Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

“Exactly. The Apostles have some sort of hideout of their own also, you know. We aren’t sure how many people are in it—just a few, if we’re lucky, but more likely they’ve got thousands stashed away who will come forth and inherit the world after the Darkness.”

“So the university group,” Theremon said, “is intended as a counterforce to that?”

Sheerin nodded. “If possible. It won’t be easy. With almost all of mankind insane, with the great cities going up in flames, with perhaps a big horde of Apostles imposing their kind of order on what’s left of the world—no, it’ll be tough for them to survive. But at least they have food, water, shelter, weapons—”

“They’ve got more,” said Athor. “They’ve got all our records, except for what we will collect today. Those records will mean everything to the next cycle, and that’s what must survive. The rest can go hang.”

Theremon whistled a long, low whistle.

“You people are completely certain, then, that everything you’ve predicted is going to come about just as you say!”

“What other position could we possibly take?” Siferra asked harshly. “Once we saw that disaster would inevitably come—”

“Yes,” the newspaperman said. “You had to make preparations for it. Because you were in possession of the Truth. Just as the Apostles of Flame are in possession of the Truth. I wish I could be half so certain about anything as all you Truth-possessors are about this evening.”

She glowered at him. “I wish you could be out there this evening, wandering through the burning streets! But no—no, you’ll be safe in here! It’s more than you deserve!”

“Easy,” Sheerin said. He took Theremon by the arm. Quietly he said, “No sense provoking people now, friend. Let’s go somewhere where we won’t bother people, and we can talk.”

“Good idea,” Theremon said.

But he made no motion toward leaving the room. A game of stochastic chess had begun around the table, and Theremon stood watching for a moment or two in obvious incomprehension as moves were made rapidly and in silence. He seemed amazed by the ability of the players to concentrate on a game, when they all must believe that the end of the world was just hours away.

“Come,” Sheerin said again.

“Yes. Yes,” said Theremon.

He and Sheerin went out into the hall, followed, an instant later, by Beenay.

What an infuriating man, Siferra thought.

She stared at the bright orb of Dovim, burning fiercely in the sky. Had the sky grown even darker in the past few minutes? No, no, she told herself, that was impossible. Dovim was still there. It was just imagination. The sky looked strange, now that Dovim was the only sun aloft. She had never seen it like that before, such a deep purple hue. But it was far from dark out there: somber, yes, but there was light enough, and everything was still easily visible outside despite the relative dimness of the one small sun.

She thought about her lost tablets again. Then she banished them from her mind.

The chess players had the right idea, she told herself. Sit down and relax. If you can.

Sheerin led the way to the next room. There were softer chairs in there. And thick red curtains on the windows, and a maroon carpet on the floor. With the strange brick-toned light of Dovim pouring in, the general effect was one of dried blood everywhere.

He had been surprised to see Theremon at the Observatory this evening, after the horrendous columns he had written, after all he had done to pour cold water on Athor’s campaign for national preparedness. In recent weeks Athor had gone almost berserk with rage every time. Theremon’s name was mentioned; yet somehow he had relented and permitted him to be here for the eclipse.

That was odd and a little troublesome. It might mean that the stern fabric of the old astronomer’s personality had begun to break down—that not only his anger but also his whole inner structure of character was giving way in the face of the oncoming catastrophe.

For that matter Sheerin was more than slightly surprised to find himself at the Observatory too. It had been a last-minute decision, a pure impulse of the kind he rarely experienced. Liliath had been horrified. He was pretty horrified himself. He had not forgotten the terrors that his few minutes in the Tunnel of Mystery had evoked in him.

But he had realized, in the end, that he had to be here, just as he had had to take that ride in the Tunnel. To everyone else, he might be nothing more than an easygoing overweight academic hack; but to himself he was still a scientist beneath all the blubber. The study of Darkness had concerned him through all his professional career. How, then, could he ever live with himself afterward, knowing that during the most celebrated episode of Darkness in more than two thousand years he had chosen to hide himself away in the cozy safety of an underground chamber?

No, he had to be here. Witnessing the eclipse. Feeling the Darkness take possession of the world.

Theremon said with unexpected frankness, as they entered the adjoining room, “I’m starting to wonder whether I was right to have been such a skeptic, Sheerin.”

“You ought to wonder about it.”

“Well, I am. Seeing just Dovim up there like that. That weird red color spreading over everything. You know, I’d give ten credits for a decent dose of white light right now. A good stiff Tano Special. For that matter, I’d like to see Tano and Sitha in the sky too. Or, even better, Onos.”

“Onos will be there in the morning,” put in Beenay, who had just entered the room.

“Yes, but will we? ” asked Sheerin. And grinned immediately to take the sting from his words. To Beenay he said, “Our journalistic friend is eager for a little nip of alcohol.”

“Athor will have a fit. He’s given orders for everybody to be sober here this evening.”

Sheerin said, “So there’s nothing but water to be had?”

“Well—”

“Come on, Beenay. Athor won’t come in here.”

“I suppose.”

Tiptoeing to the nearest window, Beenay squatted, and from the low window box beneath it withdrew a bottle of red liquid that gurgled suggestively when he shook it.

“I thought Athor didn’t know about this,” he remarked, as he trotted back to the table. “Here! We’ve only got one glass, so as the guest you can have it, Theremon. Sheerin and I can drink from the bottle.” And he filled the tiny cup with judicious care.

Laughing, Theremon said, “You never touched alcohol at all when we first met, Beenay.”

“That was then. This is now. Tense times, Theremon. I’m learning. A good drink can be very relaxing at times like these.”

“So I’ve heard,” Theremon said lightly. He took a sip. It was some sort of red wine, rough and raw, probably cheap jug wine from one of the southern provinces. Just the sort of thing that a lifelong abstainer like Beenay would tend to buy, not knowing any better. But it was better than nothing.

Beenay helped himself to a hearty gulp and passed the bottle to Sheerin. The psychologist up-ended it and held it to his lips for a long slow drink. Then, putting it down with a satisfied grunt and a smack of his lips, he said to Beenay, “Athor seems strange this evening. I mean, even allowing for the special circumstances. What’s wrong?”

“Worrying about Faro and Yimot, I suppose.”

“Who?”

“A couple of young graduate students. They were due several hours ago and haven’t shown up yet. Athor’s terrifically shorthanded, of course, because all but the really essential people have gone to the Sanctuary.”

Theremon said, “You don’t think they deserted, do you?”