Isaac Asimov - Nightfall (novel)

“I don’t doubt that he is.”

“Think it over this evening,” Siferra said. “If you want to join, talk to him tomorrow. Be frank with him. He’ll be frank with you, you can be certain of that. So long as you can assure him that you’re not going to be any direct threat to his authority, I’m certain that you and he—”

“No,” Theremon said suddenly.

“No what?”

He was silent for a time. At length he said, “I don’t need to spend the evening thinking about it. I already know what my answer will be.”

Siferra looked at him, waiting.

Theremon said, “I don’t want to butt heads with Altinol. I know the kind of man he is, and I’m very sure that I can’t get along with people like that for any length of time. And I also know that in the short run it may be necessary to have operations like the Fire Patrol, but in the long run they’re a bad thing, and once they’re established and institutionalized it’s very hard to get rid of them. The Altinols of this world don’t give up power voluntarily. Little dictators never do. And I don’t want the knowledge that I helped put him on top hanging around my neck for the rest of my life. Reinventing the feudal system doesn’t strike me as a useful solution for the problems we have now. So it’s no go, Siferra. I’m not going to wear Altinol’s green neckerchief. There isn’t any future for me here.”

Quietly Siferra said, “What are you going to do, then?”

“Sheerin told me that there’s a real provisional government being formed at Amgando Park. University people, maybe some people from the old government, representatives from all over the country coming together down there. As soon as I’m strong enough to travel, I’m going to head for Amgando.”

She regarded him steadily. She made no reply.

Theremon took a deep breath. And said, after a moment, “Come with me to Amgando Park, Siferra.” He reached a hand toward her. Softly he said, “Stay with me this evening, in this miserable little tiny room of mine. And in the morning let’s clear out of here and go down south together. You don’t belong here any more than I do. And we stand five times as much chance of getting to Amgando together than we would if either of us tried to make the journey alone.”

Siferra remained silent. He did not withdraw his hand.

“Well? What do you say?”

Theremon watched the play of conflicting emotions moving across her features. But he did not dare try to interpret them.

Clearly Siferra was struggling with herself. But then, abruptly, the struggle came to an end.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes. Let’s do it, Theremon.”

And moved toward him. And took his hand. And switched off the dangling overhead light, though the soft glow of the godlight beside the bed remained.

“Do you know the name of this neighborhood?” Siferra asked. She stared, numbed, dismayed, at the charred and ghastly landscape of ruined houses and abandoned vehicles that they had entered. It was a little before midday, the third day of their flight from the Sanctuary. The unsparing light of Onos mercilessly illuminated every blackened wall, every shattered window.

Theremon shook his head. “It was called something silly, you can be sure of that. Golden Acres, or Saro Estates, or something like that. But what it was called isn’t important now. This isn’t a neighborhood any more. What we have here used to be real estate, Siferra, but these days what it is is archaeology. One of the Lost Suburbs of Saro.”

They had reached a point well south of the forest, almost to the outskirts of the suburban belt that constituted the southern fringes of Saro City. Beyond lay agricultural zones, small towns, and—somewhere far in the distance, unthinkably far—their goal of Amgando National Park.

The crossing of the forest had taken them two days. They had slept the first evening at Theremon’s old lean-to, and the second one in a thicket halfway up the rugged slope leading to Onos Heights. In all this while they had had no indication that the Fire Patrol was on their trail. Altinol had apparently made no attempt to pursue them, even though they had taken weapons with them and two bulging backpacks of provisions. And surely, Siferra thought, they were beyond his reach by now.

She said, “The Great Southern Highway ought to be somewhere around here, shouldn’t it?”

“Another two or three miles. If we’re lucky there won’t be any fires burning to block us from going forward.”

“We’ll be lucky. Count on it.”

He laughed. “Always the optimist, eh?”

“It doesn’t cost any more than pessimism,” she said. “One way or another, we’ll get through.”

“Right. One way or another.”

They were moving steadily along. Theremon seemed to be making a quick recovery from the beating he had received in the forest, and from his days of virtual starvation. There was an amazing resilience about him. Strong as she was, Siferra had to work hard to keep up with his pace.

She was working hard, too, to keep her own spirits up. From the moment of setting out, she had consistently struck a hopeful note, always confident, always certain that they’d make it safely through to Amgando and that they would find people like themselves already hard at work there at the job of planning the reconstruction of the world.

But inwardly Siferra wasn’t so sure. And the farther she and Theremon went into these once pleasant suburban regions, the more difficult it was to fight back horror, shock, despair, a sense of total defeat.

It was a nightmare world.

There was no escaping the enormity of it. Everywhere you turned you saw destruction.

Look! she thought. Look! The desolation—the scars—the fallen buildings, the walls already overrun by the first weeds, occupied already by the early platoons of lizards. Everywhere the marks of that terrible night when the gods had once more sent their curse against the world. The awful acrid smell of black smoke rising from the remains of fires that the recent rains had extinguished—the other smoke, white and piercing, curling upward out of basements still ablaze—the stains on everything—the bodies in the streets, twisted in their final agonies—the look of madness in the eyes of those few lingering living people who now and then peered out from the remains of their homes—

All glory vanished. All greatness gone. Everything in ruins, everything—as if the ocean had risen, she thought, and swept all our achievements into oblivion.

Siferra was no stranger to ruins. She had spent her whole professional life digging in them. But the ruins she had excavated were ancient ones, time-mellowed and mysterious and romantic. What she saw here now was all to immediate, all too painful to behold, and there was nothing at all romantic about it. She had been able readily enough to come to terms with the downfall of the lost civilizations of the past: it carried little emotional charge for her. But now it was her own epoch that had been swept into the discard-bin of history, and that was hard to bear.

Why had it happened? she asked herself. Why? Why? Why?

Were we so evil? Had we strayed so far from the path of the gods that we needed to be punished this way?

No.

No!

There are no gods; there was no punishment.

Of that much, Siferra was still certain. She had no doubt that this was simply the working of blind fate, brought about by the impersonal movements of inanimate and uncaring worlds and suns, drawing together every two thousand years in dispassionate coincidence.

That was all. An accident.

An accident that Kalgash had been forced to endure over and over again during its history.

From time to time the Stars would appear in all their frightful majesty; and in a desperate terror-kindled agony, man would unknowingly turn his hand against his own works. Driven mad by the Darkness; driven mad by the ferocious light of the Stars. It was an unending cycle. The ashes of Thombo had told the whole tale. And now it was Thombo all over again. Just as Theremon had said: This place is archaeology now. Exactly.