“Someone’s been saying things,” Beenay whispered.
Folimun went on, “All this works against the interests of Mondior 71, obviously. And it is Mondior 71 who is the appointed prophet of the gods, the one who is intended to lead mankind through the period ahead.”
“It’s high time you came to the point,” Athor said in a frigid tone.
Folimun nodded. “The point is simply this. Your ill-advised and blasphemous attempt to gain information by means of your devilish instruments must be stopped. I only regret that I could not have destroyed your infernal devices with my own hands.”
“Is that what you had in mind? It wouldn’t have done you much good. All our data, except for the direct evidence we intend collecting right now, is already safely cached and well beyond the possibility of harm.”
“Bring it forth. Destroy it.”
“What?”
“Destroy all your work. Destroy your instruments. In return for which, I will see to it that you and all your people are protected against the chaos that is certain to break loose when Nightfall comes.”
Now there was laughter in the room.
“Crazy,” someone said. “Absolutely nuts.”
“Not at all,” Folimun said. “Devout, yes. Dedicated to a cause beyond your comprehension, yes. But not crazy. I’m quite sane, I assure you. I think this man here”—he indicated Theremon—“would testify to that, and he’s not known for his gullibility. But I place my cause above all other things. This night is crucial in the history of the world, and when tomorrow dawns, Godliness must triumph. I offer you an ultimatum. You people are to end your blasphemous attempt to provide rational explanations for the coming of Darkness this evening and accept His Serenity Mondior 71 as the true voice of the gods’ will. When morning comes, you will go forth to do Mondior’s work among mankind, and no more will be heard of eclipses, or orbits, or the Law or Universal Gravitation, or the rest of your foolishness.”
“And if we refuse?” said Athor, looking almost amused by Folimun’s presumptuousness.
“Then,” said Folimun coolly, “a band of angry people led by the Apostles of Flame will ascend this hill and destroy your Observatory and everything within it.”
“Enough,” Athor said. “Call Security. Have this man thrown out of here.”
“You have exactly one hour,” Folimun said, unperturbed. “And then the Army of Holiness will attack.”
“He’s bluffing,” Sheerin said suddenly.
Athor, as though he hadn’t heard, said again, “Call Security. I want him out of here!”
“Damn it, Athor, what’s wrong with you?” Sheerin cried. “If you turn him loose, he’ll get out there to fan the flames. Don’t you see, chaos is what all these Apostles have been living for? And this man’s a master at creating it.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Lock him up,” Sheerin said. “Stash him away in a closet and slap a padlock on him, and keep him there for the duration of the time of Darkness. It’s the worst possible thing we could do to him. If he’s locked away like that, he won’t see the Darkness, and he won’t see the Stars. It doesn’t take much of a knowledge of the fundamental creed of the Apostles to realize that for him to be hidden from the Stars when they appear will mean the loss of his immortal soul. Lock him up, Athor. It’s not only what’s safest for us, it’s what he deserves.”
“And afterward,” breathed Folimun fiercely, “when you have all lost your minds, there’ll be no one to let me out. This is a sentence of death. I know as well as you do what the coming of the Stars will mean—I know it far better than you. With your minds gone, you won’t give any thought to freeing me. Suffocation or slow starvation, is it? About what I might have expected from a group of—of scientists.” He made the word sound obscene. “But it won’t work. I’ve taken the precaution of letting my followers know that they are to attack the Observatory precisely an hour from now, unless I appear and order them not to. Locking me away, then, will achieve nothing useful to you. Within an hour it’ll bring your own destruction upon you, that’s all. And then my people will free me, and together—joyously, ecstatically—we will watch the coming of the Stars.” A vein throbbed in Folimun’s temple. “Then, tomorrow, when you all are babbling madmen, damned forever by your deeds, we will set about the creation of a wondrous new world.”
Sheerin glanced doubtfully at Athor. But Athor looked hesitant too.
Beenay, standing next to Theremon, murmured, “What do you think? Is he bluffing?”
But the newspaperman didn’t reply. He had gone pale to the lips. “Look at that!” The finger he pointed toward the window was shaking, and his voice was dry and cracked.
There was a simultaneous gasp as every eye followed the pointing finger and, for one moment, stared frozenly.
Dovim was chipped on one side!
25
The tiny bit of encroaching blackness was perhaps the width of a fingernail, but to the staring watchers it magnified itself into the crack of doom.
For Theremon the sight of that small arc of darkness struck with terrible force. He winced and put his hand to his forehead and turned away from the window. He was shaken to the roots of his soul by that little chip in Dovim’s side. Theremon the skeptic—Theremon the mocker—Theremon the tough-minded analyst of other people’s folly—
Gods! How wrong I was!
As he turned, his eyes met Siferra’s. She was at the other side of the room, looking at him. There was contempt in her eyes—or was it pity? He forced himself to meet her gaze and shook his head sadly, as though to tell her with all the humility there was in him, I fouled things up and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
It seemed to him that she smiled. Maybe she had understood what he was trying to say.
Then the room dissolved in shrieking confusion for a moment, as everyone began to rush frenziedly around; and a moment after that, the confusion gave way to an orderly scurry of activity as the astronomers leaped to their assigned tasks, some running upstairs to the Observatory dome to watch the eclipse through the telescopes, some going to the computers, some using hand-held instruments to record the changes in Dovim’s disk. At this crucial moment there was no time for emotion. They were merely scientists with work to do. Theremon, alone in the midst of it all, looked about for Beenay and found him, finally, sitting at a keyboard, madly working out some sort of problem. Of Athor there was no sign at all.
Sheerin appeared at Theremon’s side and said prosaically, “First contact must have been made five or ten minutes ago. A little early, but I suppose there were plenty of uncertainties involved in the calculations despite all the effort that went into them.” He smiled.—“You ought to get away from that window, man.”
“Why is that?” said Theremon, who had swung around again to stare at Dovim.
“Athor is furious,” the psychologist whispered. “He missed first contact on account of this fuss with Folimun. You’re in a vulnerable position, standing where you are. If Athor comes by this way he’s likely to try to throw you out the window.”
Theremon nodded shortly and sat down. Sheerin looked at him, eyes wide with surprise.
“The devil, man! You’re shaking.”