Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [114]
Insulted and betrayed, the man swiped at the microphone and ran past him. The other two fugitives, and most of the mob, had continued on down the street—toward the dead end, and of course that was a pity. Some burly types ran past Tim, chasing the robed man into the broken building. One stopped, panting, and looked at Tim.
Hamner lifted the microphone again. "Sir? Have you any idea how all this happened?"
"Hell, yes … buddy. Those sons of bitches … those Wardens blocked us off just as we … were taking off for Big Bear. They were … going to stop the comet by praying. Didn't … work, and they … trapped us here, and we've … already killed about … half of the motherfuckers."
It was working! Somehow nobody ever thinks of killing a newsman. Too vividly public, maybe: The whole world is watching. Other rioters had stopped, were crowding around, but not as if they were waiting their turn to kill Tim Hamner. They were waiting for a chance to speak.
"Who you with?" one demanded
"KNBS," Tim said. He fumbled in his pockets for the press-card Harvey Randall had given him. There it was. Tim flashed it, but kept his thumb over the name.
"Can you get a message out?" the man demanded. "Send for—"
Tim shook his head. "This is a recorder, not a remote unit. The rest of the crew will be here soon. I hope." He turned back to the first man. "How are you planning to get out now?"
"Don't know. Walk out, I guess." He seemed to have lost interest in the fleeing Wardens.
"Thank you, sir. Would you mind signing … " Tim brought out a stack of NBS release forms. The big man stepped back as if they'd been scorpions. He looked thoughtful for a second.
"Forget it, buddy." He turned and walked away. Others followed, and the whole crowd melted away, leaving Tim alone by the ruins of his car.
Hamner put the press card into his shirt pocket, adjusting it so that the big lettering, PRESS, was visible, but his name wasn't. Then he put the recorder's strap over his shoulder. He also carried the microphone and a stack of release forms. It was all heavy and awkward, but it was worth it. He did not laugh.
Alameda was filled with horrors. A woman dressed in an expensive pant-suit was jumping up and down on a lumpy white robe. Tim looked away. When he looked back, there were more people swarming around him. They carried bloody tire irons. A man swung toward him, swung an enormous handgun toward Tim's navel. Tim pointed the microphone at him. "Excuse me, sir. How did you manage to get trapped in this mess?" The man cried as he told his tale …
There was someone at Tim's elbow. Hamner hesitated, not wanting to look away; the man with the gun was still talking, tears of rage running down his face, and his gun still pointed at Tim's navel. He looked earnestly into Hamner's eyes. Whatever he saw, he hadn't fired yet …
Who the devil was that? Someone reaching for the release forms—
Eileen! Eileen Hancock? Tim held the microphone motionless as Eileen stepped briskly to his side. He let her take the release forms.
"Okay, Chief, I'm here," she said. "Bit of trouble back there … "
Tim almost fainted. She wasn't going to blow his cover, thank God she had brains for that. Tim nodded, his eyes still fixed on his interview subject. "Glad you got here," Tim said from the corner of his mouth, speaking low as if worried about ruining the interview. He did not smile.
" … and if I see another of the sons of bitches I'll kill him too!"
"Thank you, sir," Tim said gravely. "I don't suppose you'd care to sign—"
"Sign? Sign what?"
"A release form."
The gun swung up to point at Tim's face. "You bastard!" the man screamed.
"Anonymous subject," Eileen said. "Sir—you do know there's a newspersons' shield law in California, don't you?"
"What—"
"We can't be forced to reveal our sources," Eileen said. "You don't need to worry. It's the law."
"Oh." The man looked around. The other rioters had gone, somewhere, and it was raining. He looked at Tim, and at Eileen, and at the gun in his hand. There were more tears. Then he turned