Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [153]
The men did nothing, and for a moment Tim felt courage. Maybe … was it all a joke? He looked at Marty Robbins. "What's happening here?"
"Not here," Marty said. "Everywhere."
"I know about Hammerfall. What are these people doing at my place?" A mistake, Tim realized instantly. Too late.
"It's not your place," Marty Robbins said.
"You can't get away with this! There are rangers down there. They'll be here as soon as they can get—"
"No they won't," Robbins said. "No rangers, no Army, no National Guard, no police. You've got good radio equipment here, Mr. Hamner." He said the "Mister" contemptuously. "I heard the last Apollo messages, and the rest of it, too. I heard what the rangers told each other. You don't own this place, because nobody owns anything anymore. And we don't need you."
"But … " Tim examined the other two men. They didn't look like criminals. How the hell do you know what a criminal looks like? Tim wondered. But they didn't. Their hands were clean, rough, like workmen's hands, not like Marty Robbins's hands. Or Tim's. One of the men had broken a nail off close and it was just growing back.
They wore gray trousers, work clothes. There was a label on Fritz's pants. "Big Smith."
"Why are you doing this?" Tim asked them. He ignored Robbins now.
"What else can we do?" Larry asked. There was pleading in his voice, but the rifle was held steady, pointing somewhere between Tim and the Blazer. "There's not a lot of food here, but some. Enough for awhile. We have families here, Mr. Hamner. What can we do?"
"You can stay. Just let us—"
"But don't you see, we can't let you stay," Larry said. "What can you do here, Mr. Hamner? What are you good for now?"
"How the hell do you know what I can—"
"We discussed this before," Fritz growled. "Didn't think you'd get here, but we talked about what to do if you did. And this is it. Get out. You're not needed."
Marty Robbins couldn't meet Tim's eye. Tim nodded bleakly. He understood. There wasn't a lot more to say, either. Any equipment—radios, even astronomical and meteorological gear—Robbins knew how to work as well as Tim did. Better. And Robbins had lived here for over a year. If there was anything special to know about these mountains, he'd know more of it than Tim.
"Who's the chick?" Robbins demanded. He took a large flashlight from his pocket and shined it toward the Blazer. It didn't help the visibility much. It showed raindrops falling, and the muddy car, and a glint of Eileen's hair. "One of your relatives? Rich bitch?"
You little bastard. Tim tried to remember his assistant as he'd known him. They'd quarreled when Marty lived in Bel Air with Tim, but it hadn't been serious, and Robbins was excellent at the observatory. Not a month ago, three weeks ago, Tim had written a letter recommending Robbins to the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff. I guess I really never knew …
"She can stay," Robbins was saying. "We're a woman short. She can stay. Not you. I'll go tell her—"
"You'll ask her," Larry said. "Ask. She can stay if she wants to."
"And me?"
"We're going to watch you drive away," Larry said. "Don't come back."
"There are some rangers out there," Marty Robbins said. "Maybe it's not such a good idea. Maybe we shouldn't let him have the car. That's a good car. Better than anything we have here—"
"Don't talk like that." Larry's voice dropped and he glanced behind at the door into the observatory
Tim frowned. Something was happening here, and he didn't understand it.
Eileen got out of the Blazer and came up onto the porch Her voice was wooden, exhausted. "What's wrong, Tim?"
"They say this isn't my place anymore. They're sending us away."
"You can stay," Marty said.
"You can't do this!" Eileen screamed.
"Shut up!" Larry shouted.
An ample woman came out of the observatory. She looked at Larry with a frown. "What is this?"
"Keep out of this," Larry said.
"Larry Kelly, what are you doing?" the woman demanded. "Who are these people? I know him! He was on the 'Tonight Show.' Timothy Hamner. This was your place, wasn't it?"
"It is my place."
"No," Fritz