Lucifer's Hammer Read online

  “…nothing new about the idea,” his wife was saying. “Science fiction writers have been talking about big space colonies for decades.” She was tall and very black, and she wore her hair in the tiny braids called cornrows. Delanty could remember when she straightened her hair.

  “For that matter, Heinlein wrote about them,” Gloria Delanty said. She looked to Rick for confirmation, but he was busy at the grill, and remembering his wife when they were both students in Chicago.

  “It is new,” said a member of a very exclusive club. Evan had been to the Moon—almost. He’d been the man who stayed in the Apollo capsule. “O’Neill has worked out the economics of building these giant space colonies. He’s proved we can do it, not just tell stories.”

  “I like it,” Gloria said. “A family astronaut project. How do we sign up?”

  “You already did,” Jane Ritchie said. “When you married the test pilot there.”

  “Oh, are we married?” Gloria asked. “I wonder. Evan, can’t you people in the training office ever manage to keep a schedule?”

  John Baker came out of the house. “Hey, Rickie! I thought I had the wrong house. There wasn’t any sign of action from out front.”

  There was a chorus of greetings, warm from the men who hadn’t seen Colonel John Baker since he went off to Washington, not so warm from the women. Baker had done it: got divorced after his mission. It happened to a lot of the astronauts, and having him back in Houston set the others to wondering.

  Baker gave them all a wave, then sniffed. “Do I get one of those?”

  “I’ll take your order, sir, but unless there’s a cancellation…”

  “Why is it you never serve fried chicken?”

  “I’m afraid of being stereotyped. Because I’m—”

  “Black,” Johnny Baker said helpfully.

  “Eh?” Rick looked at his hands in apparent dismay. “No, that’s just hamburger grease.”

  “So who are they picking for the big comet-watching flight?” Evan demanded.

  “Damned if I know,” Baker said. “Nobody in Washington’s talking.”

  “Hell, they’re sending me,” Rick Delanty said. “I have it on good authority.”

  Baker froze with his beer half opened. Three other men nearby stopped talking, and the wives held their breath.

  “I went to a fortune-teller in Texarkana, and she—”

  “Jesus, give me her name and address, quick!” said Johnny. The others smiled as if hurt and went back to talking, Johnny whispered, “That was a terrible thing to do,” and giggled.

  “Yeah,” Rick said without shame. He began turning the hamburgers with a long-handled spatula. “Why won’t they tell us earlier? They’ve had a dozen of us training for weeks, and still no word. And this’ll be the last flight for anyone until they finish the Shuttle. Six years I’ve been on the list, and never been up. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

  He set the spatula down. “I wonder, and then I remember Deke Slayton.”

  Baker nodded. Deke Slayton was one of the original Seven, one of the first astronauts to be chosen, and he never went up until the Apollo-Soyuz handshake in space. Thirteen years before a space mission. He was as good an astronaut as anyone, but he was better in ground jobs. Training, mission control; too good on the ground. “I wonder how he stood it,” Johnny Baker said.

  Rick nodded. “Me too. But I am the world’s only black astronaut. I keep thinking that’s got to be worth something.”

  Gloria came over to the grill. “Hi, Johnny. What are you two talking about?”

  “What,” Jane shouted from near the beer cooler, “do astronauts always talk about when there’s a mission planned?”

  “Maybe they’re waiting for the right moment,” Johnny Baker said. “Race riots. Then they can send up a black man to prove we’re all equal.”

  “Not funny,” Gloria said.

  “But as good a theory as any,” Rick told her. “If I knew how NASA picks one man over another, I’d be on every mission. What the hell brings you back from the five-sided funny farm, anyway?”

  “Orders. Start training again. I’m in the pool for Hammer-watch.”

  “Hmm.” Rick poked at one of the burgers. Almost done. “And wouldn’t that do it,” he said. “Two in a row. You’d have a first.”

  Baker shrugged. “I don’t know how it works either. Never have understood how I got on the Skylab—”

  “You’d be a good one,” Rick said. “Experience in space repair work. And this thing’s being cobbled up fast, no time for all the tests. It makes sense.”

  Gloria nodded, and so did the others, who weren’t quite listening to them. Then they went back to their conversations. Johnny Baker hid his expression of relief by draining the Coors. If it made sense to them, it probably made sense to the Astronaut Office at Houston. “I do bring some word from Washington, though. Not official, but the straight stuff. The Russians are sending up a woman.”

  Odd, how the silence spread in a growing circle.

  “Leonilla Malik. An M.D., so we don’t have to take a doc.” Johnny Baker raised his voice for a wider audience. “It’s definite, the Russians are sending her up, and we’ll dock with their Soyuz. My source is confidential, but reliable as hell.”

  “Maybe,” said Drew Wellen, and he was the only one talking, “maybe they think they have something to prove.”

  “Maybe we do too,” someone said.

  Rick felt it like a soft explosion in his belly. Nobody had promised him anything at all, but he knew. He said, “Why is everybody suddenly staring at me?”

  “You’re burning the hamburgers,” said Johnny.

  Rick looked down at the smoking meat. “Burn, baby. Burn,” he said.

  ■

  At three in the morning Loretta Randall followed strange sounds into the kitchen.

  Yesterday’s newspaper was spread across the middle of the kitchen floor. Her largest rectangular cake pan was in the middle, and was filled with a layer of flour. Flour had sprayed across the newspaper and beyond its edges. Harvey was throwing things into the cake pan. He looked tired, and sad. Loretta said, “My God, Harvey! What are you doing?”

  “Hi. The maid’s coming tomorrow, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, of course, it’s Friday, but what will she think?”

  “Dr. Sharps says that all craters are circular.” Harvey posed above the cake pan with a lug nut in his fingers; he let it drop. Flour sprayed. “Whatever the velocity or the mass or the angle of flight of a meteor, it leaves a circle. I think he’s right.”

  The flour was scattered with shelled peas and bits of gravel. A paperweight had left a dinner-plate-size circle now nearly obliterated by smaller craters. Harvey backed away, crouched, and hurled a bottle cap at a low angle. Flour sprayed across the paper. The new crater was a circle.

  Loretta sighed with the knowledge that her husband was mad. “But, Harvey, why this? Do you know what time it is?”

  “But if he’s right, then…” Harvey glanced at the globe he had brought from his office. He had outlined circles in Magic Marker: the Sea of Japan, the Bay of Bengal, the arc of islands that mark the Indies Sea, a double circle within the Gulf of Mexico. If an asteroid strike had made any one of those, the oceans would have boiled, all life would have been cremated. How often had life begun on Earth, and been scalded from its face, and formed again?

  If he could explain succinctly enough, Loretta would lie awake in terror until dawn. “Never mind,” he said. “It’s for the documentary.”

  “Come to bed. We’ll clean this up in the morning, before Maria gets here.”

  “No, don’t touch it. Don’t let her move it. I want photographs…from a lot of angles…” He leaned groggily against her, their hips bumping as they returned to bed.

  April: Two

  No one knows how many objects ranging in size from a few miles in diameter downward may pass near the Earth each year without being noticed.

  Dr. Robert S. Richardson
<
br />   Hale Observatory, Mount Wilson

  Tim Hamner was waiting by the TravelAll when Harvey came out of the studio building. Harvey frowned. “Hello, Tim. What are you doing out here?”

  “If I go inside, it’s a sponsor calling, and that’s a big deal, right? I don’t want a big deal. I want a favor.”

  “Favor?”

  “Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Harvey eyed Tim’s expensive suit and tie. Not really appropriate for the Security First. He drove to the Brown Derby. The parking attendant recognized Tim Hamner, and so did the hostess; she led them in immediately.

  “Okay, what’s it about?” Harvey asked when they had a booth.

  “I liked being out at JPL with you,” Hamner said. “I’ve sort of lost control of my comet. Nothing I can do the experts can’t do better, and the same with the TV series. And it is your series. But…” Tim paused to sip his drink. He wasn’t used to asking for favors, especially from people who worked for him. “Harvey, I’d like to come along on more interviews. Unpaid, of course.”

  Oh, shit. What happens if I tell him it can’t be done? Will he talk to his agency? I sure as hell don’t need a test of strength just now. “It’s not always so exciting, you know. Right now we’re doing man-in-the-street interviews.”

  “Aren’t those pretty dull?”

  “They can be. But sometimes you get pure gold. And it doesn’t hurt to check in with the viewers now and then.” And I work my way, goddammit!

  “What are you looking for? Can you use much of it?”

  Harvey shrugged. “I won’t throw away good film—but that’s not the point. I want attitudes. I want the unexpected. If I knew what I was after, I could have someone else do it. And…”

  “Yeah?” Tim’s eyes narrowed in the dim light. He’d seen a funny expression on Randall’s face.

  “Well, there are strange reactions I don’t understand. They started after Johnny called it the Hammer—”

  “Damn him!”

  “And they’ll probably get stronger after we air the Great Hot Fudge Sundae strike. Tim, it’s almost as if a lot of people wanted the end of the world.”

  “But that’s ridiculous.”

  “Maybe. But we’re getting it.” Ridiculous to you, Harvey thought. Not so ridiculous to a man trapped in a job he hates, or a woman forced to sleep with a slob of a boss to keep her job…“Look, you’re the sponsor. I can’t stop you, but I insist on making the rules. Also, we start early in the mornings—”

  “Yeah.” Tim drained his glass. “I’ll get used to it. They say you can get used to hanging if you hang long enough.”

  ■

  The TravelAll was crammed full of gear and people. Cameras, tape equipment, a portable field desk for paper work. Mark Czescu had trouble finding a place to sit. Now there were three in back, since Hamner claimed the front seat. Mark was reminded of trips out to the desert with the dedicated bike racers: motorcycles and mechanic’s equipment braced with care, riders shoved in as afterthought. As he waited for the others to come out of the studio building, Mark turned on the radio.

  An authoritative voice spoke with the compelling quality of the professional orator. “And this Gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come. When ye therefore see the abomination of desolation spoken of by Daniel the prophet stand in the holy place: then let them which be in Judea flee into the mountains.” The voice quality changed, from reader to preacher. “My people, have you not seen what is now done in the churches? Is this not that abomination? ‘Whoso readeth, let him understand.’ And the Hammer approaches! It comes to punish the wicked.

  “‘For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world unto this time, no, nor ever shall be. And except those days be shortened, there should be no flesh saved.’”

  “Really lays it on,” a voice said behind Mark. Charlie Bascomb got into the TravelAll.

  “The Gospel has been brought to you by the Reverend Henry Armitage,” the radio announcer said. “The Voice of God is broadcast in every language throughout the world in obedience to the commandment. Your contributions make these broadcasts possible.”

  “Sure hear him a lot nowadays,” Mark said. “He must have a lot of new contributors.”

  They drove out into Burbank and parked near the Warner Brothers Studios. It was a good street: lots of shops, from hole-in-the-wall camera stores to expensive restaurants. People flowed along the wide avenue. Starlets and production people from the studios mingled with straight business types from insurance offices. Middle-class housewives parked station wagons and took to the streets. A famous TV personality who lived in nearby Toluca Lake strolled past. Mark recognized the ski-shaped nose.

  While the crew set up camera and sound equipment, Harvey took Tim Hamner into a restaurant for coffee. When everything was ready, Mark went inside. As he neared the booth he heard Randall speaking. Harvey’s voice had an edge that Mark recognized.

  “…whole purpose is to find out what they think. What I think, I hide in neutral questions and a neutral voice. What you think, you hide in silence. Clear?”

  “Absolutely,” Hamner drawled. He looked more awake than he had on the drive out. “So what do I do?”

  “You can look useful. You can help Mark with the release forms. And you can stay out of the way.”

  “I’ve got a good tape machine,” Hamner said. “I could—”

  “We couldn’t use anything you’ve got,” Randall said. “You’re not in the union.” He looked up and saw Mark, got the nod and left.

  Mark walked out with Hamner. “He gave me that same routine,” Mark said. “Really ate me out.”

  “I believe you. I think if I blew an interview for him he’d abandon me on the spot. And cabs home from here cost a lot.”

  “You know,” Mark said, “somehow I got the idea you were the sponsor.”

  “Yup. That Harv Randall is one tough mother,” Hamner said. “Have you been in this business very long?”

  Mark shook his head. “Just temporary, just working for Harv. Maybe one day I’ll do it permanently, but you know how the TV business is. It’d cut into my freedom.”

  There was smog in Burbank. “I see Hertz has reclaimed the mountains,” Hamner said.

  Mark looked up in surprise. “How’s that?”

  Hamner pointed northward where the San Fernando Valley horizon faded into a brown smear. “Sometimes we keep mountains up there. I even have an observatory on one of them. But I guess Hertz Rent-A-Mountain has taken them back today.” They reached the TravelAll. The cameras were set up, ready to zoom in for close-ups or pan out for a wide view. Harvey Randall had already stopped a muscular man in hard hat and work clothes; he looked out of place among the shoppers and business types.

  “…Rich Gollantz. We’re putting up the Avery Building over there.”

  Harvey Randall’s voice and manner were intended to get the subjects talking; his questions could be filmed again if they were needed on camera. “Have you heard much about the Hamner-Brown Comet?”

  Gollantz laughed. “I don’t spend as much time thinking about comets as you might expect.” Harvey smiled. “But I did see the ‘Tonight Show’ where they said it could hit the Earth.”

  “And what did you think about that?” Harvey asked.

  “Buncha…crap.” Gollantz eyed the camera. “Same kind of thing people are always saying. Ozone’s gone, we’ll all die. And remember ’sixty-eight, when all the fortune-tellers said California was going to slide off into the sea, and the crazies took to the hills?”

  “Yes, but the astronomers say that if the head of the comet hit, it would cause—”

  “Ice age,” Gollantz interrupted. “I know about it. I saw that thing in Astronomy magazine.” He grinned and scratched under the yellow metal helmet. “Now that’d really be something. Think about all the new construction projects we’d need. And the Welfare boys could
pass out polar bear furs instead of checks. Only, somebody’d have to shoot bears for them. Maybe I could get that job.” Gollantz grinned widely. “Yep, it might be fun. I wouldn’t mind trying life as a mighty hunter.”

  Harvey dug for more. The interview wasn’t likely to produce usable film, but that wasn’t its purpose. Harvey was fishing, with the camera as bait. The network didn’t approve of this method of research. Too expensive, too crude, and unreliable, they said. They got that opinion straight from the motivational-research outfits that wanted NBS to hire them.

  A few more questions. Science and technology. Gollantz was enjoying being on camera. Had he heard about the Apollo shot to study the comet, and what did he think of that?

  “Love it. Be a good show. Lots of good pictures, and it’ll cost me less than I paid for Rose Bowl tickets, I guarantee you that. Hey, I hope they let Johnny Baker go up again.”

  “Do you know Colonel Baker?”

  “No. Wish I did. Love to meet him. But I saw the pictures of him fixing Skylab. Now that was construction work. And when he got back down, he sure gave those NASA bastards hell, didn’t he? Hey, I got to be moving. We got work to do.” He waved and moved off. Mark chased him with a release form.

  “Sir? Moment of your time?”

  The young man walked with his head down, lost in thought. He was not bad-looking, but his face was curiously wooden. He showed a flash of anger when Randall interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?”

  “We’re talking with people about Hamner-Brown Comet. May I have your name?”

  “Fred Lauren.”

  “Have you any thoughts on the comet?”

  “No.” Almost reluctantly he added, “I watched your program.” Muscles knotted at Fred Lauren’s jaws, in a manner that Harvey recognized. Some men go through life perpetually angry. The muscles that clamp their jaws and grind their teeth are very prominent.

  Harvey wondered if he had found a mental patient. Still…“Have you heard there’s a chance the head of the comet might hit the Earth?”

  “Hit the Earth?” The man seemed stunned. Abruptly he turned and walked away striding rapidly, much faster than he’d approached.