Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [31]
"Oh?"
"Gus called. From Downey. Seems Rockwell's refurbishing an Apollo. And there's some mutters about diverting one of the Titan boosters from a Big Bird to something else. Know anything?"
She sipped her drink and felt a wave of sadness. Now she knew why Johnny Baker had called yesterday. After six weeks in the Pentagon, six weeks in Washington with no attempt to see her, and then …
And I was going to surprise him. Some surprise.
"Dad's trying to get Congress to fund a comet-study mission," Maureen said.
"This for real?" Johnny demanded.
"It's for real."
"But … " His hands were shaking. His hands never shook. John Baker had flown fighters over Hanoi, and his maneuvers were always perfect. The MIGs never had a chance. And once he'd taken splinters out of his crew chief when there wasn't time to get the medics. There was a splinter in the chief's chest and Baker had removed it and sliced deftly to expose the artery, clamped it together with steady fingers while the chief screamed and the Cong mortars thudded onto the field, and his hands had never shaken.
But they were shaking now. "Congress won't put up the money."
"They might. The Russians are planning a mission. Can't let them outdo us," Maureen said. "Peace depends on showing them we're still willing to compete if that's the way they want it. And if we compete, we win."
"I don't care if it's Martians we're competing with. I've got to go. I've got to." He drained his scotch. His hands were suddenly steady.
Maureen watched in fascination. He's stopped shaking because he's got a mission. And I know what it is. Me. To get me to get him on that ship. A minute ago he might really have been in love with me. Not now.
"I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "We don't have all that much time together, and I'm laying this on you. But … you had me dead to rights. My mind doesn't turn off." He drank deeply of his ice-diluted scotch. His attention went back to the screen, and left Maureen wondering if she'd been imagining things. Just how clever was John Baker?
The commercial mercifully ended and the cameras zoomed in on the Jet Propulsion Laboratories.
Harry Newcombe hastily chewed the last of his sandwich while he drove the mail truck with one hand. The regulations gave him time off for lunch, but Harry never took it. He used the time for better purposes.
It was long past noon when he got to Silver Valley Ranch. As usual he stopped at the gate. There was a spot where he could look through a pass in the foothills to the majesty of the High Sierra to the east. Snow gleamed off their tops. To the west were more foothills, the sun not too far above them. Finally he got out to open the gate, drove through, and carefully closed the gate behind him. He ignored the large mailbox on its post beside the gate.
He stopped along the drive to pick a pomegranate from the grove that had started as one tree and was still, untended, propagating itself downhill toward the stream. Harry had seen it grow in the half-year he'd been on the route, and was guessing when the pomegranates would roll all the way downhill into the cocklebur patch. Would they choke out the burrs? He had no idea, really. Harry was a city boy.
Harry was an ex-city boy. Hah! And if he never saw a city again he'd be happy.
He was grinning as he shouldered his load and walked lopsided to the door. Rang. Set the bag down.
The dimly heard hurricane of a vacuum cleaner calmed. Mrs. Cox opened the door and smiled at the bulging bag beside Harry. "That day again? Hello, Harry."
"Hi. Happy Trash Day, Mrs. Cox!"
"And a Happy Trash Day to you too, Harry. Coffee?"
"Don't stay me. It's against guv'mint regulations."
"Fresh coffee. And new-baked rolls."
"Well … I can't resist that." He reached into the smaller pouch that still hung at his side. "Letter from your sister in Idaho. And something from the Senator." He handed her the letters, then shouldered the bag and wobbled in. "Anyplace special?"
"The dining table's big enough."
Harry spilled the contents of the larger bag across a polished table