Lucifer's Hammer

A three-story building had lost its east face; the glass and brick had disintegrated, spilling outward across the parking lot and side street almost as far as where Tim Hamner had been lying. A chunk with part of a bay window in it had dropped through the passenger section of Hamner’s car. Gasoline ran from it in a spreading pool.

From somewhere he heard screams. He tried to shut them out. He couldn’t think of anything to do. Then the riot spilled around the corner.

It was led by three men in white robes. They were not screaming; they were panting, and saving all their breath for it. The screaming came from those behind them, and not from those in the lead.

One of the robed ones screamed at last. “Help! Please!” he screamed at Tim Hamner and ran toward him.

The mob pursued. They were looking at Tim Hamner, all those eyes at once, and he thought, They’ll believe I’m with them! Then a worse thought: I could be recognized. As the man who invented the Hammer…

Time was too short to consider the idea. Tim reached into the trunk and brought out the portable tape unit. The robed youth ru

Insulted and betrayed, the man swiped at the microphone and ran past him. The other two fugitives, and most of the mob, had continued on down the street — toward the dead end, and of course that was a pity. Some burly types ran past Tim, chasing the robed man into the broken building. One stopped, panting, and looked at Tim.

Hamner lifted the microphone again. “Sir? Have you any idea how all this happened?”

“Hell, yes… buddy. Those sons of bitches… those Wardens blocked us off just as we… were taking off for Big Bear. They were… going to stop the comet by praying. Didn’t… work, and they… trapped us here, and we’ve… already killed about… half of the motherfuckers.”

It was working! Somehow nobody ever thinks of killing a newsman. Too vividly public, maybe: The whole world is watching. Other rioters had stopped, were crowding around, but not as if they were waiting their turn to kill Tim Hamner. They were waiting for a chance to speak.

“Who you with?” one demanded.

“KNBS,” Tim said. He fumbled in his pockets for the press-card Harvey Randall had given him. There it was. Tim flashed it, but kept his thumb over the name.

“Can you get a message out?” the man demanded. “Send for—”

Tim shook his head. “This is a recorder, not a remote unit. The rest of the crew will be here soon. I hope.” He turned back to the first man. “How are you pla

“Don’t know. Walk out, I guess.” He seemed to have lost interest in the fleeing Wardens.

“Thank you, sir. Would you mind signing…” Tim brought out a stack of NBS release forms. The big man stepped back as if they’d been scorpions. He looked thoughtful for a second.

“Forget it, buddy.” He turned and walked away. Others followed, and the whole crowd melted away, leaving Tim alone by the ruins of his car.

Hamner put the press card into his shirt pocket, adjusting it so that the big lettering, PRESS, was visible, but his name wasn’t. Then he put the recorder’s strap over his shoulder. He also carried the microphone and a stack of release forms. It was all heavy and awkward, but it was worth it. He did not laugh.

Alameda was filled with horrors. A woman dressed in an expensive pant-quit was jumping up and down on a lumpy white robe. Tim looked away. When he looked back, there were more people swarming around him. They carried bloody tire irons. A man swung toward him, swung an enormous handgun toward Tim’s navel. Tim pointed the microphone at him. “Excuse me, sir. How did you manage to get trapped in this mess?” The man cried as he told his tale…

There was someone at Tim’s elbow. Hamner hesitated, not wanting to look away; the man with the gun was still talking, tears of rage ru

Who the devil was that? Someone reaching for the release forms—

Eileen! Eileen Hancock? Tim held the microphone motionless as Eileen stepped briskly to his side. He let her take the release forms.

“Okay, Chief, I’m here,” she said. “Bit of trouble back there…”

Tim almost fainted. She wasn’t going to blow his cover, thank God she had brains for that. Tim nodded, his eyes still fixed on his interview subject. “Glad you got here,” Tim said from the corner of his mouth, speaking low as if worried about ruining the interview. He did not smile.

“…and if I see another of the sons of bitches I’ll kill him too!”

“Thank you, sir,” Tim said gravely. “I don’t suppose you’d care to sign—”

“Sign? Sign what?”

“A release form.”

The gun swung up to point at Tim’s face. “You bastard!” the man screamed.

“Anonymous subject,” Eileen said. “Sir — you do know there’s a newspersons’ shield law in California, don’t you?”

“What—”

“We can’t be forced to reveal our sources,” Eileen said. “You don’t need to worry. It’s the law.”

“Oh.” The man looked around. The other rioters had gone, somewhere, and it was raining. He looked at Tim, and at Eileen, and at the gun in his hand. There were more tears. Then he turned and walked away. After a few steps he ran.

Somewhere a woman screamed, short and sharp. The background noise was screams and moans and thunder, thunder always, and very near. A brisk wind had risen. Two men were atop an intact car with a shoulder-carried television camera. No way to tell how long they’d been there, but they were all alone on an island of privacy. And so were Tim and Eileen.

“Rioters are publicity-shy,” Tim said. “Glad to see you. I’d forgotten you work around here.”

“Worked,” Eileen said. She pointed toward the ruins of Corrigan’s. “I don’t suppose anyone will be selling plumbing supplies…”

“Not from Burbank,” Tim said. “I am glad to see you. You know that, don’t you? What do we do now?”

“You’re the expert.”

Lightning crackled nearby. The hills of Griffith Park were aflame with blue flashes.

“High ground,” Tim said. “And fast.”

Eileen looked puzzled. She pointed at the lightning.

“That might hit us,” he agreed. “But we’ve a better chance out of this river valley. Feel the rain? And there may be…”

“Yes?”

“Tidal wave,” Tim said.

“Jesus. It’s real, isn’t it? This way, then. Up into the Verdugo Hills. We can hike across. How much time do we have?”

“I don’t know. Depends on where it hit. They hit, probably,” Tim was surprised at how calm his voice was.

Eileen began walking. East on Alameda. The route led toward the head of the traffic jam, where the huddled bodies of the Wardens lay. As they got near, a car roared off through the intersection, into a filling station beyond, then onto the sidewalk. It squeezed through between a wall and a telephone pole, scraping paint off the right side.

The car that had been behind it was now clear, and it was unlocked. Keys dangled in the ignition. Eileen waved Tim toward it. “How good a driver are you?” she demanded.

“Okay.”

“I’ll drive,” she said firmly. “I’m damned good at it.” She got into the driver’s seat and started the car. It was an elderly Chrysler, once a luxury car. Now the rugs were worn and it had ugly stains on the seat covers. When the motor turned over with a steady purr, Tim thought it the most beautiful car he’d ever seen.

Eileen took the route of the previous car. They drove over a white robe, bump; she didn’t slow. The space between the telephone pole and the wall was narrow, but she went through it at speed, twenty miles an hour anyway, without worrying about it. Tim held his breath until they were through.