“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?”