Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

“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?”

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.

In Sagikan, every drop of water was enormously precious. You calculated its use with the greatest precision and recycled whatever was recyclable. Now here it was, pouring down out of the heavens as though from a gigantic reservoir that could never run dry. Siferra felt a powerful urge to strip her clothes off and sprint across the great green lawns of the campus, letting the rainfall flow down her body in an unending delicious stream to wash her clean at last of the infernal desert dust.

That was all they’d need to see. That cool, aloof, unromantic professor of archaeology, Siferra 89, running naked in the rain! It would be worth doing if only to enjoy the sight of their astounded faces peering out of every window of the university as she went flying past.

Not very likely, though, Siferra thought.

Not my style at all.

And there was too much to do, really. She hadn’t wasted any time getting down to work. Most of the artifacts she had excavated at the Beklimot site were following along by cargo ship and wouldn’t be here for many weeks. But there were charts to arrange, sketches to finish, Balik’s stratigraphic photographs to analyze, the soil samples to prepare for the radiography lab, a million and one things to do.—And then, too, there were the Thombo tablets to discuss with Mudrin 505 of the Department of Paleography.

The Thombo tablets! The find of finds, the premier discovery of the entire year and a half! Or so she felt. Of course, it all depended on whether anyone could make any sense out of them. At any rate, she would waste no time getting Mudrin working on them. At the least, the tablets were fascinating things; but they might be much more than that. There was the possibility that they might revolutionize the entire study of the prehistoric world. That was why she hadn’t entrusted them to the freight shippers, but had carried them back from Sagikan in her own hands.

A knock at the dour.

“Siferra? Siferra, are you there?”

“Come on in, Balik.”

The broad-shouldered stratigrapher was soaking wet. “This foul abominable rain,” he muttered, shaking himself off. “You wouldn’t believe how drenched I got just crossing the quad from Uland Library to here!”

“I love the rain,” Siferra said. “I hope it never stops. After all those months baking out in the desert—the sand in your eyes all the time, the dust in your throat, the heat, the dryness—no, let it rain, Balik!”

“But I see you’re keeping yourself indoors. It’s a whole lot easier to appreciate rain when you’re looking at it from a nice dry office.—Playing with your tablets again, are you?”

He indicated the six ragged, battered slabs of hard red clay that Siferra had arranged atop her desk in two groups of three, the square ones in one row and the oblong ones below them.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Siferra said exultantly. “I can’t leave them alone. I keep staring at them as if they’ll suddenly become intelligible if only I look at them long enough.”

Balik leaned forward and shook his head. “Chickenscratches. That’s all it looks like to me.”

“Come on! I’ve already identified distinct word-patterns,” Siferra said. “And I’m no paleographer. Here—look—you see this group of six characters here? It repeats over here. And these three, with the wedges setting them off—”