Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

“They think everything’s evil. But drinking certainly is. That’s what’s so wonderful about it, eh, my friend?” Theremon laughed. “You were telling me about Athor.”

“Yes. The really comical thing. Do you remember that wild notion you had that some unknown factor might be pushing Kalgash away from the orbit we’d expect it to have?”

“The invisible giant, yes. The dragon huffing and puffing in the sky.”

“Well, Athor took exactly the same position!”

“He thinks there’s a dragon in the sky?”

Beenay guffawed. “Don’t be silly. But some sort of unknown factor, yes. A dark sun, maybe, or some other world that’s located at a position that’s impossible for us to see, but which nevertheless is exerting gravitational force on Kalgash—”

“Isn’t that all a little on the fantastic side?” Theremon asked.

“Of course it is. But Athor reminded me of the old philosophical chestnut of Thargola’s Sword. Which we use—metaphorically, I mean—to smite the more complex premise when we’re trying to decide between two hypotheses. It’s simpler to go looking for a dark sun than it is to have to produce an entirely new Theory of Universal Gravitation. And therefore—”

“A dark sun? But isn’t that a contradiction in terms? A sun is a source of light. If it’s dark, how can it be a sun?”

“That’s just one of the possibilities Athor tossed at us. It isn’t necessarily one that he takes seriously. What we’ve been doing, these last few days, is throwing around all kinds of astronomical notions, hoping that one of them will make enough sense so that we can begin to put together an explanation for— Look, there’s Sheerin.” Beenay waved at the rotund psychologist, who had just entered the club. “Sheerin! Sheerin! Come out here and have a drink with us, will you?”

Sheerin stepped carefully through the narrow doorway.

“So you’ve taken up some new vices, have you, Beenay?”

“Not very many. But Theremon’s exposed me to the Tano Special, and I’m afraid I’ve caught a taste for it. You know Theremon, don’t you? He writes the column in the Chronicle. ”

“I don’t think we’ve actually met,” Sheerin said. He offered his hand. “I’ve certainly heard a lot about you, though. I’m Raissta 717’s uncle.”

“The psych professor,” Theremon said. “You’ve been at the Jonglor Exposition, right?”

Sheerin looked startled. “You keep up with everything, don’t you?”

“I try to.” The waiter was back. “What can we get you? Tano Special?”

“Too strong for me,” Sheerin said. “And a little too sweet.—Do you have neltigir, by any chance?”

“The Jonglorian brandy? I’m not sure. How do you want it, if I can find some?”

“Straight,” said Sheerin. “Please.” To Theremon and Beenay he said, “I developed a liking for it while I was up north. The food’s awful in Jonglor, but at least they can distill a decent brandy.”

“I hear they’ve had a lot of trouble at the Exposition,” Theremon said. “Some problem in their amusement park—a ride through Darkness that was driving people crazy, literally driving them out of their heads—”

“The Tunnel of Mystery, yes. That was the reason I was there: as a consultant called in by the city and its lawyers for an opinion.”

Theremon sat forward. “Is it true that people were dying of shock in that tunnel, and they kept it open anyway?”

“Everyone’s been asking me that,” replied Sheerin. “There were a few deaths, yes. But they didn’t seem to harm the ride’s popularity. People insisted on taking the risk anyway. And a lot of them came out very badly deranged. I took a ride in the Tunnel of Mystery myself,” he said, shuddering. “Well, they’ve shut the thing down, now. I told them it was either that or fork over millions of credits in liability suits, that it was absurd to expect people to be able to tolerate Darkness at that level of intensity. They saw the logic of that.”

“We do have some neltigir, sir,” the waiter broke in, putting a glass of somber brownish brandy on the table in front of Sheerin. “Just one bottle, so you’d better go easy.” The psychologist nodded and scooped up his drink, downing about half of it before the waiter had left the table.

“Sir, I said—”

Sheerin smiled at him. “I heard what you said. I’ll take it easier after this one.” He turned to Beenay. “I understand there was some excitement at the Observatory while I was up north. Liliath told me. But she wasn’t too clear on what was going on. Some new theory, I think she said—”

Grinning, Beenay said, “Theremon and I were just talking about that. Not a new theory, no. A challenge to an established one. I was running some calculations on Kalgash’s orbit, and—”

Sheerin listened to the story with increasing astonishment. “The Theory of Universal Gravitation’s invalid?” he cried when Beenay was halfway through. “Good lord, man! Does that mean that if I put my glass down, it’s likely to go floating up into the sky? I’d better finish off my neltigir first, then!” And he did.

Beenay laughed. “The theory’s still on the books. What we’re trying to do—what Athor is trying to do; he’s been spearheading the work, and it’s amazing to watch him go at it—is to come up with a mathematical explanation for why our figures don’t come out the way we think they ought to.”

“Massaging the data, I think it’s called,” Theremon added.

“Sounds suspicious to me,” Sheerin said. “You don’t like the result, so you rearrange your findings, is that it, Beenay? Make everything fit, by hook or by crook?”

“Well, not exactly—”

“Admit it! Admit it!” Sheerin roared with laughter. “Waiter! Another neltigir! And one more Tano Special for my unethical young friend here!—Theremon, can I get you a drink too?”

“Please.”

Sheerin said in the same broad tone as before, “This is all very disillusioning, Beenay. I thought it was only us psychologists who made the data fit the theories and called the result ‘science.’ Seems more like something the Apostles of Flame might do!”

“Sheerin! Cut it out!”

“The Apostles claim to be scientists too,” Theremon put in. Beenay and Sheerin turned to look at him. “Last week just before the rain started I had an interview with one of their big people,” he went on. “I had hoped to see Mondior, but I got a certain Folimun 66 instead, their public-relations man, very slick, very bright, very personable. He spent half an hour explaining to me that the Apostles have reliable scientific proof that next year on the nineteenth of Theptar the suns are going to go out and we’ll all be plunged into Darkness and everyone will go insane.”

“The whole world turned into one big Tunnel of Mystery, is that it?” Sheerin said jovially. “We won’t have enough mental hospitals to hold the entire population, you know. Or enough psychiatrists to treat them. Besides, the psychiatrists will be crazy too.”

“Aren’t they already?” Beenay asked.

“Good point,” said Sheerin.

“The madness isn’t the worst of it,” Theremon said. “According to Folimun, the sky will be filled with something called Stars that will shoot fire down upon us and set everything ablaze. And there we’ll be, a world full of gibbering maniacs, wandering around in cities that are burning down around our ears. Thank heaven it’s nothing but Mondior’s bad dream.”

“But what if it isn’t?” Sheerin said, suddenly sobering. His round face grew long and thoughtful. “What if there’s something to it?”

“What an appalling notion,” Beenay said. “I think it calls for another drink.”