Isaac Asimov: Nightfall (novel)

“Well—”

“It wasn’t just a line, when I told you I love you.”

She shrugged. “One thing has nothing to do with another. The personal and the political, Theremon—you’re using one to muddle the other.”

“Come,” he said.

They stepped from the tent. The early light of Onos was a pink glow on the eastern horizon. High overhead, Tano and Sitha had emerged from the clouds, and the twin suns, now at their zenith, had a radiance that was strange and wonderful to behold.

There was one more. Far off in the north the small hard red sphere that was the little sun Dovim was shining like a tiny ruby set in the forehead of the sky.

“Four suns,” Theremon said. “A sign of luck.”

All about them in the Apostles’ camp there was the bustle of activity. The trucks were being loaded, the tents were coming down. Theremon caught sight of Folimun far across the other side, directing a team of workers. The Apostle leader waved to Theremon, who nodded in return.

“You hate the idea that the Apostles will rule the world,” Siferra said, “and yet you’re still willing to give your allegiance to Folimun? Why? What sense does that make?”

Quietly Theremon said, “Because there’s no other hope.”

“Is that what you think?”

He nodded. “It began to sink in, after Folimun had been talking with me for a couple of hours. Every rational instinct in me tells me not to trust Folimun and his crew of fanatics. Whatever else he may be, there’s no doubt that Folimun’s a power-hungry manipulator, very ruthless, very dangerous. But what other chance is there? Altinol? All the petty little bosses along the highway? It could take a million years to weld all the new provinces into a global economy. Folimun’s got the authority to make the whole world kneel to him—or to Mondior, rather.—Listen, Siferra, most of mankind is lost in madness. There are millions of crazies loose out there now. Only strong-minded ones like you and me and Beenay have been able to recover, or very stupid ones; but for the others, the mass of humanity, it’ll be months or years or never before they can think straight again. A charismatic prophet like Mondior, much as I loathe the idea, may be the only answer.”

“No other option, then?”

“Not for us, Siferra.”

“Why not?”

“Look, Siferra: I believe that what matters is healing. Everything else is secondary to that. The world has suffered a terrible wound, and—”

“Has inflicted a terrible wound on itself.”

“That’s not how I see it. The fires were a response to a vast change of circumstances. They never would have happened if the eclipse hadn’t yanked our curtain away and shown us the Stars.—But the wounds go on and on. One leads to another, now. Altinol is a wound. These new little independent provinces are wounds. The crazies killing each other in the forest—or hunting down fugitive university professors—are wounds.”

“And Folimun? He’s the biggest wound of all!”

“Yes and no. Of course he’s peddling fanaticism and mysticism. But there’s discipline there. People believe in what he’s selling, even the crazies, even the ones with sick minds. He’s a wound so big he can swallow all the others. He can heal the world, Siferra. And then—from within—we can try to heal what he has done. But only from within. If we join him, we stand a chance. If we set ourselves up in opposition, we’ll be swept aside like fleas.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“We have our choice between rallying behind him and becoming part of the ruling elite that will bring the world back from insanity, or becoming wanderers and outlaws. Which do you want, Siferra?”

“I want a third choice.”

“There isn’t any. The Amgando bunch doesn’t have the force of will to form a workable government. People like Altinol don’t have the scruples. Folimun already controls half of what used to be the Federal Republic of Saro. He’s certain to prevail over the rest. It’ll be centuries before the reign of reason returns, Siferra, regardless of what you and I do.”

“So you say it’s better to join him, and try to control the direction in which the new society goes, than to oppose him simply because we don’t like the kind of fanaticism he represents?”

“Exactly. Exactly.”

“But to cooperate in handing the world over to religious fanaticism—”

“The world has made its way up from religious fanaticism before, hasn’t it? The important thing now is to find some way out of the chaos. Folimun and his crew offer the only visible hope of that. Think of their faith as a machine that’ll drive civilization, at a time when all the other machinery is broken. That’s the only thing that counts now. First fix the world; then hope our descendants will get tired of the mystical fellows in the robes and hoods. Do you see what I’m saying, Siferra? Do you?”

She nodded in a strange, vague way, as though she were responding in her sleep. Theremon watched as she walked slowly away from him, toward the clearing where they had been surprised by the sentries of the Apostles the evening before. It seemed like years ago.

She stood a long while by herself there, in the light of the four suns.

How beautiful she looks, Theremon thought.

How I love her!

How strange this all has turned out to be.

He waited. All about him the breakup of the Apostles’ camp was reaching a pitch of activity, robed and hooded figures running back and forth past him.

Folimun came over. “Well?”

“We’re thinking it over,” Theremon said.

“We? I had the impression you were with us, no matter what.”

Theremon eyed him steadily. “I’m with you if Siferra is. Otherwise no.”

“Whatever you say. We’d hate to lose a man with your skills at communication, though. Not to mention Dr. Siferra’s expertise with the artifacts of the past.”

Theremon smiled. “Let’s see how skillful I’ve been at communicating just now, eh?”

Folimun nodded and walked away, back to the trucks that were being loaded. Theremon looked toward Siferra. She was facing the east, toward Onos, while the light of Sitha and Tano descended on her in a dazzling stream from above, and out of the north came the slender red spear of Dovim’s beam.

Four suns. The best of omens.

Siferra was coming back, now, trotting across the field. Her eyes were shining, and she seemed to be laughing. She came running up to him.

“Well?” Theremon asked. “What do you say?”

She took his hand in hers. “All right, Theremon. So be it. Almighty Folimun is our leader, and I will follow him whithersoever he telleth me to go. With one condition.”

“Go on. What is it?”

“The same one I mentioned when we were in his tent. I won’t wear the robe. I absolutely will not. If he insists on the robe, the deal is off!”

Theremon nodded happily. It was going to be all right. After Nightfall came daybreak, and rebirth. Out of the devastation a new Kalgash would rise, and he and Siferra would have a voice, a powerful voice, in creating it. “I think that can be arranged,” he replied. “Let’s go talk to Folimun and see what he says.”

In fond and reverent memory of John W. Campbell, Jr.—and of those two terrified kids from Brooklyn who, in fear and trembling, made the awesome pilgrimage to his office, one of them in 1938 and the other in 1952.