Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [192]
And the man in the remains of a good suit, polite and speaking good English, who'd been a city councilman out in the valley there, and who'd got out of his car, got close to Al and showed the pistol hidden in his raincoat pocket.
"Put your hands up."
"Sure you want it this way?" Al had asked.
"Yes. You're taking me inside."
"Okay." Al raised his hands. And the shot went through the city councilman's head, neat and clean, because of course the signal was Al raising his right hand. Pity the councilman had never read his Kipling:
Twas only by favour of mine, quoth he, ye rode so long alive,
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row.
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The Kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly …
A truck came up to the drive. Small truck, thin hairy man with mustache drooping. Probably a local, Al thought. Everyone around here drove a small truck. By the same token he might have stolen it, but why drive to the Senator's home with it? Al got out of the car and splashed through muddy water to the gate.
To all of them Alvin Hardy was the same: "Show your hands. I'm not armed. But there's a man with a scope-sighted rifle and you can't see him."
"Can he drive a truck?"
Al Hardy stared at the bearded man. "What?"
"First things first." The bearded man reached into the bag on the seat beside him. "Mail. Only I've got a registered letter. Senator will have to sign for it. And there's a dead bear—"
"What?" Al's routine wasn't working so well. "What?"
"A dead bear. I killed him early this morning. I didn't have much choice. I was sleeping in the truck and this enormous black hairy arm smashed the window and reached inside. He was huge. I backed up as far as I could, but he kept coming in, so I took this Beretta I found at the Chicken Ranch and shot the bear through the eye. He dropped like so much meat. So—"
"Who are you?" Al asked.
"I'm the goddam mailman! Will you try to keep your mind on one thing at a time? There's five hundred to a thousand pounds of bear meat, not to mention the fur, just waiting for four big men with a truck, and it's starting to spoil right now! I couldn't move him myself, but if you get a team out there you can maybe stop some people from starving. And now I've got to get the Senator's signature for this registered letter, only you better send somebody for the bear right away."
It was too much for Al Hardy. Far too much. The one thing he knew was the Beretta. "You'll have to let me hold that weapon for you. And you drive me up the hill," Al said.
"Hold my gun? Why the hell should you hold my gun?" Harry demanded. "Oh, hell, all right if it makes you happy. Here."
He handed the pistol out. Al took it gingerly. Then he opened the gate.
"Good Lord, Senator, it's Harry!" Mrs. Cox shouted.
"Harry? Who's Harry?" Senator Jellison got up from the table with its maps and lists and diagrams and went to the windows. Sure enough, there was Al with somebody in a truck. A very bearded and mustachioed somebody, in gray clothes.
"Mail call!" Harry shouted as he came up onto the porch.
Mrs. Cox rushed to the door. "Harry, we never expected to see you again!"
"Hi," Harry said. "Registered letter for Senator Jellison."
Registered letter. Political secrets about a world dead and burying itself. Arthur Jellison went to the door. The mail carrier—yes, that was the remains of a Postal Service uniform—looked a bit worn. "Come in," Jellison said. What the devil was this guy doing—
"Senator, Harry shot a bear this morning. I better get some ranch-hands out to get it before the buzzards do," Al Hardy said.
"You don't go off with my pistol," Harry said indignantly.
"Oh." Hardy produced the weapon from a pocket. He looked at it uncertainly. "Senator, this is his," he said. Then he fled, leaving