Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

“It helps to have needle-guns,” Theremon said. “That gets you a lot of toleration too.” He rubbed a sore place on his arm and looked off bleakly into the distance.—“There are other fanatics besides these, you say?”

“There are the ones who think the university astronomers had discovered the secret of making the Stars appear. They blame Athor, Beenay & Co. for everything that’s happened. It’s the old hatred of the intellectual that crops up whenever medieval emotions start surfacing.”

“Gods! Are there many like that?”

“Enough. Darkness only knows what they’ll do if they actually catch any university people who haven’t already reached Amgando safely. String them up to the nearest lamppost, I suppose.”

Morosely Theremon said, “And I’d be responsible.”

“You?”

“Everything that’s happened is my fault, Siferra. Not Athor’s, not Folimun’s, not the gods’, but mine. Mine. Me, Theremon 762. That time you called me irresponsible, you were being too easy with me. I wasn’t just irresponsible, I was criminally negligent.”

“Theremon, stop it. What’s the good of—”

He swept right on. “I should have been writing columns day in and day out, warning of what was coming, crying out for a crash program to build shelters, to set aside provisions and emergency generating equipment, to provide counseling for the disturbed, to do a million different things—and instead what did I do? Sneered. Poked fun at the astronomers in their lofty tower! Made it politically impossible for anybody in the government to take Athor seriously.”

“Theremon—”

“You should have let those crazies beat me to death, Siferra.”

Her eyes met his. She looked angry. “Don’t talk like a fool. All the government planning in the world wouldn’t have changed anything. I wish you hadn’t written those articles too, Theremon. You know how I felt about them. But what does any of that matter now? You were sincere in what you felt. You were wrong, but you were sincere. And in any case there’s no sense speculating about what might have been. What we have to deal with now is what is .” More gently she said, “Enough of this. Are you able to walk? We need to get you back to the Sanctuary. A chance to wash up, some fresh clothes, a little food in you—”

“Food?”

“The university people left plenty of provisions behind.”

Theremon chuckled and pointed to the graben. “You mean I don’t have to eat that? ”

“Not unless you really want to. I suggest you give it to someone who needs it more than you do, while we’re on our way out of the forest.”

“Good idea.”

He pulled himself to his feet, slowly and painfully. Gods, the way everything was hurting! An experimental step or two: not bad, not bad. Nothing seemed to be broken after all. Just a little bit misused. The thought of a warm bath and actual substantial food was healing his bruised and aching body already.

He took a last look around at his little flung-together lean-to, his stream, his scruffy little bushes and weeds. His home, these strange few days. He wouldn’t miss it much, but he doubted that he’d forget his life here very soon, either.

Then he picked up the graben and slung it over his shoulder.

“Lead the way,” he said to Siferra.

They had not gone more than a hundred yards when Theremon caught sight of a group of boys skulking behind the trees. They were the same ones, he realized, who had flushed the graben from its burrow and hunted it to its death. Evidently they had come back to search for it. Now, sullenly, they were staring from a distance, obviously annoyed that Theremon was walking off with their prize. But they were too intimidated by the green neckerchiefs of office that identified the Fire Patrol group—or, more likely, simply by their needle-guns—to stake a claim to it.

“Hey!” Theremon called. “This is yours, isn’t it? I’ve been taking care of it for you!”

He flung the carcass of the graben toward them. It fell to the ground well short of the place where they were, and they hung back, looking mystified and uneasy. They were obviously eager to have the animal but afraid to come forward.

“There’s life in the post-Nightfall era for you,” he said sadly to Siferra. “They’re starving, but they don’t dare make a move. They think it’s a trap. They figure that if they step out from those trees to get the animal we’ll shoot them down, just for fun.”

Siferra said, “Who can blame them? Everyone’s afraid of everyone, now. Leave it there. They’ll go after it when we’re out of sight.”

He followed her onward, limping as he went.

Siferra and the other Patrol people moved confidently through the forest, as though invulnerable to the dangers that were lurking everywhere. And indeed there were no incidents as the group headed—as rapidly as Theremon’s injuries permitted—toward the road that ran through the woods. It was interesting to see, he thought, how quickly society was beginning to reconstitute itself. In just a few days an irregular outfit like this Fire Patrol had begun to take on a kind of governmental authority. Unless it was just the needle-guns and the general air of self-assurance that kept the crazies away, of course.

They came to the edge of the forest, finally. The air was growing cooler and the light was uncomfortably dim, now that Patru and Trey were the only suns in the sky. In the past Theremon had never been bothered by the relatively low light levels that were typical of the hours when the only illumination came from one of the double-sun pairs. Ever since the eclipse, though, such a two-sun evening had seemed disturbing and threatening to him, a possible harbinger—although he knew it could not be so—of the imminent return of Darkness. The psychic wounds of Nightfall would be a long time healing, even for the world’s sturdiest minds.

“The Sanctuary is just a little way down this road,” Siferra said. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m all right,” said Theremon sourly. “They didn’t cripple me, you know.”

But it was a considerable struggle to force his sore, throbbing legs to carry him along. He was intensely gladdened and relieved when at last he found himself at the cave-like entrance to the underground domain that was the Sanctuary.

The place was like a maze. Caverns and corridors led off in all directions. Vaguely in the distance he saw the intricate loops and coils of scientific-looking gear, mysterious and unfathomable, running along the walls and ceiling. This place, he remembered now, had been the site of the university’s atom smasher until the big new experimental lab at Saro Heights opened. Apparently the physicists had left a good deal of obsolete equipment behind.

A tall man appeared, radiating authority.

Siferra said, “This is Altinol 111. Altinol, I want you to meet Theremon 762.”

“Of the Chronicle ?” Altinol said. He didn’t sound awed or in any way impressed: he seemed merely to be registering the fact out loud.

“Formerly,” said Theremon.

They eyed each other without warmth. Altinol, Theremon thought, looked to be a very tough cookie indeed: a man in early middle age, obviously trim and in prime condition. He was well dressed in sturdy clothing and carried himself with the air of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed. Theremon, studying him, riffled quickly through the well-stocked files of his memory and after a moment was pleased to strike a chord of recognition.

He said, “Morthaine Industries? That Altinol?”

A momentary flicker of—amusement? Or was it annoyance?—appeared in Altinol’s eyes. “That one, yes.”

“They always said you wanted to be Prime Executive. Well, it looks like you are, now. Of what’s left of Saro City, at least, if not the whole Federal Republic.”