Lucifer's Hammer

“So what do I do with all the kids, and all the campers? With all these people? How do I feed them?”

You don’t, Tim thought, but he didn’t say that. “Food warehouses. Cattle ranches. Anyplace there’s food, until you can plant more crops. It’s June. Some of the crops should have survived.”

“North,” the ranger said to himself. “There are ranches in the hills above Grapevine. North.” He looked up at Tim. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. North, I guess.”

“Can you take some of the kids?”

“I suppose so, but we don’t have anything to eat—”

“Who does?” the ranger demanded. “Maybe you ought to stay with us. We can all move out together.”

“There’s probably a better chance for small groups than large ones. And we don’t want to stay with you,” Tim said. He didn’t want to be bothered with kids, either, but there was no way to refuse.

Besides, it was the right thing to do. He’d read it somewhere: In any ethical situation, the thing you want least to do is probably the right action. Or something like that.

The ranger went off and came back a few minutes later with four young children, ages six and under. They were clean and well dressed, and very frightened. Eileen packed them into the back of the Blazer, then got in the back seat, where she’d be close to them.

The ranger gave Tim a page torn from his notebook. There were names and addresses on it. “This is who the kids are.” His voice fell. “If you can find their parents…”

“Yeah,” Tim said. He started the Blazer. It was the first time he’d ever driven it. The clutch was very stiff.

“My name’s Eileen,” she was saying in the back. “And that’s Tim.”

“Where are we going?” the girl asked. She seemed very small and helpless, but she wasn’t crying. The boys were. “Are you taking us to my mommy?”

Tim glanced at the paper. Laurie Malcolm, sent to a church camp by her mother. No father mentioned. Mother’s address: Long Beach. Lord, what could they tell her?

“Can we go home?” one of the boys asked before Eileen could say anything.

How do you tell a six-year-old that his home has been washed away? Or a little girl that her mommy is—

“We’re going up that hill,” Eileen said. She pointed toward the mountain nearby. “When we get there, we’ll wait for your mommy—”

“But what happened?” the boy asked. “Everybody was so scared. Reverend Tilly didn’t want us to know it, but he was.”

“It was the comet,” Laurie told him solemnly. “Did it hit Long Beach, Eileen? Can I call you Eileen? Reverend Tilly says you aren’t supposed to call grown people by their first names. Ever.”

Tim turned off onto the side road leading up to the observatory. Long ago he’d had the old dirt road improved with logs and gravel and concrete in the worst places. The mud was thick, but the Blazer had no trouble. It wouldn’t be long now. Then they’d have food, and they could stop ru

The Blazer was no longer new and shiny. It was scratched along the sides from rockslides, and there was mud everywhere. It took the muddy road like a freeway, climbing over fallen rock, wading through deep pools. Tim had never had a car like this. It made him feel he could go anywhere.

And it had taken them home. Around one more bend. One more bend and they’d be safe…

The concrete building stood unharmed. So did the wooden garage outside it. The shed roof of the garage sagged, leaning at an angle, but not so much that anyone but Tim would notice. The telescope dome was closed, and the shutters were in place on all the windows of the main building.

“We’re here!” Tim shouted. He had to shout. Eileen had the children singing in the back seat. “There’s a hair on the wart on the…”

“There it is! Safe! At least for a while.”

The song cut off raggedly. “It looks all right,” Eileen said. There was wonder in her voice. She hadn’t expected to see the place intact. Somewhere after Tujunga she’d given up hoping for anything at all.

“Sure, Marty’s competent,” Tim said. “He’s got the shutters up, and the…” His voice trailed off.

Eileen followed Tim’s look. There were two men coming out of the observatory. Older men, about fifty. They carried rifles. They watched as Tim brought the Blazer to a halt in front of the big concrete porch. The rifles were held cradled in their arms, not quite pointing at the Blazer, not pointed away either.

“Sorry, chum, no room,” one of the men called. “Best move on. Sorry.”

Tim stared at the strangers, letting his rage gather strength. He let them have it between the eyes. “I’m Tim Hamner. I own this place. Now who’re you?”

They didn’t react at all.

A younger man came out onto the porch.

“Marty!” Tim screamed. “Marty, tell them who I am!” And when I learn what these strangers are doing here (he didn’t say) I’ll have words with you, Marty.

Marty smiled broadly. “Larry, Fritz, this is Mr. Timothy Gardner Allington Hamner, playboy, millionaire — oh, yes, and amateur astronomer. He owns this place.”

“Think of that,” Fritz said. The rifle didn’t waver.

One of the boys began to cry. Eileen pulled him toward herself and hugged him. The other children watched with big eyes.

Tim opened the door of the Blazer. The rifles moved fractionally. Tim ignored them and got out. He stood in the dusky twilight. Rain soaked his clothing and ran down the back of his neck. He walked toward the porch.

“Better not,” one of the riflemen, the one called Larry, said.

“The hell with you,” Tim said. He climbed the steps onto the porch. “I am not going to shout at you and scare the children.”

The men did nothing, and for a moment Tim felt courage. Maybe… was it all a joke? He looked at Marty Robbins. “What’s happening here?”

“Not here,” Marty said. “Everywhere.”

“I know about Hammerfall. What are these people doing at my place?” A mistake, Tim realized instantly. Too late.

“It’s not your place,” Marty Robbins said.

“You can’t get away with this! There are rangers down there. They’ll be here as soon as they can get—”

“No they won’t,” Robbins said. “No rangers, no Army, no National Guard, no police. You’ve got good radio equipment here, Mr. Hamner.” He said the “Mister” contemptuously. “I heard the last Apollo messages, and the rest of it, too. I heard what the rangers told each other. You don’t own this place, because nobody owns anything anymore. And we don’t need you.”

“But…” Tim examined the other two men. They didn’t look like criminals. How the hell do you know what a criminal looks like? Tim wondered. But they didn’t. Their hands were clean, rough, like workmen’s hands, not like Marty Robbins’s hands. Or Tim’s. One of the men had broken a nail off close and it was just growing back.

They wore gray trousers, work clothes. There was a label on Fritz’s pants. “Big Smith.” “Why are you doing this?” Tim asked them. He ignored Robbins now.

“What else can we do?” Larry asked. There was pleading in his voice, but the rifle was held steady, pointing somewhere between Tim and the Blazer. “There’s not a lot of food here, but some. Enough for awhile. We have families here, Mr. Hamner. What can we do?”

“You can stay. Just let us—”

“But don’t you see, we can’t let you stay,” Larry said. “What can you do here, Mr. Hamner? What are you good for now?”

“How the hell do you know what I can—”

“We discussed this before,” Fritz growled. “Didn’t think you’d get here, but we talked about what to do if you did. And this is it. Get out. You’re not needed.”

Marty Robbins couldn’t meet Tim’s eye. Tim nodded bleakly. He understood. There wasn’t a lot more to say, either. Any equipment — radios, even astronomical and meteorological gear — Robbins knew how to work as well as Tim did. Better. And Robbins had lived here for over a year. If there was anything special to know about these mountains, he’d know more of it than Tim.