by Isaac Asimov
Athor snorted. “Do you mean your hands?”
“Certainly!” Theremon flung himself down casually in the most comfortable chair in the room and crossed his legs. “My columns may have been a little rough at times, agreed, but I let you people have the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. Beenay’s a friend of mine, after all. He’s the one who first gave me an inkling of what was going on here, and you may recall that at the beginning I was quite sympathetic to your research. But—I ask you, Dr. Athor—how can you, one of the greatest of all scientists in all of history, turn your back on the awareness that the present century is a time of the triumph of reason over superstition, of fact over fantasy, of knowledge over blind fear? The Apostles of Flame are an absurd anachronism. The Book of Revelations is a muddled mass of foolishness. Everyone intelligent, everyone modern, knows that. And so people are annoyed, even angered, to have scientists turn about face and tell us that these cultists are preaching the truth. They—”
“No such thing, young man,” interrupted Athor. “While some of our data has been supplied us by the Apostles, our results contain none of the Apostles’ mysticism. Facts are facts, and there’s no denying that the Apostles’ so-called ‘foolishness’ does have certain facts behind it. We discovered that to our own chagrin, let me assure you. But we’ve scorned their mythologizing and done whatever we could to separate their quite genuine warnings of impending disaster from their quite preposterous and untenable program for transforming and ‘reforming’ society. I assure you that the Apostles hate us now even more than you do.”
“I don’t hate you. I’m just trying to tell you that the public is in an ugly humor. They’re angry.”
Athor twisted his mouth in derision. “Let them be angry!”
“Yes, but what about tomorrow?”
“There’ll be no tomorrow!”
“But if there is. Say that there is—just for the sake of argument. That anger might take shape as something serious. After all, you know, the whole financial world’s been in a nose-dive the last few months. The stock market has crashed three separate times, or haven’t you noticed? Sensible investors don’t really believe the world is coming to an end, but they think other investors might start to think so, and so the smart ones sell out before the panic begins—thus touching off the panic themselves. And then they buy back afterward, and sell again as soon as the market rallies, and begin the whole downward cycle all over again. And what do you think has happened to business? Johnny Public doesn’t believe you either, but there’s no sense buying new porch furniture just now, is there? Better to hang on to your money, just in case, or put it into canned goods and ammunition, and let the furniture wait.
“You see the point, Dr. Athor. Just as soon as this is all over, the business interests will be after your hide. They’ll say that if crackpots—begging your pardon—crackpots in the guise of serious scientists can upset the world’s entire economy any time they want simply by making some cockeyed prediction, then it’s up to the world to keep such things from happening. The sparks will fly, Doctor.”
Athor regarded the columnist indifferently. The five minutes were almost up.
“And just what were you proposing to do to help the situation?”
“Well,” Theremon said, grinning, “what I have in mind is this: starting tomorrow, I’ll serve as your unofficial public-relations representative. By which I mean that I can try to quell the anger you’re going to face, the same way that I’ve been trying to ease the tension the nation has been feeling—through humor, through ridicule, if necessary. I know—I know—it would be hard to stand, I admit, because I’d have to make you all out to be a bunch of gibbering idiots. But if I can get people laughing at you, they might just forget to be angry. In return for that, all I ask is the exclusive right to cover the scene at the Observatory this evening.”
Athor was silent. Beenay burst out, “Sir, it’s worth considering. I know that we’ve examined every possibility, but there’s always a million-to-one chance, a billion-to-one chance, that there’s an error somewhere in our theory or in our calculations. And if there is—”
The others in the room were murmuring now, and it sounded to Athor like murmurs of agreement. By the gods, was the whole department turning against him? Athor’s expression became that of one who found his mouth full of something bitter and couldn’t get rid of it.
“Let you remain with us so that you’ll be better able to ridicule us tomorrow? You must think I’m far gone in senility, young man!”
Theremon said, “But I’ve explained that my being here won’t make any difference. If there is an eclipse, if Darkness does come, you can expect nothing but the most reverent treatment from me, and all the help I can give in any crisis that might follow. And if nothing unusual happens after all, I’m willing to offer my services in the hope of protecting you, Dr. Athor, against the wrath of the angry citizens who—”
“Please,” a new voice said. “Let him stay, Dr. Athor.”
Athor looked around. Siferra had come in, unnoticed by him.
“I’m sorry I’m late. We had a little last-minute problem at the Archaeology office that upset things a little, and—” She and Theremon exchanged glances. To Athor she said, “Please don’t be offended. I know how cruelly he’s mocked us. But I asked him to come here this evening, so that he could find out at first hand that we really were right. He’s—my guest, Doctor.”
Athor closed his eyes a moment. Siferra’s guest! It was too much. Why not invite Folimun too? Why not invite Mondior!
But he had lost his appetite for further dispute. Time was running short. And obviously none of the others minded having Theremon here during the eclipse.
What did it matter?
What did anything matter now?
Resignedly Athor said, “All right. Stay, if that’s what you want. But you will kindly refrain from hampering us in our duties in any fashion. Understood? You’ll keep out of the way as much as possible. You will also remember that I am in charge of all activities here, and in spite of your opinions as expressed in your columns, I will expect full cooperation and full respect—”
[21]
Siferra crossed the room to Theremon’s side and said quietly, “I didn’t seriously expect you to come here this evening.”
“Why not? The invitation was serious, wasn’t it?”
“Of course. But you were so savage in your mockery, in all those columns you wrote about us—so cruel—”
“ ‘Irresponsible’ is the word you used,” Theremon said.
She reddened. “That too. I didn’t imagine you’d be able to look Athor in the eye after all those horrid things you said about him.”
“I’ll do more than look him in the eye, if it turns out that his dire predictions were on the mark. I’ll go down on both knees before him and humbly beg his pardon.”
“And if his predictions turn out not to have been on the mark?”
“Then he’ll need me.” Theremon said. “You all will. This is the right place for me to be, this evening.”
Siferra gave the newspaperman a startled glance. He was always saying the unexpected thing. She hadn’t managed to figure him out yet. She disliked him, of course—that went without saying. Everything about him—his profession, his manner of speaking, the flashy clothes he usually wore—struck her as tawdry and commonplace. His entire persona was a symbol, to her, of the crude, crass, dreary, ordinary, repellent world beyond the university walls that she had always detested.
And yet, and yet, and yet—
There were aspects of this Theremon that had managed to win her grudging admiration, despite everything. He was tough, for one thing, absolutely unswervable in his pursuit of whatever he might be after. She could appreciate that. He was straightforward, even blunt: quite a contrast to the slippery, manipulative, power-chasing academic types who swarmed all around her on the campus. He was intelligent, too, no question about that, even though he had chosen to devote his particular brand
of sinewy, probing intelligence to a trivial, meaningless field like newspaper journalism. And she respected his robust physical vigor: he was tall and sturdy-looking and in obvious good health. Siferra had never had much esteem for weaklings. She had taken good care not to be one herself.
In truth she realized—improbable as it was, uncomfortable as it made her feel—that in some way she was attracted to him. An attraction of opposites? she thought. Yes, yes, that was an accurate way of putting it. But not entirely. Beneath the surface dissimilarities, Siferra knew, she had more in common with Theremon than she was willing to admit.
She looked uneasily toward the window. “Getting dark out there,” she said. “Darker than I’ve ever seen it before.”
“Frightened?” Theremon asked.
“Of the Darkness? No, not really. But I’m frightened of what’s going to come after it. You should be too.”
“What’s going to come after it,” he said, “is Onos-rise, and I suppose some of the other suns will be shining too, and everything’s going to be as it was before.”
“You sound very confident of that.”
Theremon laughed. “Onos has risen every morning of my life. Why shouldn’t I be confident it’ll rise tomorrow?”
Siferra shook her head. He was beginning to annoy her again with his pigheadedness. Hard to believe that she had been telling herself only moments before that she found him attractive.
She said coolly, “Onos will rise tomorrow. And will look down on such a scene of devastation as a person of your limited imagination is evidently incapable of anticipating.”
“Everything on fire, you mean? And everyone walking around drooling and gibbering while the city burns?”
“The archaeological evidence indicates—”
“Fires, yes. Repeated holocausts. But only in one small site, thousands of miles from here and thousands of years ago.” Theremon’s eyes flashed with sudden vitality. “And where’s your archaeological evidence for outbreaks of mass insanity? Are you extrapolating from all those fires? How can you be sure that those weren’t purely ritual fires, lit by perfectly sane men and women in the hope that they would bring back the suns and banish the Darkness? Fire which got out of hand each time and caused widespread damage, sure, but which were in no way related to any mental impairment on the part of the population?”
She gazed at him levelly. “There’s archaeological evidence of that too. The widespread mental impairment, I mean.”
“There is?”
“The tablet texts. Which only this morning we just finished keying in against the philological data provided by the Apostles of Flame—”
Theremon guffawed. “The Apostles of Flame! Wonderful! So you’re an Apostle too! What a shame, Siferra. A woman with a figure like yours, and from now on you’ll have to muffle yourself up in one of those terrible shapeless bulky robes of theirs—”
“Oh!” she cried, stifling a red burst of anger and loathing. “You don’t know how to do anything but mock, do you? You’re so convinced of your own righteousness that even when you’re staring right at the truth all you can do is make some pitiful joke! Oh—you—you impossible man—”
She swung around and headed swiftly across the room.
“Siferra—Siferra, wait—”
She ignored him. Her heart was pounding in rage. She saw now that it had been a terrible mistake to invite someone like Theremon to be here on the evening of the eclipse. A mistake, in fact, ever to have had anything to do with him.
It was Beenay’s fault, she thought. Everything was Beenay’s fault.
It was Beenay, after all, who had introduced her to Theremon, one day at the Faculty Club many months before. Apparently the newspaperman and the young astronomer had known each other a long time and Theremon regularly consulted Beenay on scientific matters that were making news.
What was making news just then was the prediction of Mondior 71 that the world would end on Theptar nineteenth—which at that time was something close to a year in the future. Of course nobody at the university held Mondior and his Apostles in any sort of regard, but it was just about at the same moment that Beenay had come up with his observations of the apparent irregularities in Kalgash’s orbit, and Siferra had reported her findings of fires at two-thousand-year intervals at the Hill of Thombo. Both of which discoveries, of course, had the dismaying quality of reinforcing the plausibility of the Apostles’ beliefs.
Theremon had seemed to know all about Siferra’s work at Thombo. When the newspaperman entered the Faculty Club—Siferra and Beenay were already there, though not by any prearranged appointment—Beenay merely had to say, “Theremon, this is my friend Dr. Siferra of the Archaeology Department.” And Theremon replied instantly, “Oh, yes. The burned villages piled up on that ancient hill.”
Siferra smiled coolly. “You’ve heard of that, have you?”
Beenay said quickly, “I told him. I know I promised not to say a word about it to him, but after you revealed everything to Athor and Sheerin and the rest, I figured that it wouldn’t matter any more if I let him know—so long as I swore him to secrecy—I mean, Siferra, I trust this man, I really do, and I was absolutely confident that—”
“It’s all right, Beenay,” Siferra said, making an effort not to seem as annoyed as in fact she was. “You really shouldn’t have said anything. But I forgive you.”
Theremon said, “No harm’s been done. Beenay swore me to a terrible oath that I wouldn’t print anything about it. But it’s fascinating. Absolutely fascinating! How old is the one at the bottom, would you say? Fifty thousand years, is it?”
“More like fourteen or sixteen,” Siferra said. “Which is quite immensely old enough, when you consider that Beklimot—you know of Beklimot, don’t you?—is only about twenty centuries old, and we used to think that was the earliest settlement on Kalgash. —You aren’t planning to write a story about my discoveries, are you?”
“I wasn’t, actually. I told you, I gave Beenay my word. Besides, it seemed a little abstract for the Chronicle’s readers, a little remote from their daily concerns. But I think now there’s a real story there. If you’d be willing to meet with me and give me the details—”
“I’d rather not,” Siferra said quickly.
“Which? Meet with me? Or give me the details?”
His quick flip reply suddenly cast the entire conversation in a new light for her. She saw, to her mild annoyance and slight surprise, that the newspaperman was in fact attracted to her. She realized now, thinking back over the past few minutes, that Theremon must have been wondering, all the while, whether there might be something romantic going on between her and Beenay, since he had found them sitting here in the club together. And had decided at last that there wasn’t, and so had chosen to offer that first lightly flirtatious line.
Well, that was his problem, Siferra thought.
She said in a deliberately neutral way, “I haven’t published my Thombo work in the scientific journals yet. It would be best if nothing about it gets into the public press until I have.”
“I quite understand that. But if I promise that I’ll abide by your release date, would you be willing to go over your material with me ahead of time?”
“Well—”
She looked at Beenay. What was a newspaperman’s promise worth, anyway?
Beenay said, “You can trust Theremon. I’ve told you already: he’s as honorable as they get, in his line of work.”
“Which isn’t saying much,” Theremon put in, laughing. “But I know better than to break my word on an issue of scientific publication priority. If I jumped the gun on your story, Beenay here would see that my name was mud all over the university. And I depend on my university contacts for some of my most interesting stories. —So can I count on an interview with you? Say, the day after next?”
And that was how it began.
Theremon was very persuasive. She agreed finally to have lunch with him, and slowly, cunningly, he pried the details of the Thomb
o dig out of her. Afterward she regretted it—she expected to see a stupid, sensational piece in the Chronicle the very next day—but Theremon kept his word and published nothing about her. He did ask to see her laboratory, though. Again she yielded, and he inspected the charts, the photographs, the ash samples. He asked some intelligent questions.
“You aren’t going to write me up, are you?” she asked nervously. “Now that you’ve seen all this?”
“I promised that I wouldn’t. I meant it. Although the moment you tell me that you’ve arranged to publish your findings in one of the scientific journals, I’ll regard myself as free to tell the whole thing. What would you say to dinner at the Six Suns Club tomorrow evening?”
“Well—”
“Or the evening after that?”
Siferra rarely went to places like the Six Suns. She hated to give anyone the false impression that she was interested in getting into social entanglements.
But Theremon wasn’t easy to turn down. Gently, cheerfully, skillfully, he maneuvered her into a position where she couldn’t avoid a date with him—for ten days hence. Well, what of it? she thought. He was personable enough. She could use a change of pace from the steady grind of her work. She met him at the Six Suns, where everyone seemed to know him. They had drinks, dinner, a fine wine from Thamian Province. He moved the conversation this way and that, very adroitly: a little bit about her life, her fascination with archaeology, her excavations at Beklimot. He found out that she’d never been married and had never been interested in marrying. He spoke of the Apostles with her, their wild prophecies, the surprising relationship of her Thombo finds to Mondior’s claims. Everything he said was tactful, perceptive, interesting. He was very charming—and also very manipulative, she thought.
At the end of the evening he asked her—gently, cheerfully, skillfully—if he could accompany her home. But she drew the line at that.
He didn’t seem troubled. He simply asked her out again.
They had gone out two or three more times altogether after that, over a period of perhaps two months. The format was the same each time: dinner at some elegant place, well-managed conversation, ultimately a delicately constructed invitation for her to spend the sleep-period with him. Siferra deflected him just as delicately each time. It was becoming a pleasant game, this lighthearted pursuit. She wondered how long it would go on. She still had no particular wish to go to bed with him, but the odd thing was that she had no particular wish any longer not to go to bed with him, either. It was a long time since she had felt that way about any man.
