never get another foot in the can, I’ve got a story. Not only do millions think the world’s going to end, but millions more hope so. It shows in their attitudes. They hate what they’re doing, and keep looking nostalgically at the “simple” life. Of course they won’t voluntarily choose to be farmers or live in communes, but if everybody has to…

It didn’t really make sense, but people’s attitudes often didn’t. That didn’t bother Harvey Randall at all.

And there’d be another great story in follow-up. The day after the world didn’t end. That’s a good title for a book Harvey thought. Of course there’ll be a thousand novelists scrambling to beat each other into print. Books with titles like Chicken Little, and The Day the World Didn’t End (not as good as his title) and Rock, Won’t You Hide Me? Come to that, some of the radio stations were playing disaster-religious songs twenty-four hours a day, and end-of-the-world preachers were doing a land-office business.

There were also the Comet Wardens, a Southern California sect who were putting on white robes and praying the comet away. They’d staged a couple of stunts to get publicity, and about half their leaders were out on bail for blocking traffic or getting into the outfield during televised baseball games. That had stopped; a judge had ordered that no more be released on bail until next Wednesday…

Hell, I could write a book, Harvey thought. I ought to. I never wanted to before, but I’m literate, and I’ve done the research. I’m way ahead of the flock. The Day After the World Didn’t End. No. No good. Too long, for one thing. I can call mine Hammer Fever. And of course there’ll be plenty of publicity, we’ll have a show on the air just afterward.

I could even make some money on this. A lot of money. Enough to pay off the bills and take care of the tuition at Harvard School for Boys and…

Hammer Fever. I like it.

Only one problem. It’s real. Like a war scare.

He’d found that everywhere. Coffee, tea, flour, sugar, any staple capable of being hoarded, was in short supply. Freezedried foods were gone. Clothing stores reported runs on rain gear (in southern California, with the next rains due in November!). You couldn’t find outdoorsman’s clothing anywhere, no surplus hiking boots in the stores. And nobody was buying suits, white shirts, or neckties.

They were buying guns, though. There wasn’t a firearm to be bought in Beverly Hills or the San Fernando Valley. There wasn’t any ammunition, either.

Backpacking stores were sold out of everything from hiking boots to trail food to fishing equipment (more hooks than flies; you could still get dry flies, but only the expensive American-made ones, not the cheap ones from India). There weren’t any tents to be had, nor sleeping bags. There was even a run on life jackets! Harvey gri

Then there were the mail-order “survival packages” that had been sold for the past few weeks. They’d not be getting any more orders, of course, not this close to Hammerfall. Maybe — just maybe — they weren’t intending to deliver? Have to look into that. There were four companies selling them. For from fifty to sixteen thousand dollars you could get anything from just a food supply to the whole thing in one lump. The foods were nonperishable and constituted a more or-less-balanced diet. (Which religious sect was it that required all its members to keep a year’s supply of food? They’d been doing that since the Sixties, too. Harvey made another mental note. They’d be worth interviewing, after That Day had passed.)