Nightfall (11 page)

“When the current Year of Godliness comes to its end,” said Theremon. “On Theptar nineteenth of next year.”

Folimun looked pleasantly surprised. “So you
have
been studying our teachings.”

“To some extent. I’ve listened to Mondior’s recent speeches, at any rate. I know about the two-thousand-and-forty-nine-year cycle. —And the event you call the Time of Flame? I suppose you can’t provide me with any sort of advance description of that, either.”

“You’ll find something along those lines in the fifth chapter of the Book of Revelations. No, you needn’t search for it now: I can quote it for you. ‘From the Stars there then reached down the Heavenly Flames, that was the bearer of the will of the gods; and where the flames touched, the cities of Kalgash were consumed even to utter destruction, so that of man and the works of man nothing whatever remained.’ ”

Theremon nodded. “A sudden terrible cataclysm. Why?”

“The will of the gods. They have warned us against our wickedness and have given us a span of years in which to redeem ourselves. That span is what we call the Year of Godliness, a ‘year’ two thousand and forty-nine human years long, about which you already appear to know. The current Year of Godliness is nearly at its end.”

“And then we’ll all be wiped out, you think?”

“Not all of us. But most will; and our civilization will be destroyed. Those few who survive will face the immense task of rebuilding. This is, as you seem already to be aware, a melancholy repetitive cycle in human events. What is soon due to occur will not be the first time that mankind has failed the test of the gods. We have been struck down more than once before; and now we are on the verge of being struck down yet again.”

The curious thing, Theremon thought, was that Folimun didn’t seem at all crazy.

Except for his odd robe, he could have been any sort of youngish businessman sitting in his handsome office—a loan applications officer, for instance, or an investment banker. He was obviously intelligent. He spoke clearly and well, in a crisp, direct tone. He neither ranted nor raved. But the things he was saying, in his crisp, direct way, were the wildest sort of nonsensical babble. The contrast between what Folimun said and the way he said it was hard to take.

Now he sat quietly, looking relaxed, waiting for the newspaperman to ask the next question.

“I’ll be frank,” Theremon said after a little while. “Like many people, I have difficulty accepting something this big which is handed to me simply as a revelation. I need solid proofs. But you don’t show us any. Take it on faith, you say. There’s no tangible evidence to demonstrate, of course, that’s what you tell us, but we’d all better just believe what you’re offering us, because you’ve heard all this from the gods, and you know the gods aren’t lying to you. Can you show me why I
should
believe you, though? Faith alone isn’t enough for people like me.”

“Why do you think there is no evidence?” Folimun asked.

“Is there? Other than the Book of Revelations itself? Circular evidence isn’t evidence to me.”

“We are a very ancient organization, you know.”

“Ten thousand years old, so the story goes.”

A brief flickering smile crossed Folimun’s thin lips. “An arbitrary figure, perhaps exaggerated somewhat for popular effect. All that we claim among ourselves is that we go back to prehistoric times.”

“So your group is at least
two
thousand years old, then.”

“A little more than that, at the minimum. We can trace ourselves back to a time before the last cataclysm—so we are certainly more than two thousand and forty-nine years old. Probably much more, but we have no proof of that, at least not proof of the sort which you’d be likely to accept. We think the Apostles may go back
several
cycles of destruction, which is to say possibly as much as six thousand years. All that really matters is that we are precataclysmic in origin. We have been quietly active as an organization for more than one Year of Godliness. And so we are in possession of information giving highly specific details of the catastrophe that lies in store for us. We know what will happen because we are aware of what has happened many times before.”

“But you won’t show anyone the information you claim to have. The evidence, the proofs.”

“The Book of Revelations is what we offer the world.”

Round and round and round. This was leading nowhere. Theremon began to feel restless. It was all a big bluff, obviously. All a cynical fake, probably designed to pull in fat contributions from the gullible likes of Bottiker and Vivin and other wealthy folk desperate to buy their way into escaping the threat of doom. Despite Folimun’s obvious appearance of sincerity and intelligence, he had to be either a willing co-conspirator in this gigantic enterprise of fraudulent fantasy, or else merely one of Mondior’s many dupes.

“All right,” the newspaperman said. “Let’s assume for the time being that there
will
be some sort of worldwide catastrophe next year, of which your group has advance detailed knowledge. What is it, exactly, that you want the rest of us to do? Go flocking into your chapels and beg the gods to have mercy on us?”

“It’s much too late for that.”

“There’s no hope at all, then? In that case, why are you bothering even to warn us?”

Folimun smiled again, without irony this time. “For two reasons. One, yes, we
do
want people to come to our chapels, not so that they can try to influence the gods, but so that they can listen to our teachings in so far as they concern matters of morality and everyday decency. We think we have a message that is of value to the world in those areas. But second, and more urgent: we want to convince people of the reality of what is coming, so that they will take measures to protect themselves against it. The worst of the catastrophe
can
be headed off. Steps
can
be taken to avert the complete destruction of our civilization. The Flames are inevitable, yes, human nature being what it is—the gods have spoken, the time of their vengeance is already on the way—but within the general madness and horror there will be some who survive. I assure you that we Apostles most definitely will. We will be here, as we have been before, to lead humanity into the new cycle of rebirth. And we offer our hand—in love, in charity, to anyone else who will accept it. Who will join with us in guarding themselves against the turmoil that is coming. Does that sound like madness to you, Theremon? Does that sound as though we’re dangerous crackpots?”

“If I could only accept your basic assumption—”

“That the Flames will come next year? You will. You will. What remains to be seen is whether you accept it long enough in advance to become one of the survivors, one of the guardians of our heritage, or discover only in the moment of destruction, in the moment of your own agony, that we were speaking the truth all along.”

“I wonder which it’ll be,” said Theremon.

“Permit me to hope that you’ll be on our side on the day that this Year of Godliness comes to its close,” Folimun said. Abruptly he rose and offered Theremon his hand. “I have to go now. His Serenity the High Apostle expects me in a few minutes. But we’ll have further conversations, of that I’m sure. A day’s notice, or less, perhaps—I’ll try to make myself available to you. I look forward to speaking with you again. Odd as this may sound, I feel that you and I are destined to work very closely together. We have much in common, you know.”

“Do we?”

“In the matter of faith, no. In the matter of the desire to survive—and to help others to survive—yes, I think so, very definitely. A time will come when you and I will seek each other out, I suspect, and join forces to fight against the Darkness that is coming. I’m certain of it, in fact.”

Sure, Theremon thought. I’d better go get fitted for my black robe right away.

But there was no sense in offending Folimun with any sort of rudeness. This cult of Apostles was growing, apparently, day by day. There was a big story here; and Folimun was probably the one he was going to have to depend on for most of it.

Theremon slipped the copy of the Book of Revelations into his briefcase and stood up.

“I’ll call you in a few weeks,” he said. “After I’ve had a chance to peruse this with some care. There’ll be other things I’ll want to ask you then. —And how far in advance do I need to call for an audience with Mondior 71?”

Folimun couldn’t be snared so simply. “As I’ve already explained, His Serenity’s work from here until the Time of Flame is so critical that he’ll be unable to make himself available for such things as personal interviews. I’m truly sorry. There’s no way I can alter that.” Folimun put out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“And for me,” said Theremon.

Folimun laughed. “Has it, really? To spend half an hour talking with a madman? A crackpot? A fanatic? A cultist?”

“I don’t remember using those words.”

“It wouldn’t amaze me to be told that you’d thought them, though.” The Apostle gave Theremon another of his curiously disarming smiles. “You’d be half right, anyway. I
am
a fanatic. And a cultist, I suppose. But not a madman. Not a crackpot. I only wish I were. And you will too.”

He waved Theremon out. The monk who had guided him in was waiting outside the door to take him to the lift-chamber.

A strange half hour, the newspaperman thought. And not very fruitful, really. In some ways he knew even less about the Apostles than he had before he had come here.

That they were cranks and superstition-mongers was still obvious to Theremon. Plainly they didn’t have a shred of anything
like real evidence that some gigantic cataclysm was in store for the world soon. Whether they were mere self-deluding fools, though, or outright frauds looking to line their own pockets, was something that he could not yet clearly decide.

It was all pretty confusing. There was an element of fanaticism, of puritanism, about their movement that was not at all to his liking. And yet, and yet … this Folimun, this spokesman of theirs, had seemed an unexpectedly attractive person. He was intelligent, articulate—even, in his way, rational. The fact that he appeared to have a sense of humor of sorts was a surprise, and a point in his favor. Theremon had never heard of a maniac who was capable of even the slightest self-mockery—or a fanatic, either. —Unless it was all part of Folimun’s public-relations act: unless Folimun had been deliberately projecting the kind of persona that someone like Theremon would be likely to find appealing.

Be careful, he told himself. Folimun wants to use you.

But that was all right. His position with the newspaper was an influential one.
Everyone
wanted to use him.

Well, Theremon thought, we’ll see who uses whom.

His footsteps echoed sharply as he walked at a brisk pace through the immense entrance hall of the Apostles’ headquarters and out into the brilliance of a three-sun afternoon.

Back to the
Chronicle
office now. A couple of pious hours devoted to a close study of the Book of Revelations; and then it was time to begin thinking about tomorrow’s column.

The summer rainy season was in full spate the afternoon Sheerin 501 returned to Saro City. The plump psychologist stepped out of the plane into a stupendous downpour that had turned the airfield into something close to a lake. Gray torrents of rain rode almost horizontally on fierce gusts of wind.

Gray—gray—everything gray—

The suns had to be up there somewhere in all that murk. That faint glimmer in the west was probably Onos, and there were hints of the chilly light of Tano and Sitha off the other
way. But the cloud cover was so thick that the day was disagreeably dark. Uncomfortably dark for Sheerin, who still—despite what he had told his hosts in Jonglor—was troubled by the aftereffects of his fifteen-minute ride through the Tunnel of Mystery.

He would have gone on a ten-day fast sooner than he’d admit it to Kelaritan and Cubello and the rest of those people. But he had come perilously close to the danger point in there.

For three or four days thereafter Sheerin had experienced a touch, only a touch, of the kind of claustrophobia that had sent so many citizens of Jonglor to the mental hospital. He would be in his hotel room, working on his report, when suddenly he would feel Darkness closing in on him, and he would find it necessary to get up and go out on his terrace, or even to leave the building entirely for a long stroll in the hotel garden.
Necessary?
Well, maybe not. But preferable. Certainly preferable. And he always felt better for doing it.

Or he would be asleep and the Darkness would come to him then. Naturally the godlight would be on in his room when he slept—he always slept with one on, he knew nobody who didn’t—and since the Tunnel ride he had taken to using an auxiliary godlight too, in case the battery of the first one should fail, though the indicator clearly said it had six months’ power left. Even so, Sheerin’s sleeping mind would become convinced that his room had been plunged into the depths of lightlessness, utterly black, the true and complete Darkness. And he would awaken, trembling, sweating, convinced he was in Darkness even though the friendly glow of the two godlights was right there on either side of him to tell him that he was not.

So now, to step from his plane into this somber twilight landscape—well, he was glad to be home, but he would have preferred a sunnier arrival. He had to fight off mild distress, or perhaps not so mild, as he entered the flexiglass foul-weather passageway that led from his plane to the terminal. He wished they hadn’t put the passageway up. Better not to be enclosed right now, Sheerin thought, even if it did mean getting wet. Better to be out there under the open sky, under the comforting light (however faint just now, however hidden by clouds) of the friendly suns.

But the queasiness passed. By the time he had claimed his
baggage, the cheering reality of being back home again in Saro City had triumphed over the lingering effects of his brush with Darkness.

Liliath 221 was waiting for him outside the baggage pickup area with her car. That made him feel better too. She was a slender, pleasant-looking woman in her late forties, a fellow member of the Psychology Department, though her work was experimental, animals in mazes, no overlap at all with his. They had known each other ten or fifteen years. Sheerin would probably have asked her to marry him long ago if he had been the marrying type. But he wasn’t; nor, for all the indication she had ever given him, was she. Still, the relationship they did have seemed to suit them both.