Nightfall

by Isaac Asimov

  “All right,” the newspaperman said. “Let’s assume for the time being that there will be some sort of worldwide catastrophe next year, of which your group has advance detailed knowledge. What is it, exactly, that you want the rest of us to do? Go flocking into your chapels and beg the gods to have mercy on us?”

  “It’s much too late for that.”

  “There’s no hope at all, then? In that case, why are you bothering even to warn us?”

  Folimun smiled again, without irony this time. “For two reasons. One, yes, we do want people to come to our chapels, not so that they can try to influence the gods, but so that they can listen to our teachings in so far as they concern matters of morality and everyday decency. We think we have a message that is of value to the world in those areas. But second, and more urgent: we want to convince people of the reality of what is coming, so that they will take measures to protect themselves against it. The worst of the catastrophe can be headed off. Steps can be taken to avert the complete destruction of our civilization. The Flames are inevitable, yes, human nature being what it is—the gods have spoken, the time of their vengeance is already on the way—but within the general madness and horror there will be some who survive. I assure you that we Apostles most definitely will. We will be here, as we have been before, to lead humanity into the new cycle of rebirth. And we offer our hand—in love, in charity, to anyone else who will accept it. Who will join with us in guarding themselves against the turmoil that is coming. Does that sound like madness to you, Theremon? Does that sound as though we’re dangerous crackpots?”

  “If I could only accept your basic assumption—”

  “That the Flames will come next year? You will. You will. What remains to be seen is whether you accept it long enough in advance to become one of the survivors, one of the guardians of our heritage, or discover only in the moment of destruction, in the moment of your own agony, that we were speaking the truth all along.”

  “I wonder which it’ll be,” said Theremon.

  “Permit me to hope that you’ll be on our side on the day that this Year of Godliness comes to its close,” Folimun said. Abruptly he rose and offered Theremon his hand. “I have to go now. His Serenity the High Apostle expects me in a few minutes. But we’ll have further conversations, of that I’m sure. A day’s notice, or less, perhaps—I’ll try to make myself available to you. I look forward to speaking with you again. Odd as this may sound, I feel that you and I are destined to work very closely together. We have much in common, you know.”

  “Do we?”

  “In the matter of faith, no. In the matter of the desire to survive—and to help others to survive—yes, I think so, very definitely. A time will come when you and I will seek each other out, I suspect, and join forces to fight against the Darkness that is coming. I’m certain of it, in fact.”

  Sure, Theremon thought. I’d better go get fitted for my black robe right away.

  But there was no sense in offending Folimun with any sort of rudeness. This cult of Apostles was growing, apparently, day by day. There was a big story here; and Folimun was probably the one he was going to have to depend on for most of it.

  Theremon slipped the copy of the Book of Revelations into his briefcase and stood up.

  “I’ll call you in a few weeks,” he said. “After I’ve had a chance to peruse this with some care. There’ll be other things I’ll want to ask you then. —And how far in advance do I need to call for an audience with Mondior 71?”

  Folimun couldn’t be snared so simply. “As I’ve already explained, His Serenity’s work from here until the Time of Flame is so critical that he’ll be unable to make himself available for such things as personal interviews. I’m truly sorry. There’s no way I can alter that.” Folimun put out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “And for me,” said Theremon.

  Folimun laughed. “Has it, really? To spend half an hour talking with a madman? A crackpot? A fanatic? A cultist?”

  “I don’t remember using those words.”

  “It wouldn’t amaze me to be told that you’d thought them, though.” The Apostle gave Theremon another of his curiously disarming smiles. “You’d be half right, anyway. I am a fanatic. And a cultist, I suppose. But not a madman. Not a crackpot. I only wish I were. And you will too.”

  He waved Theremon out. The monk who had guided him in was waiting outside the door to take him to the lift-chamber.

  A strange half hour, the newspaperman thought. And not very fruitful, really. In some ways he knew even less about the Apostles than he had before he had come here.

  That they were cranks and superstition-mongers was still obvious to Theremon. Plainly they didn’t have a shred of anything like real evidence that some gigantic cataclysm was in store for the world soon. Whether they were mere self-deluding fools, though, or outright frauds looking to line their own pockets, was something that he could not yet clearly decide.

  It was all pretty confusing. There was an element of fanaticism, of puritanism, about their movement that was not at all to his liking. And yet, and yet … this Folimun, this spokesman of theirs, had seemed an unexpectedly attractive person. He was intelligent, articulate—even, in his way, rational. The fact that he appeared to have a sense of humor of sorts was a surprise, and a point in his favor. Theremon had never heard of a maniac who was capable of even the slightest self-mockery—or a fanatic, either. —Unless it was all part of Folimun’s public-relations act: unless Folimun had been deliberately projecting the kind of persona that someone like Theremon would be likely to find appealing.

  Be careful, he told himself. Folimun wants to use you.

  But that was all right. His position with the newspaper was an influential one. Everyone wanted to use him.

  Well, Theremon thought, we’ll see who uses whom.

  His footsteps echoed sharply as he walked at a brisk pace through the immense entrance hall of the Apostles’ headquarters and out into the brilliance of a three-sun afternoon.

  Back to the Chronicle office now. A couple of pious hours devoted to a close study of the Book of Revelations; and then it was time to begin thinking about tomorrow’s column.

  [11]

  The summer rainy season was in full spate the afternoon Sheerin 501 returned to Saro City. The plump psychologist stepped out of the plane into a stupendous downpour that had turned the airfield into something close to a lake. Gray torrents of rain rode almost horizontally on fierce gusts of wind.

  Gray—gray—everything gray—

  The suns had to be up there somewhere in all that murk. That faint glimmer in the west was probably Onos, and there were hints of the chilly light of Tano and Sitha off the other way. But the cloud cover was so thick that the day was disagreeably dark. Uncomfortably dark for Sheerin, who still—despite what he had told his hosts in Jonglor—was troubled by the aftereffects of his fifteen-minute ride through the Tunnel of Mystery.

  He would have gone on a ten-day fast sooner than he’d admit it to Kelaritan and Cubello and the rest of those people. But he had come perilously close to the danger point in there.

  For three or four days thereafter Sheerin had experienced a touch, only a touch, of the kind of claustrophobia that had sent so many citizens of Jonglor to the mental hospital. He would be in his hotel room, working on his report, when suddenly he would feel Darkness closing in on him, and he would find it necessary to get up and go out on his terrace, or even to leave the building entirely for a long stroll in the hotel garden. Necessary? Well, maybe not. But preferable. Certainly preferable. And he always felt better for doing it.

  Or he would be asleep and the Darkness would come to him then. Naturally the godlight would be on in his room when he slept—he always slept with one on, he knew nobody who didn’t—and since the Tunnel ride he had taken to using an auxiliary godlight too, in case the battery of the first one should fail, though the indicator clearly said it had six months’ power left. Even so, Sheerin’s sleeping mind would b
ecome convinced that his room had been plunged into the depths of lightlessness, utterly black, the true and complete Darkness. And he would awaken, trembling, sweating, convinced he was in Darkness even though the friendly glow of the two godlights was right there on either side of him to tell him that he was not.

  So now, to step from his plane into this somber twilight landscape—well, he was glad to be home, but he would have preferred a sunnier arrival. He had to fight off mild distress, or perhaps not so mild, as he entered the flexiglass foul-weather passageway that led from his plane to the terminal. He wished they hadn’t put the passageway up. Better not to be enclosed right now, Sheerin thought, even if it did mean getting wet. Better to be out there under the open sky, under the comforting light (however faint just now, however hidden by clouds) of the friendly suns.

  But the queasiness passed. By the time he had claimed his baggage, the cheering reality of being back home again in Saro City had triumphed over the lingering effects of his brush with Darkness.

  Liliath 221 was waiting for him outside the baggage pickup area with her car. That made him feel better too. She was a slender, pleasant-looking woman in her late forties, a fellow member of the Psychology Department, though her work was experimental, animals in mazes, no overlap at all with his. They had known each other ten or fifteen years. Sheerin would probably have asked her to marry him long ago if he had been the marrying type. But he wasn’t; nor, for all the indication she had ever given him, was she. Still, the relationship they did have seemed to suit them both.

  “Of all the miserable days to pick for coming home—” he said, as he slipped in beside her and reached across to give her a quick friendly kiss.

  “It’s been like this for three days. And they say we’re in for three more of it, until next Onos Day. We’ll all be drowned by then, I suppose. —You look as if you’ve lost some weight up there in Jonglor, Sheerin!”

  “Have I? Well, you know, northern food—not really to my taste—”

  He hadn’t expected that it would be so apparent. A man of his girth ought to be able to drop ten or fifteen pounds without its being noticeable at all. But Liliath had always had sharp eyes. And perhaps he had dropped more than ten or fifteen pounds. Ever since the Tunnel, he had simply pecked at his food. Him! It was hard for him to believe how little he had eaten.

  “You look good,” she said. “Healthy. Vigorous.”

  “Do I?”

  “Not that I think you need to be skinny, not at this late date. But it can’t hurt to take a little off. So you enjoyed yourself in Jonglor?”

  “Well—”

  “Get to see the Exposition?”

  “Yes. Fabulous.” He couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. “My God, this rain, Liliath!”

  “It wasn’t raining in Jonglor?”

  “Clear and dry all the time. The way it was when I left Saro.”

  “Well, seasons change, Sheerin. You can’t hope to have the same weather for six months at a stretch, you know. With a different set of suns in the ascendant every day, we can’t expect the patterns of climate to hold still very long.”

  “I can’t tell whether you sound more like a meteorologist or an astrologer,” Sheerin said.

  “Neither. I sound like a psychologist. —Aren’t you going to tell me anything about your trip, Sheerin?”

  He hesitated. “The Exposition was very fine. I’m sorry you missed it. But most of the time I was hard at work. They’ve got a real mess on their hands up north, this Tunnel of Mystery thing.”

  “Is it really true that people have been dying in it?”

  “A few. But mainly they’ve been coming out traumatized, disoriented. Claustrophobic. I spoke with some of the victims. They’ll be months recovering. For some it’ll be permanent disability. And even so the Tunnel stayed open for weeks.”

  “After the problems began?”

  “Nobody seemed to care. Least of all the people who run the Exposition. They were just interested in selling tickets. And the fairgoers were curious about Darkness. Curious about Darkness, can you imagine that, Liliath? They lined up eagerly to put their minds in jeopardy! Of course, they were all convinced that nothing bad was going to happen to them. And nothing bad did, to a lot of them. But not all. —I took a ride in the Tunnel myself.”

  “You did?” she said, sounding astonished. “What was it like?”

  “A nasty business. I’d pay a good deal not to have to do it again.”

  “But obviously you came out all right.”

  “Obviously,” he said carefully. “I might come out all right if I swallowed half a dozen live fish, too. But it’s not something I’d be likely to want to repeat. I told them to shut their damned Tunnel down. That was my professional opinion, and I think they’re going to abide by it. We simply weren’t designed to withstand that much Darkness, Liliath. A minute, two minutes, maybe—then we start to snap. It’s an innate thing, I’m convinced of it, millions of years of evolution shaping us to be what we are. Darkness is the most unnatural thing in the world. And the idea of selling it to people as entertainment—” He shuddered. “Well, I’ve had my trip to Jonglor, and now I’m back. What’s been going on at the university?”

  “Nothing much,” Liliath replied. “The usual stupid little squabbles, the usual faculty meetings, lofty declarations of outrage over this and that burning social issue—you know.” She fell silent for a moment, both hands clinging to the steering stick as she guided the car through deep pools of water that flooded the highway. “There’s apparently some sort of fuss over at the Observatory, by the way. Your friend Beenay 25 came around looking for you. He didn’t tell me very much, but it seems they’re having a big reevaluation of one of their key theories. Everybody’s in an uproar. Old Athor himself is leading the research, can you imagine it? I thought his mind had ossified a century ago. —Beenay had some newspaperman with him, somebody who writes a popular column. Theremon, I think that was his name. Theremon 762. I didn’t care for him much.”

  “He’s very well known. Something of a firebrand, I think, though I’m not exactly sure what kind of causes he fulminates about. He and Beenay spend a lot of time together.”

  Sheerin made a mental note to call the young astronomer after he had unpacked. For close to a year now Beenay had been living with Sheerin’s sister’s girl, Raissta 717, and Sheerin had struck up a close friendship with him, as close as was possible considering the difference of twenty-odd years in their ages. Sheerin had an amateur’s interest in astronomy: that was one of the bonds that drew them together.

  Athor back doing theoretical work! Imagine that! What could it all be about? Had some upstart published a paper attacking the Law of Universal Gravitation? No, Sheerin thought—nobody would dare.

  “And you?” Sheerin asked. “You haven’t said a word about what you did all the time I was away.”

  “What do you think I did, Sheerin? Go power-soaring in the mountains? Attend meetings of the Apostles of Flame? Take a course in political science? I read books. I taught my classes. I ran my experiments. I waited for you to come home. I planned the dinner I’d cook when you did come home. —You’re sure you aren’t on a diet, now?”

  “Of course not.” He let his hand rest fondly on hers for a moment. “I thought about you all the time, Liliath.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “And I can hardly wait for dinnertime.”

  “At least that much sounds plausible.”

  The rain suddenly grew even more dense. A great swolloping mass of it struck the windshield and it was all Liliath could do to keep the car on the road, though she managed it. They were going past the Pantheon, the magnificent Cathedral of All the Gods. It didn’t seem quite so magnificent now, with rivers of rain sluicing down its brick facade.

  The sky darkened another degree or two in the worsening storm. Sheerin cringed away from the blackness outside and looked toward the brightly lit controls of the car’s dashboard for comfort.

  He didn’t
want to be in the enclosed space of the car any more. He wanted to be outside in the open fields, storm or no storm. But that was crazy. He’d be soaked in an instant out there. He might even drown, the puddles were so deep.

  Think happy thoughts, he told himself. Think warm bright thoughts. Think about sunshine, the golden sunshine of Onos, the warm light of Patru and Trey, even the chilly light of Sitha and Tano, the faint red light of Dovim. Think about this evening’s dinner. Liliath has made a feast for you to welcome you back. She’s such a good cook, Liliath is.

  He realized that he still wasn’t hungry at all. Not on a miserable gray day like this—so dark—so dark—

  But Liliath was very sensitive about her cooking. Especially when she cooked for him. He’d eat everything she put before him, he resolved, even if he had to force himself. A funny notion, he thought: he, Sheerin, the great gourmand, thinking about forcing himself to eat!

  Liliath glanced toward him at the sound of his laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I—ah—that Athor should be back doing research again,” he said hastily. “After having been content so long with being the Lord High Emperor of Astronomy and doing purely administrative stuff. I’ll have to call Beenay right away. What in the world can be going on over at the Observatory?”

  [12]

  This was Siferra 89’s third day back at Saro University, and it hadn’t stopped raining yet. Quite a refreshing contrast to the bone-dry desert environment of the Sagikan Peninsula. She hadn’t seen rain in so long that she found herself wonderstruck at the whole idea that water could fall from the skies.