Nightfall by Isaac Asimov, Robert Silverberg Page A

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