Nightfall by Isaac Asimov, Robert Silverberg Page B

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