Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

Athor stared at Thilanda. “Where did you find this man?”

“I told you, Dr. Athor. We were busy with the plates, and then we heard him. He had come right in and was standing behind us. ‘Where is Athor,’ he said. ‘I must see Athor.’ ”

“Call the security guards,” Athor said, his face darkening with rage. “The Observatory is supposed to be sealed this evening. I want to know how this man succeeded in getting past the guards.”

“Obviously you’ve got an Apostle or two on the payroll,” Theremon said pleasantly. “Naturally they’d have been only too obliging when the Apostle Folimun showed up and asked them to unlock the gate.”

Athor shot him a blistering glance. But the look on his face indicated that the old astronomer realized the probable accuracy of Theremon’s guess.

Everyone in the room had formed a ring around Folimun now. They were all staring at him in astonishment—Siferra, Theremon, Beenay, Athor, and the rest.

Calmly Folimun said, “I am Folimun 66, special adjutant to His Serenity Mondior 71. I have come this evening not as a criminal, as you seem to think, but as an envoy from His Serenity. Do you think you could persuade these two zealots of yours to release me, Athor?”

Athor gestured irritatedly. “Let him go.”

“Thank you,” Folimun said. He rubbed his arms and adjusted the set of his robe. Then he bowed in gratitude—or was it only mock gratitude?—to Athor. The air around the Apostle seemed to tingle with some special electricity.

“Now then,” Athor said. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“Nothing, I suspect, that you would give me of your own free will.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

Folimun said, “When you and I met some months ago, Athor, it was, I would say, a very tense meeting, a meeting of two men who might well have looked upon themselves as princes of hostile realms. To you, I was a dangerous fanatic. To me, you were the leader of a band of godless sinners. And yet we were able to come to a certain area of agreement, which was, you recall, that on the evening of Theptar nineteenth, Darkness would fall upon Kalgash and would remain for many hours.”

Athor scowled. “Come to the point, if there is one, Folimun. Darkness is about to fall, and we don’t have a lot more time.”

Folimun replied, “To me, the coming Darkness was being sent upon us by the will of the gods. To you, it represented nothing more than the soulless movement of astronomical bodies. Very well: we agreed to disagree. I provided you with certain data that had been in the possession of the Apostles since the previous Year of Godliness, certain tables of the movements of the suns in the sky, and other even more abstruse data. In return, you promised to prove the essential truth of the creed of our faith and to make that proof known to the people of Kalgash.”

Looking at his watch, Athor said, “And I did exactly that. What does your master want of me now? I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

Folimun smiled faintly, but said nothing.

There was an uneasy stir in the room.

“I asked him for astronomical data, yes,” Athor said, looking around. “Data that only the Apostles had. And it was given to me. For that, thank you. In return I did agree, in a manner of speaking, to make public my mathematical confirmation of the Apostles’ basic tenet that Darkness would descend on Theptar nineteenth.”

“There was no real need for us to give you anything,” was the proud retort. “Our basic tenet, as you call it, was not in need of proof. It stands proven by the Book of Revelations.”

“For the handful that constitute your cult, yes,” Athor snapped. “Don’t pretend to mistake my meaning. I offered to present scientific background for your beliefs. And I did!”

The cultist’s eyes narrowed bitterly. “Yes, you did—with a fox’s subtlety, for your pretended explanation backed our beliefs and at the same time removed all necessity for them. You made of the Darkness and of the Stars a natural phenomenon and removed all their real significance. That was blasphemy.”

“If so, the fault isn’t mine. The facts exist. What can I do but state them?”

“Your ‘facts’ are a fraud and a delusion.”

Athor’s face grew mottled with rage. “How do you know?”

And the answer came with the certainty of absolute faith: “I know. ”

The director purpled even more. Beenay started to go to his side, but Athor waved him away.

“And what does Mondior 71 want us to do? He still thinks, I suppose, that in trying to warn the world to take measures against the menace of madness we are somehow interfering with his attempt to seize power after the eclipse. Well, we aren’t succeeding. I hope that makes him happy.”

“The attempt itself has done harm enough. And what you are trying to achieve here this evening will make things worse.”

“What do you know of what we’re trying to achieve here this evening?” Athor demanded.

Smoothly Folimun said, “We know that you’ve never abandoned your hope of influencing the populace. Having failed to do it before the Darkness and the Flames, you intend to come forth afterward, equipped with photographs of the trnnsition from daylight to Darkness. You mean to offer a rational explanation to the survivors of what happened—and to put aside in a safe place your supposed evidence of your beliefs, so that at the end of the next Year of Godliness your successors in the realm of science will be able to step forward and guide humanity in such a way that the Darkness can be resisted.”

“Someone’s been saying things,” Beenay whispered.

Folimun went on, “All this works against the interests of Mondior 71, obviously. And it is Mondior 71 who is the appointed prophet of the gods, the one who is intended to lead mankind through the period ahead.”

“It’s high time you came to the point,” Athor said in a frigid tone.

Folimun nodded. “The point is simply this. Your ill-advised and blasphemous attempt to gain information by means of your devilish instruments must be stopped. I only regret that I could not have destroyed your infernal devices with my own hands.”

“Is that what you had in mind? It wouldn’t have done you much good. All our data, except for the direct evidence we intend collecting right now, is already safely cached and well beyond the possibility of harm.”

“Bring it forth. Destroy it.”

“What?”

“Destroy all your work. Destroy your instruments. In return for which, I will see to it that you and all your people are protected against the chaos that is certain to break loose when Nightfall comes.”

Now there was laughter in the room.

“Crazy,” someone said. “Absolutely nuts.”

“Not at all,” Folimun said. “Devout, yes. Dedicated to a cause beyond your comprehension, yes. But not crazy. I’m quite sane, I assure you. I think this man here”—he indicated Theremon—“would testify to that, and he’s not known for his gullibility. But I place my cause above all other things. This night is crucial in the history of the world, and when tomorrow dawns, Godliness must triumph. I offer you an ultimatum. You people are to end your blasphemous attempt to provide rational explanations for the coming of Darkness this evening and accept His Serenity Mondior 71 as the true voice of the gods’ will. When morning comes, you will go forth to do Mondior’s work among mankind, and no more will be heard of eclipses, or orbits, or the Law or Universal Gravitation, or the rest of your foolishness.”

“And if we refuse?” said Athor, looking almost amused by Folimun’s presumptuousness.

“Then,” said Folimun coolly, “a band of angry people led by the Apostles of Flame will ascend this hill and destroy your Observatory and everything within it.”