Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [205]
Now, leaner and—he had to admit to himself—healthier than he'd ever been (except for his feet, which had blisters that wouldn't heal; diabetes interferes with circulation, which was why he could only make a few miles a day), Dan Forrester, Ph.D., astronomer without sight of stars or employer or possibility of employment, hiked on because there wasn't anything else to do.
The winds were no longer ferocious, except during hurricanes, and those were less frequent. The rain had settled to a steady pattering, or a drizzle, or, sometimes, blessedly, no rain at all. The rain had also turned cool, and sometimes there were snow flurries. Snow in July at four thousand feet elevation. That was much sooner than Dan had expected. The cloud cover over Earth was reflecting back a lot of sunlight, and Earth was cooling. Dan could imagine the beginnings of glaciers in the north. Now they were no more than mountainsides and high valleys covered lightly with snow; but it was snow that would never melt in his lifetime.
After awhile he rested, leaning against a tree, backpack caught on the rough bark so that he was not quite sitting. It took weight off his feet, and it was easier than taking off his pack and lifting it onto his back again. Four weeks, and the beginnings of snow. It would be a very hard winter …
"Don't move."
"Right," said Dan. Where had the voice come from? He moved only his eyes. Dan was used to thinking of himself as harmless, in appearance and in reality, but he was thinner now, and his beard was scraggly, and no one looked harmless in this world of fear. A man in an Army uniform stepped from behind a tree. The rifle in his hands looked light; the hole in the end looked as big as Death.
The man's eyes flickered left and right. "You alone? You armed? Got any food?"
"Yes, and no, and not much."
"Don't smart-mouth me. Spill your pack." Behind that gun was a very nervous fellow, a man who kept trying to see through the back of his head. His skin was very pale. Surprisingly, the man had almost no beard, only stubble. He had shaved in the past week. Why? Dan wondered.
Dan opened his hip belt and shrugged out of the pack. He upended it. The Army man watched as he opened zippered pockets. "Insulin," he said, laying out the medical packet. "I'm a diabetic. I carry two," and he set out the other, and the wrapped book beside them.
"Open it," the man said, meaning the book. Dan did.
"Where is your food?"
Dan opened a Ziploc plastic bag. The smell was terrible. He handed the fish to the man. "Nothing to preserve it with," Dan said. "I'm sorry. But I think it's edible, if you don't wait too long."
The man wolfed down the handful of stinking raw fish as if he hadn't eaten in a week. "What else?" he demanded.
"Chocolate," Dan said. His voice was full of resignation. It was the last chocolate in the world, and Dan had saved it for days, waiting for something to celebrate. He watched the uniformed man eat it—no ceremony, not savoring it, just eating.
"Open those." The man pointed to the cooking pots. Dan took the lid off the largest; there was another pot inside it, and a small stove inside that. "No gasoline for the stove," Dan said. "Don't know why I go on carrying it, but I do. The pots aren't much use without something to cook." Dan tried not to look at the pieces of thin copper wire that had spilled from the pack. Snare wire. Without it Dan Forrester would probably starve.
"I'll have one of your pots," the man said.
"Sure. Big or little?"
"Big."
"Here."
"Thanks." The man seemed more relaxed now, although his eyes still darted about and he jumped at slight noises. "Where were you when it all … ?" The man gestured vaguely.
"Jet Propulsion Laboratories. Pasadena.