Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

No doubt this man was some high functionary in the organization. But Theremon’s appointment was with Mondior.

He had decided just this morning, after writing his story on the Apostles’ latest fulmination, that he needed to know more about this mysterious cult. Everything they had ever said struck him as nonsense, of course, but it was beginning to seem like interesting nonsense, worth writing about in some detail. How better to learn more about them than to go straight to the top man? Assuming that was possible, that is. But to his surprise they had told him, when he called, that he could have an audience with Mondior 71 that very day. It had seemed too easy.

Now he began to realize that it bad been too easy.

“I am Folimun 66,” the sharp-faced man said in a light, flexible voice with none of Mondior’s compelling thunder. Yet it was, Theremon suspected, the voice of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed. “I am the public-relations adjutant for the home district of our organization. It will be my pleasure to answer any questions you may have.”

“My appointment was with Mondior himself,” Theremon said.

Folimun 66’s chilly eyes betrayed no sign of surprise. “You may think of me as the voice of Mondior.”

“I understood it would be a personal audience.”

“It is. Anything said to me is shared with Mondior; anything that comes from me is the word of Mondior. This should be understood.”

“Nevertheless, I was given assurances that I’d be allowed to talk with Mondior. I have no doubt that what you tell me would be authoritative, but it isn’t just information that I’m looking for. I’d like to form some opinion of what sort of man Mondior is, what his views are on other things besides the prophesied destruction of the world, what he thinks about—”

“I can only repeat what I have already said,” Folimun declared, cutting in smoothly. “You may think of me as the voice of Mondior. His Serenity will not be able to see you in person today.”

“Then I would prefer to return on another day, when His Serenity will be—”

“Permit me to inform you that Mondior does not make himself available for personal interviews, not ever. Not ever. His Serenity’s work is much too urgent, now that only a matter of months stands between us and the Time of Flame.” Folimun smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly warm and human smile, perhaps intended to take some of the sting out of the refusal and out of that melodramatic-sounding phrase, “the Time of Flame.” Almost gently he said, “I would guess that there’s been a misunderstanding, that you didn’t realize that your appointment would be with a spokesman for Mondior rather than with the High Apostle himself. But that’s the way it must be. If you don’t wish to speak with me, well, I regret that you’ve wasted your trip today. But I’m the most useful source of information you’re going to be able to find here, now or at any other time.”

Again the smile. It was the smile of a man who was coolly and unapologetically closing a door in Theremon’s face.

“Very well,” Theremon said after a moment or two of consideration. “I see I don’t have much choice. I get you or I get nobody. All right: let’s talk. How much time do I have?”

“As much as you need, though this first meeting will have to be a fairly brief one. And also”—a grin, a surprising one, almost mischievous—“you must bear in mind that we have only fourteen months altogether. And I’ve got a few other things to do during that time.”

“So I imagine. Fourteen months, you say? And then what?”

“You haven’t read the Book of Revelations, then, I assume.”

“Not recently, actually.”

“Permit me, then.” Folimun produced a thin red-bound volume from some crevice of his apparently empty desk and slid it toward Theremon. “This is for you. You’ll find much nourishment in it, I hope. Meanwhile I can summarize the theme that appears to be of the greatest interest to you. Very shortly—exactly four hundred and eighteen days from now, to be extremely precise, on the nineteenth of Theptar next—a great transformation will come over our comfortable, familiar world. The six suns will enter the Cave of Darkness and disappear, the Stars will make themselves manifest to us, and all Kalgash will be set ablaze.”

He made it sound very casual. As though he might be talking about the coming of a rainstorm tomorrow afternoon, or the expected blossoming of some rare plant next week in the Municipal Botanical Garden. All Kalgash set ablaze. The six suns entering the Cave of Darkness. The Stars.

“The Stars,” Theremon said aloud. “And what, in fact, may they be?”

“They are the instruments of the gods.”

“Can you be more specific, do you think?”

“The nature of the Stars will be made more than amply clear to us,” said Folimun 66, “in a matter of four hundred and eighteen days.”

“When the current Year of Godliness comes to its end,” said Theremon. “On Theptar nineteenth of next year.”

Folimun looked pleasantly surprised. “So you have been studying our teachings.”

“To some extent. I’ve listened to Mondior’s recent speeches, at any rate. I know about the two-thousand-and-forty-nine-year cycle.—And the event you call the Time of Flame? I suppose you can’t provide me with any sort of advance description of that, either.”

“You’ll find something along those lines in the fifth chapter of the Book of Revelations. No, you needn’t search for it now: I can quote it for you. ‘From the Stars there then reached down the Heavenly Flames, that was the bearer of the will of the gods; and where the flames touched, the cities of Kalgash were consumed even to utter destruction, so that of man and the works of man nothing whatever remained.’ ”

Theremon nodded. “A sudden terrible cataclysm. Why?”

“The will of the gods. They have warned us against our wickedness and have given us a span of years in which to redeem ourselves. That span is what we call the Year of Godliness, a ‘year’ two thousand and forty-nine human years long, about which you already appear to know. The current Year of Godliness is nearly at its end.”

“And then we’ll all be wiped out, you think?”

“Not all of us. But most will; and our civilization will be destroyed. Those few who survive will face the immense task of rebuilding. This is, as you seem already to be aware, a melancholy repetitive cycle in human events. What is soon due to occur will not be the first time that mankind has failed the test of the gods. We have been struck down more than once before; and now we are on the verge of being struck down yet again.”

The curious thing, Theremon thought, was that Folimun didn’t seem at all crazy.

Except for his odd robe, he could have been any sort of youngish businessman sitting in his handsome office—a loan applications officer, for instance, or an investment banker. He was obviously intelligent. He spoke clearly and well, in a crisp, direct tone. He neither ranted nor raved. But the things he was saying, in his crisp, direct way, were the wildest sort of nonsensical babble. The contrast between what Folimun said and the way he said it was hard to take.

Now he sat quietly, looking relaxed, waiting for the newspaperman to ask the next question.

“I’ll be frank,” Theremon said after a little while. “Like many people, I have difficulty accepting something this big which is handed to me simply as a revelation. I need solid proofs. But you don’t show us any. Take it on faith, you say. There’s no tangible evidence to demonstrate, of course, that’s what you tell us, but we’d all better just believe what you’re offering us, because you’ve heard all this from the gods, and you know the gods aren’t lying to you. Can you show me why I should believe you, though? Faith alone isn’t enough for people like me.”