But then came Mondior 71’s speech of Umilithar thirteenth, in which the High Apostle proudly declared that the world’s greatest man of science had given his support to the word of the Book of Revelations. “The voice of science is now one with the voice of heaven,” Mondior cried. “I urge you now: put no further hope in miracles and dreams. What must come must come. Nothing can save the world from the wrath of the gods, nothing except a willingness to abandon sin, to give up evil, to devote oneself to the path of virtue and righteousness.”
Mondior’s booming pronouncement had pushed Theremon out of his neutrality. In loyalty to Beenay’s friendship he had allowed himself to take the eclipse hypothesis more or less seriously, for a while. But now he began to see it as pure sillyseason stuff—a bunch of earnest, self-deluding scientists, swept away by their own enthusiasm for a lot of circumstantial evidence and reasoning from mere coincidence, willing to kid themselves into a belief in the century’s most nonsensical bit of insanity.
The next day Theremon’s column asked, “Are you wondering how the Apostles of Flame ever managed to gain Athor 77 as a convert? Of all people, the grand old man of astronomy seems about the least likely to line up in support of those robed and hooded purveyors of claptrap and abracadabra. Did some silver-tongued Apostle charm the great scientist out of his wits? Or is it simply the case, as we’ve heard whispered behind the ivy-covered walls of Saro University, that the mandatory faculty retirement age has been pegged a few years too high?”
And that was only the beginning.
Theremon saw what role he had to play now. If people started taking this eclipse thing seriously, there would be mental breakdowns on all sides, even without the coming of general Darkness to start the trouble off.
Let everyone actually begin believing that doom would arrive on the evening of Theptar nineteenth, and there would be panic in the streets long before that, universal hysteria, a collapse of law and order, a prolonged period of general instability and troublesome apprehension—followed by the gods only knew what sort of emotional upheavals when the dreaded day came and went harmlessly. It would have to be his task to deflate the fear of Nightfall, of Darkness, of Doomsday, by poking it with the sharp spear of laughter.
So when Mondior thundered ferociously that the vengeance of the gods was on the way, Theremon 762 replied with lighthearted sketches of what the world would be like if the Apostles succeeded in “reforming” society as they wanted to—people going to the beach bundled up in ankle-length swimsuits, long sessions of prayer between each bit of action at sports events, all the great books and classic plays and shows rewritten to eliminate the slightest hint of impiety.
And when Athor and his group released diagrams showing the movements of the unseen and apparently unseeable Kalgash Two across the sky on its shadowy rendezvous with the pallid red light of Dovim, Theremon made amiable remarks about dragons, invisible giants, and other mythological monsters cavorting through the heavens.
When Mondior waved the scientific authority of Athor 77 around as an argument demonstrating secular support of the Apostles’ teachings, Theremon responded by asking how seriously anyone could take Athor 77’s scientific authority, now that he was obviously just as deranged as Mondior himself.
When Athor called for a crash program to store food supplies, scientific and technical information, and everything else that would be needed by mankind after the general insanity broke loose, Theremon suggested that in some quarters the general insanity had already broken loose, and provided his own list of essential items to put away in your basement (“can openers, thumbtacks, copies of the multiplication table, playing cards.…Don’t forget to write your name on a tag and tie it around your right wrist, in case you don’t remember it after the Darkness comes.…Put a tag on your left wrist that says, To find out your name, see tag on other wrist.…”)
By the time Theremon had finished working the story over, it was hard for his readers to decide which group was more absurd—the ripsnorting doomsayers of the Apostles of Flame, or the pathetic, gullible skywatchers of the Saro University Observatory. But one thing was certain: thanks to Theremon, hardly any member of the general public believed that anything out of the ordinary was going to take place on the evening of Theptar nineteenth.
20
Athor thrust out a belligerent lower lip and glared in rage at the man from the Chronicle. He was able to restrain himself only by a supreme effort.
“You here? Despite everything I said? Of all the audacity!”
Theremon’s hand was outstretched in greeting as though he really had expected Athor to accept it. But after a moment he lowered it, and stood regarding the Observatory director with astonishing insouciance.
In a voice trembling with barely controlled emotion Athor said, “You display an infernal gall, sir, in coming here this evening. It astounds me that you’d dare to show your face among us.”
From a corner of the room, Beenay, running the tip of his tongue nervously across his lips, interposed nervously, “Now, sir, after all—”
“Did you invite him to be here? When you knew I had expressly forbidden—”
“Sir, I—”
“It was Dr. Siferra,” Theremon said. “She urged me very vigorously to come. I’m here at her invitation.”
“Siferra? Siferra? I doubt that very much. She told me only a few weeks ago that she thinks you’re an irresponsible fool. She spoke of you in the harshest possible manner.” Athor looked around. “Where is she, by the way? She was supposed to be here, wasn’t she?” No answer came. Turning to Beenay, Athor said, “You’re the one who brought this newspaperman in, Beenay. I’m utterly amazed that you’d do such a thing. This isn’t the moment for insubordination. The Observatory is closed to journalists this evening. And it’s been closed to this particular journalist for a long time now. Show him out at once.”
“Director Athor,” Theremon said, “if you’ll only let me explain what my reason for—”
“I don’t believe, young man, that anything you could say now would do much to outweigh your insufferable daily columns of these last two months. You have led a vast newspaper campaign against the efforts of my colleagues and myself to organize the world against the menace that is about to overwhelm us. You have done your best with your highly personal attacks to make the staff of this Observatory objects of ridicule.”
He lifted the copy of the Saro City Chronicle on the table and shook it at Theremon furiously. “Even a person of your well-known impudence should have hesitated before coming to me with a request that he be allowed to cover today’s events for this paper. Of all newsmen—you!”
Athor dashed the newspaper to the floor, strode to the window, and clasped his arms behind his back.
“You are to leave immediately,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Beenay, get him out of here.”
Athor’s head was throbbing. It was important, he knew, to get his anger under control. He could not afford to allow anything to distract him from the vast and cataclysmic event that was about to occur.