Lucifer's Hammer

by Larry Niven

Against boredom, even the gods themselves struggle in vain. - Nietzsche

Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.

"Volcano in the Mediterranean," Mark said. "Bronze Age. Where the Atlantis legend comes from."

"About three thousand Krakatoas. Or three hundred Thera explosions, if they're right about Thera." "Thera?" Harvey asked. "Volcano in the Mediterranean," Mark said. "Bronze Age. Where the Atlantis legend comes from."

A man generates more heat inside each cubic inch of his body than the Sun does in each cubic inch of its surface.

Back at the end of World War II, SAC Headquarters was put in Omaha, at the center of the U.S. The command center itself was built four stories belowground, and reinforced with concrete and steel. The Hole was supposed to withstand anything—but that was before ICBMs and H-bombs. Now there were no illusions. If the Big One came off, the Hole was doomed. That wouldn't keep SAC from controlling its forces, because Looking Glass couldn't be brought down. No one except its pilots ever knew where it was.

If that damned dirty snowball ends the blessings of civilization and the advertising industry… okay, back to the basics.

I never thought much about the blessings of civilization before, but there are just a lot of things I wouldn't want to live without."

For centuries the price of black pepper was fixed, all across Europe, at its own weight in gold, ounce for ounce, and not everybody's going to have thought of hoarding pepper.

The Earth is just too small and fragile a basket for the human race to keep all its eggs in. - Robert A. Heinlein

The comet's tail streamed up from the horizon on all sides, doming the black Earth with luminous blues and oranges and greens streaming upward to the dome's star-pierced dark apex.

The long mountain twilight ended, and the stars came out. The Hammer glowed fiercely in the night sky before it sank behind the Sierra.

The sky was frantic. It streamed overhead like luminescent milk in black water. Stars winked in Hamner-Brown's tail, then sank into the background as blazes of color flashed across from horizon to horizon. Somewhere in the far distance there were brighter flashes, and after a long time, thunder.

A tiny blue-white dwarf sun sank rapidly in the South, setting far beyond the flat blue Pacific horizon. It left a burning trail behind it. In the moment after it was gone, something like a searchlight beam probed back along its path, rose higher, above the cloudless sky. Then nothing for one, two, three heartbeats. Mark said, "Hot—" A white fireball peeked over the edge of the world.

"We don't want to be moving when the quakes hit.

The town of Akrotira lay in twilight.

The town of Akrotira lay in twilight. Incongruities: white mudwalled houses that might have been created ten thousand years ago; the Venetian fortress at the top of its hill; the modern school near the ancient Byzantine church; and below that, the camp where Willis and MacDonald were uncovering Atlantis. The site was almost invisible from the hilltop. In the west a star switched on and instantly off, blink. Then another. "It's started," MacDonald said.

The two sat crosslegged, looking west, watching the meteors.

The two sat crosslegged, looking west, watching the meteors. They were twenty-eight hundred feet above sea level on the highest point of the strange island of Thera. The granite knob had been called many things by a dozen civilizations, and it had endured much. Now it was known as Mount Prophet Elias. Dusk faded on the waters of the bay far below. The bay was circular, surrounded by cliffs a thousand feet high, the caldera of a volcanic explosion that destroyed two-thirds of the island, destroyed the Minoan Empire, created the legends of Atlantis. Now a new black island, evil in appearance and barren, rose in the center of the bay. The Greeks called it the New Burnt Land, and the islanders knew that someday it too would explode, as Thera had exploded so many times before. Fiery streaks reflected in the bay. Something burned blue-white overhead. In the west the golden glow faded, not to black, but to a strange curdled green-and-orange glow, a backdrop for the meteors. Once again Phaethon drove the chariot of the sun. The meteors came every few seconds! Ice chips struck atmosphere and burned in a flash. Snowballs streaked down, burning greenish-white. Earth was deep in the coma of Hamner-Brown. "Funny hobby, for us,” said Willis. "Sky watching? I've always loved the sky," MacDonald said. "You don't see me digging in New York, do you? The desert places, where the air's clear, where men have watched the stars for ten thousand years, that's where you find old civilizations. But I've never seen the sky like this." "I wonder what it looked like after you-know-what." MacDonald shrugged in the near-dark. "Plato didn't describe it. But the Hittites said a stone god rose from the sea to challenge the sky. Maybe they saw the cloud. Or there are things in the Bible, you could take them as eyewitness accounts, but from a long way away. You wouldn't have wanted to be near when Thera went off."

The bay was circular, surrounded by cliffs a thousand feet high, the caldera of a volcanic explosion that destroyed two-thirds of the island, destroyed the Minoan Empire, created the legends of Atlantis.

A great light glared behind them. Willis turned. It sank slowly— too bright to see, blinding, drowning the background—Willis stared into it. God, what was it? Sinking… faded.

Willis didn't answer, and small wonder. A great greenish light drew fire across the sky, moving up, lasting for seconds before it burst and died. Willis found himself looking east. His lips pursed in a soundless Oh. then, "Mac! Turn around!" MacDonald turned. The curdled sky was rising like a curtain; you could see beneath the edge. The edge was perfectly straight, a few degrees above the horizon. Above was the green-and-orange glow of the comet's coma. Below, blackness in which stars glowed. "The Earth's shadow," MacDonald said. "A shadow cast through the coma. I wish my wife had lived to see this. Just another year…" A great light glared behind them. Willis turned. It sank slowly— too bright to see, blinding, drowning the background—Willis stared into it. God, what was it? Sinking… faded. "I hope you hid your eyes," MacDonald said. Willis saw only agony. He blinked; it made no difference. He said, "I think I'm blind." He reached out, patted rock, seeking the reassurance of a human hand. Softly MacDonald said, "I don't think it matters." Rage flared and died. That quickly, Willis knew what he meant. MacDonald's hands took his wrists and moved them around a rock. "Hug that tight. I'll tell you what I see."

And a new Atlantis legend, if anyone lives to tell it.

Gil risked a quick look back: nobody there. He was alone on the ultimate wave.

The wave's frothing peak was far, far above him; the churning base was much too close. His legs shrieked in the agony of exhaustion. One board left ahead of him, ahead and below. Who? It didn't matter; he saw it dip into chaos, gone. Gil risked a quick look back: nobody there. He was alone on the ultimate wave. Oh, God, if he lived to tell this tale, what a movie it would make! Bigger than The Endless Summer, bigger than The Towering Inferno: a surfing movie with ten million in special effects! If only his legs would hold! He already had a world record, he must be at least a mile inland, no one had ever ridden a wave for a mile! But the frothing, purling peak was miles overhead and the Barrington Apartments, thirty stories tall, were coming at him like a flyswatter.

What was once a comet is a pitiful remnant, a double handful of flying hills and boulders of dirty ice.

What was once a comet is a pitiful remnant, a double handful of flying hills and boulders of dirty ice. Earth's gravitational field has spread them across the sky. They may still reach the halo, but they can never rejoin. Craters glow across the face of the Earth. The sea strikes glow as brightly as the land strikes; but the sea strikes are growing smaller. Walls of water hover around them, edging inward. The water hovers two miles high around the Pacific strike. Its edges boil frantically. The pressure of expanding live steam holds back the walls of water. And the hot vapor goes up in a column clear as glass, carrying salt from vaporized seawater, and silt from the sea bottom, and recondensed rock from the strike itself. At the limits of the Earth's atmosphere it begins to spread in an expanding whirlpool. Megatons of live steam begin to cool. Water condenses first around dust and larger particles. What falls out of the pattern are the heavier globules of mud. Some join as they fall. They are still hot. In the drier air below, some water evaporates.

Four small bright craters scattered across the Sudan, and three in Europe, and a much larger one near Moscow, still shed their orange-white light back to space.

That had to be an ocean strike. The clouds will keep coming down across Russia till the crater on the seabed is quenched. They'll dump tens of millions of tons of snow all across the continent. White clouds and white snow. Any sunlight that falls will be reflected back to space for the next couple of hundred years.

Four miles beyond the ruined tunnel they came to a ranger station. There were hundreds of people there. A church group, with ninety children and a few college students as counselors and one elderly preacher. Campers and fishing parties had come out of the fire trails and backwoods areas. A bicycling party of French coeds, only one with any English at all, and nobody else spoke French, One large camper which held a writer, his wife and an unbelievable number of children.

In any ethical situation, the thing you want least to do is probably the right action.

The Blazer was no longer new and shiny. It was scratched along the sides from rockslides, and there was mud everywhere. It took the muddy road like a freeway, climbing over fallen rock, wading through deep pools. Tim had never had a car like this. It made him feel he could go anywhere.

Everything that is called duty, the prerequisite for all genuine law and the substance of every noble custom, can be traced back to honor. If one has to think about it, one is already without honor, - Oswald Spengler, Thoughts

I'm a feedstore owner, Senator. I can call myself Mayor, but I'm not ready for this. I expect you're in charge here. Right?"

No country is more than three meals away from a revolution. Hear that rain? It's all over the country. Lowlands, river bottoms, little creeks, any low places in the roads, they'll be underwater, just like the whole San Joaquin Valley's going to be underwater. Highways, railroads, river travel, it's all gone. There's no transportation and not much communication. Which means the United States has ceased to exist. So have most other countries."

The headlights didn't reach far through the rain. They showed nothing but rain-stippled sea in all directions.

Once the lightning illuminated the roof of a large house, and six human forms on the peaked roof, all glistening in rain gear; twelve glinting eyes watching a phantom car drive across the water.

I'd know the surface of Mars at a glance, but this isn't anyplace in the universe.

A wave came toward them in a long thread of silver-gray. It wasn't high. When it reached the car it was no more than two feet tall. But the sea had risen in the night until it stood around the tires. The wave slapped against the car and lifted them and carried them and set them down almost immediately with the motor still going.

The Southern Pacific tracks took them most of the way to Porterville.

The Southern Pacific tracks took them most of the way to Porterville. The tracks and embankment rose gradually, until what surrounded them was no longer sea, but land that looked as if it had recently risen from the depths: Atlantis returned. Still Eileen kept to the tracks, though her shoulders were shivering with the strain.

discovery isn't invention.

The importance of information is directly proportional to its improbability. - Fundamental theorem of information theory

Cubic miles of water have been vaporized, and the rain clouds encircle the Earth. Cold fronts form along the base of the Himalaya massif and rainstorms sweep through northeastern India, northern Burma, and China's Yünan and Szechwan provinces. The great rivers of eastern Asia, the Brahmaputra, Irrawaddy, Salween, Mekong, Yang-tze and Yellow rivers, all begin along the Himalaya foothills. Floods pour down across the fertile valleys of Asia, and still the rains fall in the highlands. Dams burst and the waters move on until finally they meet the storm-lashed salt water driven inland by waves and typhoons. As the rains fall across the Earth, more steam rises from the hot seas near Hammerstrikes; with the water go salt, soil, rock dust, vaporized elements of the Earth's crust. Volcanoes send more billions of tons of smoke and dust rising into the stratosphere. As Hamner-Brown Comet retreats into deep space, Earth resembles a brilliant pearl with shimmering highlights. The Earth's albedo has changed. More of the Sun's heat and light are reflected back to space, away from the Earth. Hamner-Brown has passed, but the effects remain, some temporary like the tsunamis which still surge through the ocean basins, some on their third journey; hurricanes and typhoons that lash land and sea; the planetwide rainstorms that engulf the Earth. Some effects are more permanent. In the Arctic the water falls as snow that will not melt for hundreds of years.

To doubt everything or to believe everything are two equally convenient solutions; both dispense with the necessity of reflection. -H. Poincare

You couldn't say that surviving the end of the world was trivial. But it is. If there's not more to life than just existing, how is it different?

Lightning flared nearby. She did not move. She stood on the bare granite, near the edge. I wanted goals. Now I have them. And it's too much. Her life didn't revolve around Washington parties and who was speaking to whom. You couldn't say that surviving the end of the world was trivial. But it is. If there's not more to life than just existing, how is it different? It was more comfortable in Washington. It was easier to hide the suffering. That's the only difference.

He spoke calmly and naturally, as if there were nothing strange about finding her alone on a bare rock knob in a lightning storm.

"Lord God above, you haven't seen anything to be scared of!" He was shouting at her. "Do you know what it's like out there? You can't know. You haven't been outside this valley."

"Harvey, I'm scared." Now why did I say that? She'd expected him to say something comforting. To be reassuring, as George would be. It would be a lie, but— She hadn't expected hysterical laughter. She stared as Harvey Randall giggled, bubbled, laughed insanely. "You're scared," he gasped. "Lord God above, you haven't seen anything to be scared of!" He was shouting at her. "Do you know what it's like out there? You can't know. You haven't been outside this valley." Visibly he fought for control of himself. She watched fascinated, as he slowly won the struggle for calm. The laughter died away. Then, amazingly, the stranger was sitting there again, as if he hadn't moved. "Sorry about that," he said. The phrase was flippantly conventional, but it didn't come out that way. It came out as a genuine apology.

"Look, I haven't forgotten the last time we met up here on this ridge."

There are old people and children and city people and they all expect us to come up with a miracle—and, Harvey, I just don't have any miracles, but I have to go on pretending that I do."

"They hope," she said. "They come to the house, or I go to theirs, and they believe we can save them. That I can save them. Some of them are crazy. There's a boy in town, Mayor Seitz's youngest boy. He's fifteen, and he wanders around naked in the rain unless his mother brings him in. There are five women whose husbands never came back from a hunting trip. There are old people and children and city people and they all expect us to come up with a miracle—and, Harvey, I just don't have any miracles, but I have to go on pretending that I do."

"If life wasn't important before, why should it be now?" "It is." "No. What's the difference between meaningless survival in Washington and meaningless survival here? None of that means anything." "It means something to the others. To the ones who want your miracles." "Miracles I don't have. Why is it important that other people depend on you? Why does that make my life worth living?" "Sometimes it's all that does mean anything," Harvey said. He was very serious. "And then you find there's more. A lot more. But first you do a job, one that you didn't really take on, looking out for others. Then after a while you see that it's important to live." He laughed, not with humor but sadness. "I know, Maureen."

What your father is building here in this valley is the most important thing in the world. It's priceless, and it's worth anything to keep it, to know… to know that somebody, somewhere, has hope. Can feel safe." "No! That's the real horror. It's all false hope! The end of the world, Harvey! The whole goddam world's come apart, and we're promising something that doesn't exist, won't happen."

"Then what's the point if we won't live through the winter?"

Tomorrow Alim might regret letting them use gas for a fire, but shit, they'd probably run out of road before the truck they'd ripped off in Oil City ran out of gas.

He thought of the people they'd killed and eaten, and thought there had to be a purpose to it all. There had to be a reason. Armitage said there was a reason, that it was all right, all the things they'd done to stay alive. That was attractive. To think there'd been a purpose to it all. "And he say I'm his chief angel?" Hooker demanded. "Yeah, Sarge," Jackie said. "Didn't you listen to him?" "Not really." Hooker stood. "But I'm sure as hell going to listen to him now."

It wasn't raining. There was bright sunshine. Sometimes there were two hours of sunshine a day. The air was clear, and Hardy could see the snow on the peaks of the High Sierra. Snow in August. It seemed to be down to the six-thousand-foot level yesterday; today it was lower, after last night's storm. The snow was inexorably creeping toward the Stronghold.

There was always more to do, and there were always things they hadn't thought of until too late, but it might be enough. It would be close, but they were going to live.