Lucifer's Hammer

Mud had piled along the high side of the truck, level with the wheels. Harry shouldered the bag and started uphill. He felt his footing shift, and he sprinted uphill.

Behind him the trees bowed before the weight of truck and shifting mud. Their roots pulled free, and the truck rolled, gathering speed.

Harry shook his head. This was probably his last circuit; Wolfe wouldn’t like losing a truck. Harry started up the uneasy mud slope, looking about him as he went. He needed a walking stick. Presently he found a tilted sapling, five feet long and supple, that came out of the mud by its loosened roots.

Marching was easier after he reached the road. He was going downhill, back from the long detour to the Adamses’. The heavy mud washed off his boots and his feet grew lighter. The rain fell steadily. He kept looking upslope, alert for more mudslides.

“Five pounds of water in my hair alone,” he groused. “Keeps my neck warm, though.” The pack was heavy. A hip belt would have made carrying it easier.

Presently he began to sing.

I went out to take a friggin’ walk by the friggin’ reservoir, a-wishin’ for a friggin’ quid to pay my friggin’ score, my head it was a-achin’ and my throat was parched and dry, and so I sent a little prayer, a-wingin’ to the sky.

He topped the slight rise and saw a blasted transmission tower. High-tension wires lay across the road. The steel tower had been struck by lightning, perhaps several times, and seemed twisted at the top.

How long ago? And why weren’t the Edison people out to fix it? Harry shrugged. Then he noticed the telephone lines. They were down too. He wouldn’t be calling in from his next stop.

There was the Millers’ gate. He couldn’t see anyone. There were no fresh ruts in their drive. Harry wondered if they’d gone out last night. They certainly hadn’t made it out today. He sank into deep mud as he went up the long drive toward the house. They wouldn’t have a phone, but maybe he could bum a cup of coffee, even a ride into town.

No one answered his knock at the Millers’ front door. The door stood slightly ajar. Harry called in, loudly, and there was still no answer. He smelled coffee.

He stood a moment, then fished out two letters and a copy of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, pushed the door open and went inside, mail held like an ambassador’s passport. He sang loudly:

He left the mail on the front-room table where he usually piled stuff on Trash Day, then wandered toward the kitchen, led by the smell of coffee. He continued to sing loudly, lest he be shot as an intruder.

There was coffee! The gas stove was working, and there was a big pot of coffee on it, and three cups set out. Harry poured one full. He sang in triumph:

He found a bowl of oranges, resisted temptation for a full ten seconds, then took one. He peeled it as he walked on through the kitchen to the back door, out into the orange groves behind. The Millers were natives. They’d know what was happening. And they had to be around somewhere.

“Ho, Harry!” a voice called. Somewhere to his right. Harry went through heavy mud and orange trees.

Jack Miller and his son Roy and daughter-in-law Cicelia were harvesting tomatoes in full panic. They’d spread a large tarp on the ground and were covering it with everything they could pick, ripe and half green. “They’ll rot on the ground,” Roy puffed. “Got to get them inside. Quick. Could sure use help.”

Harry looked at his muddy boots, mailbag, sodden uniform. “You’re not supposed to stay me,” he said. “It’s against government regulations…”

“Yeah. Say, Harry, what’s going on out there?” Roy demanded.

“You don’t know?” Harry was appalled.

“How could we? Phone’s been out since yesterday afternoon. Power out. No TV. Can’t get a damned thing — sorry, Cissy. Get nothing but static on the transistor radio. What’s it like in town?”

“Haven’t been to town,” Harry confessed. “Truck’s dead, couple miles toward the Gentry place. Since yesterday. Spent the night in the truck.”

“Hmm.” Roy stopped his frantic picking for a moment. “sissy, better get in and get to ca

“Well…”

“I’ll drive you and put in a good word,” Cissy said.

The Millers carried some weight in the valley. The Wolf might not fire him for losing the truck if he had a good word. “I can’t get in any quicker by walking,” Harry said. “It’s a deal.” He set to work.