“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.
“You’ve studied it, haven’t you?” Jellison demanded. “Or that crazy genius you keep around, uh, Forrester, he’s studied it. Right?”
“Yes.” The reluctance was plain in Sharps’s voice. “The Hammer has calved. If it does hit, it’s likely to be in a series of strikes. Unless the central head whams us. If that happens, don’t worry about preparations. There aren’t any.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” Sharps said. “That bad.”
“But if only part hits—”
“Atlantic Ocean, for sure,” Sharps said.
“Which means Washington…” Jellison let his voice trail off.
“Washington will be under water. The entire East Coast up to the mountains,” Sharps said. “Tidal waves. But it’s long odds, Art. Very long. Best guess is still that we get a spectacular light show and nothing more.”
“Sure. Sure. Okay, Charlie, I’ll let you get back to work. By the way, where’ll you be on That Day?”
“At JPL.”
“Elevation?”
“About a thousand feet, Senator. About a thousand feet. Goodbye.”
The connection went before Jellison could switch off the phone. Jellison and Hardy looked at the dead instrument for a moment. “Al, I think we want to be at the ranch. Good place to watch comets from,” Jellison said.
“Yes, sir—”
“But we want to be careful. No panic. If this gets a big play the whole country could go up in flames. I expect Congress will find a good reason for a recess that week, we won’t have to do anything about that, but I want my family out at the ranch, too. I’ll take care of Maureen. You see that Jack and Charlotte get there.”
Al Hardy winced. Senator Jellison had no use for his son-in-law. Neither did Al. It wouldn’t be pleasant, persuading Jack Turner to take his wife and children out to the Jellison ranch in California.
“May as well be hung for a sheep,” Jellison said. “You’re coming out with us, of course. We’ll need equipment. End-of-the-world equipment. Couple of four-wheel-drive vehicles—”
“Land Rovers,” Al said.
“Hell no, not Land Rovers,” Jellison said. He poured another two-finger drink. “Buy American, dammit. That comet probably won’t hit, and we sure as hell don’t want to be owning foreign cars after it goes by. Jeeps, maybe, or something from GMC.”
“I’ll look into it,” Al said.
“And the rest of it. Camping gear. Batteries. Razor blades. Pocket computers. Rifles. Sleeping bags. All the crap you can’t buy if—”
“It’s going to be expensive, Senator.”
“So what? I’m not broke. Get it wholesale, but be quiet about it. Anybody asks, you’re… what? You’re going along on a junket to Africa. There must be some National Science Foundation project in Africa—”
“Yes, sir—”
“Good. That’s what all this is for, if anybody asks. You can let Rasmussen in on the plot. Nobody else on the staff. Got a girl you want to take along?”
He really doesn’t know, Al thought. He really doesn’t know how I feel about Maureen. “No, sir.”
“Okay. I’ll leave it to you, then. You realize this is damn foolishness and we’re goin’ to feel awful silly when that thing has passed by.”
“Yes, sir.” I hope we are. Sharps called it the Hammer!
“There is absolutely no danger. The asteroid Apollo came within two million miles, very close as cosmic distances go, back in 1932. No damage. Adonis passed within a million miles in 1936. So what? Remember the panic in 1968? People, especially in California, took to the hills. Everyone forgot about it a day later — that is, everyone who hadn’t gone broke buying survival equipment that wasn’t needed.
“Hamner-Brown Comet is a marvelous opportunity to study a new kind of extraterrestrial body at comparatively — and I emphasize comparatively — close range, and that’s all it is.”
“Thank you, Dr. Treece. You have heard an interview with Dr. Henry Treece of the United States Geological Survey. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.”
The road ran north through groves of oranges and almond trees, skirting the eastern edge of the San Joaquin Valley. Sometimes it climbed over low hills or wound among them, but for most of the way the view to the left was of a vast flatland, dotted with farm buildings and croplands, crossed by canals, and stretching all the way to the horizon. The only large buildings visible were the uncompleted San Joaquin Nuclear Plant.
Harvey Randall turned right at Porterville and wound eastward up into the foothills. Once the road turned sharply and for a moment he had a view of the magnificent High Sierra to the east, the mountaintops still covered with snow. Eventually he found the turnoff onto the side road, and further down that was the unmarked gate. A U.S. Mail truck had already gone through, and the driver was coming back to close the gate. He was long-haired and elegantly bearded.
“Lost?” the mailman asked.
“Don’t think so. This Senator Jellison’s ranch?” Harvey asked.
The mailman shrugged. “They say so. I’ve never seen him. You’ll close the gate?”
“Sure.”
“See you.” The mailman went back to his truck. Harvey drove through the gate, got out and closed it, then followed the truck up the dusty path to the top of the hill. There was a white frame house there. The drive forked, the right-hand branch leading down toward a barn and a chain of connected small lakes. Granite cliffs reared high above the lakes. There were several orange groves, and lots of empty pastureland. Pieces of the cliff, weathered boulders larger than a California suburban house, had tumbled down into the pastures.