Lucifer's Hammer, Part 1 of 2 by Niven Larry & Pournelle Jerry

Author:Niven, Larry & Pournelle, Jerry [Niven, Larry & Pournelle, Jerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780736645164
Amazon: 0736645160
Goodreads: 129287
Publisher: Books on Tape
Published: 1977-07-01T07:00:00+00:00

The Mailman: One

Everything that is called duty, the prerequisite for all genuine law and the substance of every noble custom, can be traced back to honor. If one has to think about it, one is already without honor,

Oswald Spengler, Thoughts

Harry Newcombe saw nothing of Hammerfall, and it was Jason Gillcuddy’s fault. Gillcuddy had imprisoned himself in the wilderness (he said) to diet and to write a novel. He had dropped twelve pounds in six months, but he could afford more. As for his isolation, it was certain that he would rather talk to a passing postman than write.

As the best coffee cup was to be found at the Silver Valley Ranch, so Gillcuddy, on the other side of the valley, made the best coffee. “But,” Harry told him, smiling, “I’d slosh if I let everyone feed me two cups. I’m popular, I am.”

“Kid, you’d better take it. My lease is up come Thursday, and Ballad’s finished. Next Trash Day I’ll be gone.”

“Finished. Hey, beautiful! Am I in it?”

“No, I’m sorry, Harry, but the damn thing was getting too big. You know how it is; what you like best is usually what has to go. But the coffee’s Jamaica Blue Mountain. When I celebrate—”

“Yeah. Pour.”

“Shot of brandy?”

“Have some respect for the uniform, if you…Well, hell, I can’t pour it out, can I.”

“To my publisher.” Gillcuddy raised his cup, carefully. “He said if I didn’t fulfill his contract he’d put out a contract on me.”

“Tough business.”

“Well, but the money’s good.”

A distant thunderclap registered at the back of Harry’s mind. Summer storm coming? He sipped at his coffee. It really was something special.

But there were no thunderclouds when he walked outside. Harry had been up before dawn; the valley farmers kept strange hours, and so did postmen. He had seen the pearly glow of the comet’s tail wrapping the Earth. Some of that glory still clung, softening the direct sunlight and whiting the blue of the sky. Like smog, but clean. There was a strange stillness, as if the day were waiting for something.

So it was back to Chicago for Jason Gillcuddy, until the next time he had to imprison himself to diet and write a novel. Harry would miss him. Jason was the most literate man in the valley, possibly excepting the Senator—who was real. Harry had seen him from a distance yesterday, arriving in a vehicle the size of a bus. Maybe they’d meet today.

He was driving briskly along toward the Adams place when the truck began to shake. He braked. Flat tire? Damage to a wheel? The road shuddered and seemed to twist; the truck was trying to shake his brains out. He got it stopped. It was still shaking! He turned off the ignition. Still shaking?

“I should have looked at that brandy bottle. Huh. Earthquake?” The tremors died away. “There aren’t any fault lines around here. I thought.”

He drove on, more slowly. The Adams farm was a long jog on the new route he’d planned to get him there early.

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