Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [257]
"Well, you've probably already thought of it," Forrester said.
"Goddamm—" Christopher began.
Senator Jellison held up his hand. "Dr. Forrester, believe me, you won't offend us. Please, what did you have in mind?"
Forrester shrugged. "Mustard gas. Thermit bombs. Napalm. And I think we can make nerve gas, but I'm not sure."
There was a long silence, then Senator Jellison said, low and under his breath but everybody heard, "I will be dipped in shit."
The Expedition
The world must end tonight,
And Man pass out of sight,
But now and then we'll pine,
For the things that we've left behind …
European Ballad, A.D. 1000
Tim Hamner ate his dinner while Eileen packed clothing into a makeshift backpack. There was a strong chill wind coming down from the slopes of the Sierra. It blew wispy sleet past the cabin, but failed to find any chinks. Eileen's tiny kerosene lamp gave off a warm glow, and the stove kept the kitchen warm and dry. Tim was relaxed for the moment. He stared into the vent opening of the stove, watching the tiny blue flames curl and rise. "Trouble rather the tiger in his lair," he said.
Eileen looked up. "What?"
"From the introduction of a science fiction story by Gordon Dickson. I don't know if it's a real quote or something Dickson made up. It went, 'Trouble rather the tiger in his lair than the sage among his books. For to you Kingdoms and their armies are things mighty and enduring, but to him they are but toys of the moment, to be overturned with the flick of a finger.' "
"Can he really do it?" Eileen asked.
"Forrester? He's a magician. If Forrester says he can make napalm and bombs and mustard gas, he can do it." Tim sighed. "I wish we didn't have to. I was brought up to hate poison gas. Of course, I don't suppose it matters whether it's gas or a bullet; dead is dead." He reached for his rifle, then took an oily rag from a bag on the table and began wiping the barrel.
"Do you have to go?" Eileen demanded.
"We agreed not to talk about it," Tim said.
"I don't care what we agreed. I don't want you to go … I—"
"I don't like the idea much myself," Tim said. "But what can we do? Forrester insisted. He'll stay here and make terrible weapons to defend the Stronghold if we send reinforcements to the power plant." Tim shook his head in admiration. "He's the only man in the world who could blackmail both the Senator and George Christopher. You wouldn't think he'd have the nerve, with all those apologies and eye blinking and everything, but he sure as hell wasn't going to say one word more about weapons until they promised."
"But why you?" Eileen demanded. She packed a newly knitted pair of socks. The wool had been carded from dog fur.
"What else am I good for?" Hamner asked. "You know better than me. You helped Hardy work up the schedules. I can't farm, I'm not as good an engineer as Brad, I don't ride horses well so I can't go with Christopher's Paul Revere troop … I may as well be part of the suicide squad."
"For God's sake don't talk like that." She left off the packing and came over to stand beside him.
He patted her belly. "Don't worry, I'll be back if I have to swim." He laughed. "Or pull our famous Flying Dutchman act and drive over the water again. I intend to see our son or possibly daughter. Or twins? You already look somewhat like an inverted question mark." Dammit, he was babbling, the fear was showing through.
"Tim … "
"Don't make it harder, Eileen."
"No. Well, you're all packed."
Tim punched the button on his watch. "We have an hour before we leave," he said. He stood and grabbed her. "Gotcha."
"Tim … "
"Ye-ess?"
Whatever she had been about to say, she said instead, "Did you get our reservations at the Savoy?"
"They were all booked up. I found someplace closer."
"Goody."
There were a dozen of them, led by Johnny Baker. Three of Deke Wilson's ranchers. Jack Ross, a Christopher brother-in-law. Tim wasn't surprised to see Mark Czescu and Hugo Beck among the volunteers. He recognized most of the others as