It all tasted wondrously delicious to Theremon.
He forced himself to eat slowly, carefully, knowing that his body was unaccustomed to real food after his time in the forest; every mouthful had to be thoroughly chewed or he’d get sick, he knew, though his instinct was to bolt it as fast as he could and ask for a second helping.
After he had eaten Theremon sat back, staring dully at the ugly tin wall. He wasn’t hungry any more. And his frame of mind was beginning to change for the worse. Despite the bath, despite the meal, despite the comfort of knowing he was safe in this well-defended Sanctuary, he found himself slipping into a mood of the deepest desolation.
He felt very weary. And dispirited, and full of gloom.
It had been a pretty good world, he thought. Not perfect, far from it, but good enough. Most people had been reasonably happy, most were prosperous, there was progress being made on all fronts—toward deeper scientific understanding, toward greater economic expansion, toward stronger global cooperation. The concept of war had come to seem quaintly medieval and the age-old religious bigotries were mostly obsolete, or so it had seemed to him.
And now it was all gone, in one short span of hours, in a single burst of horrifying Darkness.
A new world would be born from the ashes of the old, of course. It was always that way: Siferra’s excavations at Thombo testified to that.
But what sort of world would it be? Theremon wondered. The answer to that was already at hand. It would be a world in which people killed other people for a scrap of meat, or because they had violated a superstition about fire, or simply because killing seemed like a diverting thing to do. A world in which the Altinols came forward to take advantage of the chaos and gain power for themselves. A world in which the Folimuns and Mondiors, no doubt, were scheming to emerge as the dictators of thought—probably working hand in hand with the Altinols, Theremon thought morbidly. A world in which—
No. He shook his head. What was the point of all this dark, brooding lamentation?
Siferra had the right notion, he told himself. There was no sense in speculating about what might have been. What we have to deal with is what is. At least he was alive, and his mind was pretty much whole again, and he had come through his ordeal in the forest more or less intact, aside from a few bruises and cuts that would heal in a couple of days. Despair was a useless emotion now: it was a luxury that he couldn’t allow himself, any more than Siferra would allow herself the luxury of still being angry at him over the newspaper pieces he had written.
What was done was done. Now it was time to pick up and move onward, regroup, rebuild, make a fresh start. To look back was folly. To look forward in dismay or despondency was mere cowardice.
“Finished?” Siferra said, returning to the dining hall. “I know, not magnificent food. But it beats eating graben.”
“I couldn’t say. I never actually got to eat any graben.”
“You probably didn’t miss much. Come: I’ll show you to your room.”
It was a low-ceilinged cubicle of no great elegance: a bed with a godlight on the floor beside it, a washstand, a single dangling light fixture. Scattered in one corner were some books and newspapers that must have been left behind by those who had occupied this room on the evening of the eclipse. Theremon saw a copy of the Chronicle opened to the page of his column, and winced: it was one of his last pieces, a particularly intemperate onslaught on Athor and his group. He reddened and pushed it out of sight with his foot.
Siferra said, “What are you going to do now, Theremon?”
“Do?”
“I mean, once you’ve had a chance to rest up a little.”
“I haven’t given it much thought. Why?”
“Altinol wants to know if you’re planning to join the Fire Patrol,” she said.
“Is that an invitation?”
“He’s willing to take you aboard. You’re the kind of person that he needs, someone strong, someone capable of dealing with people.”
“Yes,” Theremon said. “I’d be good here, wouldn’t I?”
“But he’s uneasy about one thing. There’s room for only one boss in the Patrol, and that’s Altinol. If you joined up, he’d want you to understand right from the beginning that what Altinol says goes, without any argument. He’s not sure how good you are at taking orders.”
“I’m not so sure how good I am at that either,” Theremon said. “But I can see Altinol’s point of view.”
“Will you join, then? I know there are problems with the whole Patrol setup. But at least it’s a force for order, and we need something like that now. And Altinol may be highhanded, but he’s not evil. I’m convinced of that. He simply thinks the times call for strong measures and decisive leadership. Which he’s capable of supplying.”
“I don’t doubt that he is.”
“Think it over this evening,” Siferra said. “If you want to join, talk to him tomorrow. Be frank with him. He’ll be frank with you, you can be certain of that. So long as you can assure him that you’re not going to be any direct threat to his authority, I’m certain that you and he—”
“No,” Theremon said suddenly.
“No what?”
He was silent for a time. At length he said, “I don’t need to spend the evening thinking about it. I already know what my answer will be.”
Siferra looked at him, waiting.
Theremon said, “I don’t want to butt heads with Altinol. I know the kind of man he is, and I’m very sure that I can’t get along with people like that for any length of time. And I also know that in the short run it may be necessary to have operations like the Fire Patrol, but in the long run they’re a bad thing, and once they’re established and institutionalized it’s very hard to get rid of them. The Altinols of this world don’t give up power voluntarily. Little dictators never do. And I don’t want the knowledge that I helped put him on top hanging around my neck for the rest of my life. Reinventing the feudal system doesn’t strike me as a useful solution for the problems we have now. So it’s no go, Siferra. I’m not going to wear Altinol’s green neckerchief. There isn’t any future for me here.”
Quietly Siferra said, “What are you going to do, then?”
“Sheerin told me that there’s a real provisional government being formed at Amgando Park. University people, maybe some people from the old government, representatives from all over the country coming together down there. As soon as I’m strong enough to travel, I’m going to head for Amgando.”
She regarded him steadily. She made no reply.
Theremon took a deep breath. And said, after a moment, “Come with me to Amgando Park, Siferra.” He reached a hand toward her. Softly he said, “Stay with me this evening, in this miserable little tiny room of mine. And in the morning let’s clear out of here and go down south together. You don’t belong here any more than I do. And we stand five times as much chance of getting to Amgando together than we would if either of us tried to make the journey alone.”
Siferra remained silent. He did not withdraw his hand.
“Well? What do you say?”
Theremon watched the play of conflicting emotions moving across her features. But he did not dare try to interpret them.
Clearly Siferra was struggling with herself. But then, abruptly, the struggle came to an end.
“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes. Let’s do it, Theremon.”