Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [170]
And they thought alike, though Ray thought more slowly. Now he saw it: thousands of strangers spread across the land like a locust plague, in all sizes and shapes and ages—college professors, social workers, television actors and game-show moderators and writers, brain surgeons, architects of condominiums, fashion designers, and the teeming hordes of the forever unemployed … all landless people without jobs or skills or tools or homes. Like locusts, and locusts could be fought. But what about the children? Strangers could be turned away, but children?
"So what do we do?" Ray asked finally.
"If they don't get here, they can't cause problems," George said. He eyed the hills above the road. "If about a hundred tons of rock and mud came down on the road just up ahead, nobody'd get into the valley. Not easy, anyway."
"Maybe we should pray for a hard rain," Ray said. He looked out at the driving rain pouring from the sky.
George gripped the wheel tightly. He believed in prayer and he didn't like hearing his brother's mocking tone. Not that Ray meant anything. Ray went to church too, sometimes. About as often as George did. But you couldn't pray for something like that.
All those people. And they'd all die, and dying they'd take George's people with them. He pictured his little sister, thin, belly protruding, last stages of starvation, the way those kids had looked in 'Nam. A whole village of kids trapped in the combat zone, nobody to look out for them, no place to go until the ranger patrol came looking for Cong and found the kids. Suddenly he knew he couldn't see that again. He couldn't think about it.
"How long you reckon that dam will last?" Ray asked. "Uh—why are you stopping?"
"I brought a couple of sticks of forty percent," George said. "Right up there." He pointed to a steep slope above the road. "Two sticks there, and nobody'll use this road for awhile."
Ray thought about it. There was another road up from the San Joaquin, but it didn't show on gas station maps. A lot of people wouldn't know about it. With the main highway out, maybe they'd go somewhere else.
The truck came to a complete stop and George opened the door. "Coming?"
"Yeah, I guess," Ray said. He usually went along with George. He had since their father had died. The other two brothers, and their cousins and nephews, usually did too. George had made a big success out of his ranch. He'd brought in a lot of new ideas and equipment from that agricultural college. George usually knew what he was doing.
Only I don't like this, Ray thought. Don't like it at all. Don't guess George does much either, but what can we do? Wait until we have to look 'em in the eye and turn them away?
They climbed the steep bank behind the truck. Rain poured onto them, finding its way inside their slickers, under the brims of their hats and down their necks. It was warm rain. It drove hard, and Ray thought about the hay crop. That timothy was ruined already. What the hell would they feed the stock, come winter?
"About here, I think," George said. He scrabbled at the base of a medium-size rock. "Bring this down, it ought to drop a lot of the mud above it onto the road."
"What about Chief Hartman? And Dink Latham's already gone down to Porterville … "
"So they find the road's out when they come back," George said. "They know the other way." He reached into his pocket and took out a bulky styrofoam case. It held five detonators, each in its own fitted compartment. George took one out, put it onto the end of a fuse, crimped it with his teeth and used his penknife to poke a hole in a dynamite stick. He pushed the detonator into the stick and shoved it into the hole. "No primacord," he said. "Have to put both sticks in the same hole. I think this'll do it." He tamped wet mud down into the hole he'd scooped, covering the dynamite. Only the fuse end protruded.
Ray turned his back to the wind and hunched low over a cigarette. He flicked the wheel of his Zippo until it caught and got the