Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

“Which Athor was able to obtain from them?”

“Some of it. Enough, at any rate, to determine that the Apostles did have genuine astronomical records of the previous eclipse—enough, Athor said, to prove that the world had been through such a cataclysm at least once before.”

Athor, she went on to tell Beenay, had given her copies of the few astronomical text fragments he had received from Folimun, and she had shown them to Mudrin. Who indeed had found them valuable in his own translation of the tablets. But Siferra had balked at sharing her tablets with the Apostles, at least not on their terms. The Apostles claimed to be in possession of a key to the early clay-tablet script, and perhaps they were. Folimun had insisted, though, that she give him the actual tablets to be copied and translated, rather than his giving her the decoding material that he had. He wouldn’t settle for copies of the tablet texts. It had to be the original artifacts, or else no deal.

“But you drew the line at that,” Beenay said.

“Absolutely. The tablets mustn’t leave the university. ‘Give us the textual key,’ I said to Folimun, ‘and we’ll provide you with copies of the tablet texts. Then we can each attempt a translation.’ ”

But Folimun had refused. Copies of the texts were of no use to him, since they could all too easily be dismissed as forgeries. As for giving her his own documents, no, absolutely not. What he had, he said, was sacred material, which could only be made available to Apostles. Give him the tablets and he would provide translations of them for her. But no outsider was going to get a look at the texts already in his possession.

“I was actually tempted to join the Apostles for a moment,” Siferra said, “just for the sake of getting access to the key.”

“You? An Apostle?”

“Only to get their textual material. But the idea repelled me. I turned Folimun down.” And Mudrin had had to toil on at his translations without the help of whatever material the Apostles might have. It became apparent that the tablets did indeed seem to talk about some fiery doom that the gods had sent upon the world—but Mudrin’s translations were sketchy, hesitant, sparse.

Well, now the Apostles had the tablets anyway, more likely than not. That was hard to take. In the chaos ahead, they’d be waving those tablets around— her tablets—as still more evidence of their own wisdom and holiness.

“I’m sorry that your tablets are gone, Siferra,” Beenay said.

“But maybe there’s still a chance the Apostles didn’t steal them. That they’ll turn up somewhere.”

“I’m not counting on that,” said Siferra. And she smiled ruefully and turned away to stare at the darkening sky.

The best she could do by way of comfort was take Athor’s line: that the world was ending in a little while anyway, and nothing mattered very much. But that was cold comfort indeed. She fought inwardly against any such counsel of despair. The important thing was to keep on thinking of the day after tomorrow—of survival, of rebuilding, of the struggle and its fulfillment. It was no good to fall into despondency like Athor, to accept the downfall of humanity, to shrug and give up all hope.

A high tenor voice cut suddenly across her gloomy meditations.

“Hello, everybody! Hello, hello, hello!”

“Sheerin!” Beenay cried. “What are you doing here?”

The plump cheeks of the newcomer expanded in a pleased smile. “What’s this morgue-like atmosphere in here? No one’s losing their nerve, I hope.”

Athor started in consternation and said peevishly, “Yes, what are you doing here, Sheerin? I thought you were going to stay behind in the Sanctuary.”

Sheerin laughed and dropped his tubby figure into a chair. “Sanctuary be damned! The place bored me. I wanted to be here, where things are getting hot. Don’t you suppose I have my share of curiosity? I rode in the Tunnel of Mystery, after all. I can survive another dose of Darkness. And I want to see these Stars that the Apostles have been spouting about.” He rubbed his hands and added in a soberer tone, “It’s freezing outside. The wind’s enough to hang icicles on your nose. Dovim doesn’t seem to give any heat at all, at the distance it is this evening.”

The white-haired director ground his teeth in sudden exasperation. “Why do you go out of your way to do a crazy thing like this, Sheerin? What kind of good can you be around here?”

“What kind of good am I around there?” Sheerin spread his palms in comical resignation. “A psychologist isn’t worth a damn in the Sanctuary. Not now. Not a thing I could do for them. They’re all snug and safe, laced in underground, nothing to worry about.”

“And if a mob should break in during the Darkness?”

Sheerin laughed. “I very much doubt that anyone who didn’t know where the entrance was would be able to find the Sanctuary in broad daylight, let alone once the suns have gone out. But if they do, well, they’d need men of action to defend them. Me? I’m a hundred pounds too heavy for that. So why should I huddle in down there with them? I’d rather be here.”

Siferra felt her own spirits rise as she heard Sheerin’s words. She too had chosen to spend the evening of Darkness at the Observatory, rather than in the Sanctuary. Perhaps it was mere wild bravado, perhaps it was idiotic overconfidence, but she was sure that she could last out the hours of the eclipse—and even the coming of the Stars, if there was anything to that part of the myth—and retain her sanity. And so she had decided not to pass up the experience.

Now it appeared that Sheerin, no model of bravery, had taken the same approach. Which might mean that he had decided the impact of Darkness would not be so overwhelming after all, despite the grim predictions he had been making for months. She had heard his tales of the Tunnel of Mystery and the havoc it had wreaked, even on Sheerin himself. Yet here he was. He must have come to believe that people, some at least, would turn out ultimately to be more resilient than he had expected earlier.

Or else he was simply being reckless. Perhaps he preferred to lose his mind in one quick burst this evening, Siferra thought, rather than stay sane and have to cope with the innumerable and perhaps insuperable problems of the hard times ahead—

No. No. She was falling into morbid pessimism again.

She brushed the thought away.

“Sheerin!” It was Theremon, coming across the room to greet the psychologist. “You remember me? Theremon 762?”

“Of course I do, Theremon,” Sheerin said. He offered his hand. “Gods, fellow, you’ve been rough on us lately, haven’t you! But bygones may as well be bygones this evening.”

“I wish he was a bygone,” Siferra muttered under her breath. She scowled in distaste and stepped back a few paces.

Theremon shook Sheerin’s hand. “What’s this Sanctuary you’re supposed to have been in? I’ve heard a little about it here this evening, but I don’t have any real idea of what it is.”

“Well,” said Sheerin, “we have managed to convince a few people, at least, of the validity of our prophecy of—er—doom, to be spectacular about it, and those few have taken proper measures. They consist mainly of the immediate members of the families of the Observatory staff, certain of the faculty of Saro University, and a few outsiders. My companion Liliath 221 is there at this very moment, as a matter of fact, and I suppose I should be too, but for my infernal curiosity. There are about three hundred people all told.”

“I see. They’re supposed to hide where the Darkness and the—er—Stars can’t get at them, and then hold out when the rest of the world goes poof.”