F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

"They're all crazy, aren't they?" Hank said as they turned left on 57th Street and walked east.

The police weren't letting anybody into Central Park, and they'd closed off the streets adjacent to it. There wasn't a cab to be had, so Carol and Hank had detoured south. The sun was high and warm and gleamed on Hank's scalp where his hair was thinning. Carol wished she'd worn lighter clothes.

"Who?" she said, though she knew very well who he meant.

"Your friends. They're nutty as fruitcakes. And they've infected you with their nuttiness."

Carol noticed how he watched her as he spoke. His expression was strained. He seemed desperate to hear her agree with him.

"Only Bill and Glaeken are my friends. I can only speak for them. And I assure you, Hank, they're not crazy."

"They're delusional, Carol. They've got to be!" It was almost a plea.

"Are the late sunrises and early sunsets delusions, Hank?" she said forcefully. She had to make him believe, make him understand. "Is that hole in Central Park a delusion? Were all those people killed last night another delusion?"

"Could be," Hank said. "We could all be suffering from mass hysteria of some sort."

"Tell me you really believe that."

"Okay. I don't. Just wishful thinking. But the world's rampant weirdness has no bearing on your friend Glaeken's delusions. I mean, just because the earth and the sky are acting crazy doesn't mean I have to swallow everything some demented old man has to say."

"Granted. But think about it: There's not a scientific authority in the world who can explain all the lunacy we've seen the past few days."

"More lunacy is not an explanation."

"It's true, Hank," Carol said. "I swear to you, it's true. I've seen too much that backs up what he says, things I wish I'd never seen. He's not crazy."

Hank's hazel eyes, paler that usual in the bright sunlight, searched her face.

"What sort of things have you seen?"

"Some other time. We'll sit down tonight with a bottle of wine and I'll tell you all the things I've been afraid to tell you."

They walked in silence awhile. Carol knew Hank was sifting and sorting everything he'd heard today. He was a scientist at heart. When he had it all filed in the proper slots, he'd be able to deal with it and come to a conclusion. It was the way he was. Not flashy, no dramatic epiphanies, but his insight was just as valid.

Screeching tires and cries of terror brought them up short. They turned and saw a yellow cab rising off the street, trunk first. The driver opened his door, hung by the seat belt, and dropped to the pavement.

"My God!" Carol cried when she saw the woman and child lean out the rear window and scream for help. "Can't somebody do something?"

She clutched Hank's arm and they watched in horror as the cab continued to rise, beginning a slow rotation as it cleared the tops of the surrounding buildings and kept on falling up.

Finally Hank pulled her away.

"Let's go. There's nothing we can do and I feel like some sort of vulture watching it."

Carol felt the same. The tragedy of the scene made her feel weak, yet there was a horrid fascination about it.

"Stay close to the buildings," Hank said. "That way we'll have something to grab on to if it happens to us."

They walked on in silence, stepping almost gingerly, wondering if a gravity hole lay in wait on the sidewalk ahead. But Carol could not help casting furtive glances over her shoulder. Each time, the taxi was higher.

When they reached Second Avenue they were supposed to turn uptown, but Hank stopped and squinted up at the sun. He was sweating. Finally he spoke.

"It doesn't look like it's traveling any faster."

Carol tried to look at it but it hurt her eyes.

"Do you think it is?"

"Something has to be moving faster." He turned and stared at her. His eyes were watering, the pupils tiny. "I mean, the sun doesn't move, we do. Earth's rotation on its axis—that's what determines the varying duration of daylight through the year. Shorter days would mean we're either rotating faster or the Earth's shifted on its axis. But the scientists say neither has happened. Yet the days are shortening. A paradox. The impossible is happening. If that's true, then the impossible—or the impossible-sounding—things Glaeken said could be true as well."

He's coming around, Carol thought as they turned up Second Avenue and put the sun to their backs. He wasn't getting there via an intuitive leap but by the only route he knew—a logical examination of the evidence at hand. He'd have made a good Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you really think it'll happen?" he said.

"What?"

"The 'nightworld' Glaeken was talking about. It's a real possibility, isn't it?"

"Yes, but not an inevitability if he can get some cooperation."

At first Carol had been furious with that Sylvia Nash woman. How could she talk to Glaeken like that? He was only trying to help everybody, and all he was asking was their cooperation to save their own hides. But Carol had to keep reminding herself that the truth was so difficult to accept—she remembered how she had fought it for years. Decades. And Sylvia Nash was afraid of something. Carol didn't know what, but she was sure she'd seen it in the younger woman's eyes as she walked past on her way out of Glaeken's apartment.

"Let's be optimistic," Hank said. "Let's say he gets the kind of cooperation he needs and he fashions and reactivates this 'focus' he was talking about. And let's even say he gets it to work and gets the sun to return to a normal pattern. That could take weeks, couldn't it? Maybe months."

"I don't know, Hank. What are you getting at?"

There was a strange new intensity about him, one she had never seen before. His eyes had taken on an almost feverish glow.

"Sunlight, Carol. What needs sunlight—regular, measured doses of sunlight—more than anything else?"

"Well…plants, I guess."

"Exactly! And right now, in the spring, sunlight is crucial for germination and seedling growth. If the daily dose of sunlight diminishes steadily over the next few weeks, there will be massive crop failures all across the globe."

"If Rasalom takes over, crop failures will be the least of our problems."

"But I told you, Carol: I'm thinking optimistically. I'm assuming Glaeken will win. But win or lose, we'll still be facing world-wide food shortages, maybe even famine."

The realization startled and sickened Carol. Even if they won, billions would starve in the aftermath. A Pyhrric victory was the best they could hope for. She wondered if Glaeken had foreseen this. She was tentatively proud of Hank. Tentatively…because his sudden agitation disturbed her.

"We've got to start making plans for that eventuality, Carol," he said. "Those who can anticipate the future can profit from it."

"Oh, no, Hank. You're not thinking of the stock market or anything like that, are you?"

"Of course not," he said. He seemed annoyed that she'd even suggested it. "If we lose much sunlight for any length of time, I don't see there even being a stock market, or a commodities exchange, for that matter. Grain futures might go through the roof, but what are you going to pay with?"

"I don't understand."

"Carol," he said, stopping and gripping her shoulders, "if we have worldwide crop failures, money—currency—won't be worth anything. It'll be just paper, and you can't eat paper. The only things that'll be worth anything are precious metals like gold and silver, probably diamonds and other jewels as well, and one other thing: food."

"How can you even think about something like that?"

"Somebody's got to think about it. Somebody's got to plan ahead. I'm thinking about us, Carol. When the crops fail and the grocery shelves are emptied, we're going to see food riots in this city—in every city. It's going to be a nasty time. And if we want to get through it alive, we'd better be prepared." He took her hand. "Come on."