Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

Let everyone actually begin believing that doom would arrive on the evening of Theptar nineteenth, and there would be panic in the streets long before that, universal hysteria, a collapse of law and order, a prolonged period of general instability and troublesome apprehension—followed by the gods only knew what sort of emotional upheavals when the dreaded day came and went harmlessly. It would have to be his task to deflate the fear of Nightfall, of Darkness, of Doomsday, by poking it with the sharp spear of laughter.

So when Mondior thundered ferociously that the vengeance of the gods was on the way, Theremon 762 replied with lighthearted sketches of what the world would be like if the Apostles succeeded in “reforming” society as they wanted to—people going to the beach bundled up in ankle-length swimsuits, long sessions of prayer between each bit of action at sports events, all the great books and classic plays and shows rewritten to eliminate the slightest hint of impiety.

And when Athor and his group released diagrams showing the movements of the unseen and apparently unseeable Kalgash Two across the sky on its shadowy rendezvous with the pallid red light of Dovim, Theremon made amiable remarks about dragons, invisible giants, and other mythological monsters cavorting through the heavens.

When Mondior waved the scientific authority of Athor 77 around as an argument demonstrating secular support of the Apostles’ teachings, Theremon responded by asking how seriously anyone could take Athor 77’s scientific authority, now that he was obviously just as deranged as Mondior himself.

When Athor called for a crash program to store food supplies, scientific and technical information, and everything else that would be needed by mankind after the general insanity broke loose, Theremon suggested that in some quarters the general insanity had already broken loose, and provided his own list of essential items to put away in your basement (“can openers, thumbtacks, copies of the multiplication table, playing cards.…Don’t forget to write your name on a tag and tie it around your right wrist, in case you don’t remember it after the Darkness comes.…Put a tag on your left wrist that says, To find out your name, see tag on other wrist.…” )

By the time Theremon had finished working the story over, it was hard for his readers to decide which group was more absurd—the ripsnorting doomsayers of the Apostles of Flame, or the pathetic, gullible skywatchers of the Saro University Observatory. But one thing was certain: thanks to Theremon, hardly any member of the general public believed that anything out of the ordinary was going to take place on the evening of Theptar nineteenth.

Athor thrust out a belligerent lower lip and glared in rage at the man from the Chronicle. He was able to restrain himself only by a supreme effort.

“You here? Despite everything I said? Of all the audacity!”

Theremon’s hand was outstretched in greeting as though he really had expected Athor to accept it. But after a moment he lowered it, and stood regarding the Observatory director with astonishing insouciance.

In a voice trembling with barely controlled emotion Athor said, “You display an infernal gall, sir, in coming here this evening. It astounds me that you’d dare to show your face among us.”

From a corner of the room, Beenay, running the tip of his tongue nervously across his lips, interposed nervously, “Now, sir, after all—”

“Did you invite him to be here? When you knew I had expressly forbidden—”

“Sir, I—”

“It was Dr. Siferra,” Theremon said. “She urged me very vigorously to come. I’m here at her invitation.”

“Siferra? Siferra? I doubt that very much. She told me only a few weeks ago that she thinks you’re an irresponsible fool. She spoke of you in the harshest possible manner.” Athor looked around. “Where is she, by the way? She was supposed to be here, wasn’t she?” No answer came. Turning to Beenay, Athor said, “You’re the one who brought this newspaperman in, Beenay. I’m utterly amazed that you’d do such a thing. This isn’t the moment for insubordination. The Observatory is closed to journalists this evening. And it’s been closed to this particular journalist for a long time now. Show him out at once.”

“Director Athor,” Theremon said, “if you’ll only let me explain what my reason for—”

“I don’t believe, young man, that anything you could say now would do much to outweigh your insufferable daily columns of these last two months. You have led a vast newspaper campaign against the efforts of my colleagues and myself to organize the world against the menace that is about to overwhelm us. You have done your best with your highly personal attacks to make the staff of this Observatory objects of ridicule.”

He lifted the copy of the Saro City Chronicle on the table and shook it at Theremon furiously. “Even a person of your well-known impudence should have hesitated before coming to me with a request that he be allowed to cover today’s events for this paper. Of all newsmen— you! ”

Athor dashed the newspaper to the floor, strode to the window, and clasped his arms behind his back.

“You are to leave immediately,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Beenay, get him out of here.”

Athor’s head was throbbing. It was important, he knew, to get his anger under control. He could not afford to allow anything to distract him from the vast and cataclysmic event that was about to occur.

Moodily he stared out at the Saro City skyline and forced himself back toward calmness, as much calmness as he was likely to be able to attain this evening.

Onos was beginning now to sink toward the horizon. In a little while it would fade and vanish into the distant mists. Athor watched it as it descended.

He knew he would never see it again as a sane man.

The cold white gleam of Sitha also was visible, low in the sky, far across the city at the other end of the horizon. Sitha’s twin, Tano, was nowhere to be seen—already set, gliding now through the skies of the opposite hemisphere, which soon would be enjoying the extraordinary phenomenon of a five-sun day—and Sitha itself was also swiftly vanishing from view. In another moment it too would disappear.

Behind him he heard Beenay and Theremon whispering.

“Is that man still here?” Athor asked ominously.

Beenay said, “Sir, I think you ought to listen to what he has to tell you.”

“You do? You think I ought to listen to him?” Athor whirled, his eyes gleaming fiercely. “Oh, no, Beenay. No, he’ll be the one to listen to me!” He beckoned peremptorily to the newspaperman, who had made no motion at all to leave. “Come here, young man! I’ll give you your story.”

Theremon walked slowly toward him.

Athor gestured outward. “Sitha is about to set—no, it already has. Onos will be gone also, in another moment or two. Of all the six suns, only Dovim will be left in the sky. Do you see it?”

The question was scarcely necessary to ask. The red dwarf sun looked even smaller than usual this evening, smaller than it had appeared in decades. But it was almost at zenith, and its ruddy light streamed down awesomely, flooding the landscape with an extraordinary blood-red illumination as the brilliant rays of setting Onos died.

Athor’s upturned face flushed redly in the Dovim-light. “In just under four hours,” he said, “civilization, as we have known it, will come to an end. It will do so because, as you see, Dovim will be the only sun in the sky.” He narrowed his eyes, stared toward the horizon. The last yellow blink of Onos now was gone. “There. Dovim is alone! We have four hours, now, until the finish of everything. Print that! But there’ll be no one to read it.”