Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [75]
"Harvey Randall."
"Now it's my turn to say 'aha.' You're doing the comet shows."
"Right. How did you like them?"
"Terrible. Dangerous. Stupid."
"You don't mince words. Mind telling me why?" Harvey asked.
"Not at all. First, you've scared the wits out of fifty million halfwits—"
"I did not—"
"And they should be scared, but not of a damned comet! Comets! Signs in the heavens! Evil portents! Medieval crap, when there's plenty to worry about right here on Earth" Her tones were full and bitter.
"And what should they be scared of?" Harvey prompted. He didn't really want to know, and cursed himself the instant he said it. It was a reporter's automatic question, but the trouble was, she'd sure as hell tell him.
She did. "Spray cans ruining the atmosphere, destroying ozone, causing cancer. A new atomic power plant in the San Joaquin Valley making radioactive wastes that will be around for half a million years! The big Cadillacs and Lincolns are burning megatons of gasoline. All these things that we've got to do something about, things we should be scared of, and instead everyone's hiding in the root cellar afraid of a comet!"
"You've got a point," Randall said. "Even if I don't think all of those are good causes—"
"Oh, don't you? And which ones aren't?" she demanded. Her voice was full of hate, and readiness for attack.
My, my, Harvey thought. There were times when he wanted to take his reportorial objectivity, roll it tightly and stuff it in an anatomically uncomfortable place about the person of a pompous professor of journalism.
"I'll tell you," he said. "The reason people are still burning gas in those big comfortable cars is that they can't get enough electricity to run electric cars. They can't get electricity because the air's already full of crap from fossil fuel plants and we're running out of fossil fuels, and damned fools keep delaying the nuclear plants that might get us out of that particular box." Harvey stood up. "And if I ever hear the words 'spray can' and 'ozone' again, I'll track you down wherever you hide and throw up in your lap."
"Huh?"
Harvey went back to the receptionist. "Tell Johnny Kim that Harvey Randall is out here, please," he said. His voice was commanding. The new receptionist looked at him in alarm, then turned to her intercom.
Behind him Harvey could hear Mabe Bishop spluttering. It gave Harvey great satisfaction. He went over to the door that led into the executive suite and waited. In a second it buzzed. "Go right in, Mr. Randall," the receptionist said. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting—"
"S'all right," Harvey mumbled. The door let him into a long hall. There were offices on both sides of it. An Oriental of indeterminate age, over thirty and under fifty, came out of one of them.
"Ho, Harv. How long did that quim keep you waiting?"
"Not long. How are you, Johnny?"
"Pretty good. The Mayor's got a conference running overtime. Community-development thing. Mind waiting a sec?"
"Not really—the crew should be up pretty soon."
"They're coming up now," John Kim said. He was Mayor Bentley Allen's press secretary, speechwriter and sometimes political manager, and Harvey knew that Kim could be in Sacramento or Washington if he wanted to be; probably would be anyway, if he stayed on with Bentley Allen. "I sent down to have them come up the private elevator."
"Thanks," Harvey said. "They'll appreciate that—"
"Hah. The conference is breaking up. Let's go in and see Hizzoner until the crew gets up." Kim led Harvey down the hall.
There were two offices. One was large, with expensive furniture and thick rugs. Flags hung on the walls, and there were trophies and plaques and framed certificates everywhere. Past the ornate formal outer office was a much smaller room, with an even larger desk. This desk was piled high with papers, reports, books, IBM print-outs, and memos. Some of the memos held large red stars. A few held two red stars, and one had three. The Mayor was just picking that one up when Kim and Harvey Randall came in.
He