Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [88]
Later, after the detectives and the coroner had come, Eric Larsen and Joe Harris took their prisoner to the Burbank City Jail.
"You'll get him there alive." The voice was a whine. It belonged to a lawyer who lived in the apartment building. He'd come while they were still questioning the suspect, and shouted that the police had no right to keep after the man. He advised the man to keep silent. The man had laughed.
Eric and Harris took their prisoner to the patrol car and put him inside. He would be turned over to the L.A. County Jail the next day.
During the whole time the man had said nothing. They knew his name from his wallet: Fred Lauren. They'd also heard his record from R & I. Three previous sex offenses, two with violence. Probation, probation, then parole after psychiatric treatment.
When they reached the station, Eric hauled Lauren roughly out of the car.
"That hurts," the man said. "That hurts. You son of a bitch!"
Harris moved close to Lauren. His arm jerked, sending his elbow into the pit of the prisoner's stomach. He did it again. "Nothing that ever happens to you will hurt the way you … " Harris couldn't say anything else.
"Joe." Eric moved between his partner and the prisoner. "He's not worth it."
"I'll report you!" Lauren screamed. Then he giggled. "No. What's the point? No."
"Now he's scared," Eric said. "Not when he was arrested." And not now, Eric saw: As soon as Harris moved away and they began walking Lauren into the station, the fear vanished, replaced by the look of resignation. "Okay, tell me," Eric said. "You think the judge will give you probation again? You'll be on the street in a week?"
The man giggled. "There won't be any streets in a week. There won't be anything!"
"Hammer Fever," Eric muttered. He'd seen it before: Why not commit a crime? The end of the world was coming. The papers had a lot of stories about that. But none like this, and none in Burbank before.
"I'll be glad when that goddam thing's past," Harris said. He didn't mention the body on the bed. You lived with that, or you quit; but you worked it out on your own.
"It's going to be a long night," Eric said.
"Yeah, and we've got morning watch tomorrow." Harris looked up at the glowing sky. "Be damned glad when that thing's past."
They camped at Soda Springs. It was a good campground, surprisingly uncrowded; Gordie Vance had expected a dozen other scout troops to be there. Instead, there was only Gordie and the six scouts he'd brought with him. Hammer Fever, Gordie thought. Nobody wants to be this far from roads and civilization.
They dropped their packs with relief. The boys went dashing off to the spring. There were two springs: One bubbled with clear mountain water, pure and cold; the other was rusty in color, and tasted awful, although the boys pretended they liked it. The water was naturally carbonated, and they made Wyler's root beer in their canteens. Gordie didn't bother telling them not to drink too much. Nobody ever did.
They cooked supper over the Svea gasoline backpacker stoves. Gordie let Andy Randall choose the dinner; Andy would have to get used to leading the group. It wouldn't be long before …
"But my teacher said it might," one of the younger boys was saying.
"Nuts," Andy Randall told him. "Dad's been out to JPL dozens of times, and their computer says it won't. Besides, Mr. Hamner told me—"
"You know him?" the younger scout asked.
"Sure."
"But he invented the Hammer." Involuntarily they looked upward, to the huge glowing smear in the evening sky. "It sure looks close," the younger scout said.
The long mountain twilight ended, and the stars came out. The Hammer glowed fiercely in the night sky before it sank behind the Sierra. Gordie got the boys into their sleeping bags. They wanted to stay up and watch; there were bright aurora displays across the sky, with the stars showing through jagged lines of green and red.
Gordie climbed into