Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [233]
Al Hardy liked things neat.
There was an admiral Harvey had interviewed, years ago. Harvey had been struck by the man's desk. It was absolutely symmetrical: the blotter precisely centered, the identical IN and OUT baskets on either side, inkwell in the middle with a pen on either side … everything but the pencil the admiral was using to gesture. Harvey looked it over; and then he aimed the camera exactly down the middle of the desk, and he put the pencil right in front of him, in line with his tie tack.
And the admiral loved it!
"Sit down, please," Hardy said. The assistant reached into a drawer of the Senator's big desk and took out a bottle of bourbon. "Drink?"
"Thanks." Now Harvey was definitely worried. Al Hardy held almost as much power as the Senator; he executed the Senator's commands. And Hardy liked things neat. He precisely matched the network executives who would order Randall to cut the man-in-the-street crap and use motivational research; who would have found their jobs much easier if all men had been created not just equal but identical.
Could it be a problem with Mark? And if so, could Harvey save him again? Mark had almost got himself thrown out of the Stronghold: Hardy hadn't appreciated Mark's sign proclaiming the Stronghold "Senator Jellison's Trading Post and Provisional Government"; neither had George Christopher. They hadn't cared for the wasted paint, either.
Maybe it wasn't Mark. If Al Hardy decided that Harvey Randall was upsetting his neat patterns … the Stronghold couldn't survive without Hardy's mania for organization. The road was always there, and nobody ever forgot it. Harvey shifted nervously in the hard chair.
Al Hardy sat across from him, pointedly not taking the big chair behind the desk. No one but the Senator would ever sit there if Al Hardy had any choice in the matter. He waved toward the big desk with its litter of paper. Maps, with penciled lines showing the current shore of the San Joaquin Sea; manpower assignments; inventories of food and equipment, anything they could locate, and another list of needed items they didn't have; planting schedules; work details; all the paper work associated with keeping too many people alive in a world suddenly turned hostile. "Think all that's worth anything?" Al asked.
"It's worth a lot," Harvey said. "Organization. That's all that keeps us alive."
"Glad you think so." Hardy raised his glass. "What shall we drink to?"
Harvey waved toward the empty chair behind the desk. "To the duke of Silver Valley."
Al Hardy nodded. "I'll drink to that. Skoal."
"Prosit."
"He is a duke, you know," Hardy said. "With the high, middle and low justice."
That knot of fear in Harvey's stomach began to grow.
"Tell me, Harvey, if he dies tomorrow, what becomes of us?" Hardy asked.
"Jesus. I don't even want to think about it." The question had startled Harvey Randall. "But there's not much chance of that—"
"There's every chance," Hardy said. "I'm telling you a secret, of course. If you let it get out, or let him know I've told you, it won't be pleasant."
"So why tell me? And what's wrong with him?"
"Heart," Al said. "Bethesda people told him to take it easy. He was going to retire after this term, if he lived that long."
"That bad?"
"Bad enough. He could last two years, or he could die in an hour. More likely a year than an hour, but there's a chance of either."
"Jesus … but why tell me?"
Hardy didn't answer, not directly. "You said it yourself, organization is the key to survival. Without the Senator there'd have been no organization. Can you think of anyone who could govern here if he died tomorrow?"
"No. Not now … "
"How about Colorado?" Hardy asked.
Harvey Randall laughed. "You heard them in there. Colorado can't keep us alive. But I know who would take over."
"Who?"
"You."
Hardy shook his head. "It wouldn't work. Two reasons. One, I'm not a local. They don't know me, and they