Larry Niven - Lucifer's Hammer

“I need a new leg.”

Jellison tried not to look surprised, but he wasn’t successful. And I thought I’d heard ’em all, he thought. “Have a seat.” Jellison glanced at his watch. “It’s after six…”

“I know I’m taking up your valuable time.” Saunders’s voice was belligerent.

“Wasn’t thinking about my time,” Arthur Jellison said. “Being it’s after six, we can have a drink. Want something?”

“Well… yes, please, sir.”

“Fine.” Jellison got up from the ornate wooden desk and went to the ancient cabinet on the wall. The building wasn’t that old, but the cabinets looked as if they might have been used by Daniel Webster, who was reputed not to wait until six. Senator Jellison opened the cabinets to reveal a huge stock of liquor. Nearly every bottle had the same label.

“Old Fedcal?” the visitor asked.

“Sure. Don’t let the labels fool you. That’s Jack Daniels bourbon in the black bottle. The rest of ’em are top brands, too. Why pay brand prices when I can get it from home a lot cheaper? What’ll you have?”

“Scotch.”

“Right here. I’m a bourbon man myself.” Jellison poured two drinks. “Now tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s the VA.” Saunders poured out his story. This would be his fourth artificial leg. The first one the Veterans Administration gave him had fit fine, but it had been stolen, and the next three didn’t fit at all, they hurt, and now the VA wasn’t going to do anything about it.

“Sounds like a problem for your representative,” Jellison said gently.

“I tried to see the Honorable Jim Braden.” The young man’s voice was bitter again. “I couldn’t even get an appointment.”

“Yeah,” Jellison said. “Excuse me a second.” He took a small bound book from a desk drawer. “HAVE AL LOOK INTO PRIMARY OPPOSITION FOR THAT SON OF A BITCH,” he wrote. “THE PARTY DON’T NEED CREEPS LIKE THAT, AND THIS AIN’T THE FIRST TIME.” Then he drew a memo pad toward him. “Better give me the names of the doctors you’ve been dealing with,” he said.

“You mean you’ll really help?”

“I’ll have somebody look into it.” Jellison wrote the details on the memo pad. “Where’d you get hit?”

“Khe Sanh.”

“Medals? It helps to know.”

The visitor shrugged. “Silver Star.”

“And Purple Heart, of course,” Jellison said. “Want another drink?”

The visitor smiled and shook his head. He looked around the big room. The walls were decorated with photographs: Senator Jellison at an Indian reservation; Jellison at the controls of an Air Force bomber; Jellison’s children, and staff, and friends. “I don’t want to take any more of your time. You must be busy.” He got up carefully.

Jellison saw the visitor to the door. Carrie had to unlock it. “That’s the last,” she said.

“Fine. I’ll stick around awhile. Send Alvin in, and you can go home — oh, one thing. See if you can get me Dr. Sharps at JPL first, will you? And call Maureen to tell her I’ll be a little late.”

“Sure.” Carrie grinned to herself as the Senator went back into his office. Before she finally left he’d have nine other last-minute items. She was used to it. She looked into the staff rooms on the other side of her office. Everyone was gone except Alvin Hardy. He always waited, just in case. “He wants you,” Carrie said.

“So what else is new?” Al went into the big office. Jellison was sprawled out in his judge’s chair, his jacket and narrow striped tie laid across the desk, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down. A big glass of bourbon sat next to the bottle. “Yes, sir?” Al said.

“Couple of things.” He handed Al the memo. “Check this story out. If it’s true, I want a medium-size fire built under those people. Let ’em save money on their goddamn salaries, not cheating a Silver Star vet out of a leg that fits.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then you can take a look at Braden’s district. Seems to me the Party ought to have a bright young chap in there. I mind a city councilman—”

“Ben Tyson,” Al said helpfully.

“That’s his name. Tyson. Think he could beat Braden?”

“He might. With your help.”

“Look into it. I’ve about had it with Mr. Braden being so goddam busy saving the world he hasn’t got time to look after his constituents.” Senator Jellison wasn’t smiling at all.

Al nodded. Braden, he thought, you’re dead. When the boss gets in that mood—

The intercom buzzed. “Dr. Sharps,” Carrie said.

“Right. Don’t go, Al. I want you to hear this. Charlie?”

“Yes, Senator?” Dr. Sharps said.

“How’s the launch going?” Jellison asked.

“Everything’s fine. It would be even better if I didn’t have every VIP in Washington calling me to ask about it.”

“Goddammit, Charlie, I went out on a long limb for you. If anybody’s got a right to know, it’s me.”

“Yes. Sorry,” Sharps said. “Actually, things are better than we expected. The Russians are helping a lot. They’ve got a big booster, and they’re taking up a lot of consumables they’ll share with our team. Lets us take up more science packages. For once we’ve got a division of labor that makes sense.”

“Good. You won’t ever know how many favors I used up getting that launch for you. Now tell me again how valuable all this is.”

“Senator, it’s about as valuable as we can get — given what we’re doing. It’s not going to cure cancer, but we’ll sure learn a lot about planets and asteroids and comets. Also, that TV fellow, Harvey Randall, wants you in his next documentary. He seems to think the network ought to thank you for getting this launch.”

Jellison looked up at Al Hardy. Hardy grinned and nodded vigorously. “They’ll love us in L.A.,” Al said.

“Tell him I like it,” Jellison said. “Any time. Have him check with my assistant. Al Hardy. You got that?”

“Right. Is that all, Art?” Sharps asked.

“Nooo.” Jellison drained the whiskey glass. “Charlie, I keep getting people in here who think that comet’s going to hit us. Not crazies. Good people. Some of ’em with as many degrees as you have.”

“I know most of them,” Sharps admitted.

“Well?”

“What can I say, Art?” Sharps was quiet for a moment. “Our best projected orbit puts that comet right on top of us—”

“Jesus,” Senator Jellison said.

“But there’s several thousand miles’ error in those projections. And a miss by a thousand miles is still a miss. It can’t reach out and grab us.”

“But it could hit.”

“Well… this isn’t for publication, Art.”

“Didn’t ask for it for publication.”

“All right. Yes. It could hit us. But the odds are against it.”

“What kind of odds?”

“Thousands to one.”

“I recall you said billions to one—”

“So the odds have narrowed,” Sharps said.

“Enough so we ought to be doing something about it?”

“How could you? I’ve spoken with the President,” Sharps said.

“So have I.”

“And he doesn’t want to panic anybody. I agree. It’s still thousands to one against anything happening at all,” Sharps insisted. “And a complete certainty that a lot of people will get killed if we start making preparations. We’re already getting crazy things. Rape artists. Nut groups. People who see the end of the world as an opportunity—”

“Tell me about it,” Jellison said dryly. “I told you, I saw the President too, and he’s got your opinion. Or you’ve got his. I’m not talking about warning the public, Charlie, I’m talking about me. Where will this thing hit, if it does?”

There was another pause.