“In a few days. Rely on it, they’re going up to look at Hamner-Brown.”
“I will be dipped in shit.”
“I beg your pardon, Senator?”
“I will be dipped in shit.”
“Oh.”
“You’re playing games with me, aren’t you, Charlie?” Jellison demanded.
“Not really. Look, Art, it’s important. And we need another manned mission anyway, just to keep up interest in space. You’ve been after a manned flight—”
“Yeah, but I had no chance of getting one.” There was more silence. Then Jellison said, more to himself than Sharps, “So the Russkis are going. And no doubt they’ll make a big deal of it.”
“I’m sure they will.”
Another silence. Charlie Sharps almost held his breath “Okay,” Jellison said. “I’ll nose around the Hill and see what kind of reactions I get. But you better be giving it to me straight.”
“Senator, in a week you’ll have unmistakable evidence.”
“All right. I’ll give it a try. Anything else?”
“Not just now.”
“Okay. Thanks for the tip, Charlie.” The phone went dead.
Abrupt he is, Sharps thought. He smiled thinly to himself, then punched the intercom button again. “Larry, I want Dr. Sergei Fadayev in Moscow, and yes, I know what time it is over there. Just get him on for me.”
The legend of Gilgamesh was a handful of unconnected tales spreading through the Earth’s Fertile Crescent in Asia… and the comet was nearly unchanged. It was still far outside the maelstrom. The orbit of the runaway moon called Pluto would have looked like a quarter held nearly on edge, at arm’s length. The Sun, an uncomfortably bright pin point, still poured far less heat across the comet’s crust than had the black giant at its worst. The crust was mostly water ice now; it reflected most of the heat back to the stars.
Yet time passed.
Mars swallowed its water in another turn of its long, vicious weather cycle. Men spread across the Earth, laughing and scratching. And the comet continued to fall. A breath of the solar wind, high-velocity protons, flayed its crust. Much of the hydrogen and helium in its tissues had seeped away. The maelstrom came near.
March: One
And the Lord hung a rainbow as a sign,
Won’t be water but fire next time.
Mark Czescu looked up at the house and whistled. It was California Tudor, off-white stucco with massive wood beams inset at angles. They’d be real wood. Some places, like Glendale, had the same style of house with plywood strips to fake it, but not Bel Air.
The house was large on a large lot. Mark rang the front door bell. Presently it was opened by a young man with long hair and pencil-thin mustache. He looked at Mark’s Roughrider trousers and boots and at the large brown cases Mark had set on the porch. “We don’t need any,” he said.
“I’m not selling any. I’m Mark Czescu, from NBS.”
“Oh. Sorry. You’d be surprised how many peddlers we get. Come on in. My name’s George, I’m the houseboy.” He lifted one of the cases. “Heavy.”
“Yeah.” Mark was busy looking around. Paintings. A telescope. Globes of Earth,’ Mars and the Moon. Glass statuary. Steuben crystal. Trip toys. The front room had been set up as for a theater party, couches facing the TV. “Must have been a bitch moving that stuff,” Mark said.
“Sure was. Here, put that in here. Anything tricky about it?”
“Not if you know video recorders.”
“I ought to,” George said. “I’m a drama student. UCLA. But we haven’t had that course yet. You better show me.”
“Will you be running it tonight?”
“Nah. I’ve got a rehearsal. Wild Duck. Good part. Mr. Hamner will do it.”
“Then I’ll show him.”
“You’ll have to wait, then. He’s not home yet. Want a beer?”
“That’d go nice.” Mark followed George to the kitchen. A big room, gleaming chrome and Formica everywhere; two double sinks, two gas ovens, two ranges. A large counter held trays of canapes covered with Saran Wrap. There was a desk and bookshelves which held cookbooks, the latest Travis McGee thrillers and Stanislavski’s An Actor Prepares. Only the thrillers and Stanislavski showed any signs of use. “I’d have thought Hamner would find himself an astronomy student—”
“Last guy here was,” George said. He got out beer. “They fought a lot.”
“So Hamner fired him.”
“No, he sent him up to his place in the mountains. Hamner likes to fight, but not when he’s at home. He’s easy to work for. And there’s color TV in my room, and I get to use the pool and sauna.”
“Hard to take.” Mark sipped at the beer. “This must be one swinging party pad.”
George laughed. “Like hell. The only parties are when I bring in a show cast. Or like tonight, relatives.”
Mark eyed George carefully. Pencil mustache. Actor’s fine features. What the hell, he thought. “Hamner gay or something?”
“Christ, no,” George said. “No, he just doesn’t go out much. I fixed him up with the second lead in our last show Nice girl, from Seattle. Hamner took her out a couple of times, then nothing. Irene said he was polite and a perfect gentleman until they were alone, then he leaped at her.”
“She should have leaped back.”
“That’s what I said, but she didn’t.” George cocked his head to one side. “That’s Mr. Hamner coming now. I recognize the engine.”
Tim Hamner went to the side door and into the small suite that he thought of as his home. It was the part of the house he felt most comfortable in although he used the whole place. Hamner didn’t like his house. It had been chosen by the family money managers for resale value, and it had that; it gave him plenty of space to display the things he’d collected; but it didn’t seem like a home.
He poured himself a short scotch and sank into an Eames chair. He put his feet up on the matching footstool. It felt good. He’d done his duty. He’d gone to a directors’ meeting and listened to all the reports and congratulated the company president on the quarterly earnings. Tim’s natural inclination was to let those who liked playing with money do it, but he’d had a cousin who lost everything that way; it never hurt to let money managers know you were looking over their shoulders.
Thinking of the meeting reminded him of the secretary at the office. She’d chatted pleasantly with Tim before the meeting, but she’d pleaded a date when he asked her for dinner for tomorrow. Maybe she did have a date. She was polite enough. But she’d turned him down. Maybe, he thought, maybe I should have asked her for next Friday. Or next week. But then if she said no there’d have been no doubt about why.
He heard George talking with someone out in the living room and wondered idly who it might be. George wouldn’t disturb him until he came out; that was one nice thing about this house, he could have this suite to himself. But then Tim remembered. That would be the man from NBS! With the cut scenes, the ones Tim had liked but hadn’t got into the documentary. He got up in enthusiasm and began changing clothes.
Penelope Wilson arrived about six. She had never answered to Penny, her mother had insisted. Tim Hamner, looking at her through the spy-eye in the door, suddenly remembered that she had given up Penelope too. She’d taken to using her middle name, and Tim couldn’t remember it.
Be brave. He threw the door wide and, letting his agony show, cried, “Quick! What’s your middle name?”
“Joyce. Hello, Tim. Am I the first?”
“Yes. You look elegant.” He took her coat. He had known her forever: since grade school, anyway. Penelope Joyce had gone to the same girls’ prep school as Tim’s sister and half a dozen girl cousins. She had been the homely one, with her wide mouth and too-square jaw and a figure best described as sturdy. In college she had begun to bloom.