Nightfall

Theremon looked up, startled, dismayed. The first rule of survival in this forest was that you must never let yourself get so involved in anything that you failed to notice strangers sneaking up on you.



There were five of them. Men, about his own age. They looked as ragged as anyone else living in the forest. They didn't seem especially crazy, as people went these days: no glassy eyes, no drooling mouths, only an expression that was grim and weary and determined. They didn't appear to be carrying any weapons other than clubs, but their attitude was distinctly hostile.



Five against one. All right, he thought, take the damned graben and choke on it. He wasn't foolish enough to try to put up a fight.



"I said, 'What are you doing there, mister?'" the first man repeated, more coldly than before.



Theremon glared. "What does it look like? I'm trying to start a fire."



"That's what we thought."



The stranger stepped forward. Carefully, deliberately, he aimed a kick into Theremon's little woodpile. The painstakingly assembled kindling-wood went scattering, and the skewered graben toppled to the ground.



"Hey, wait a second-!"



"No fires here, mister. That's the law." Brusquely, firmly, bluntly. "Possession of fire-making equipment is prohibited. This wood is to use for a fire. That's obvious. And you admit guilt besides."



"Guilt?" Theremon said, incredulously.



"You said you were making a fire. These stones, they seem to be fire-making equipment, right? The law's clear on that. Prohibited."



At a signal from the leaders, two of the others came forward. One grabbed Theremon about the neck and chest from behind, and the other took the two stones he had been using from his hands and hurled them into the lake. They splashed and disappeared. Theremon, watching them go, felt the way he imagined Beenay must have felt at seeing his telescopes smashed by the mob.



"Let-go-of-me-" Theremon muttered, struggling.



"Let go of him," said the leader. He dug his foot into Theremon's fire-site again, grinding the bits of straw and stems into the dirt. -"Fires aren't allowed any more," he said to Theremon. "We've had all the fires we're ever going to have. We can't permit no more fires on account of the risk, the suffering, the damage, don't you know that? You try to build another fire, we're going to come back and smash your head in, you hear me?"



"It was fire that ruined the world," one of the others said.



"Fire that drove us from our homes."



"Fire is the enemy. Fire is forbidden. Fire is evil."



Theremon stared. Fire evil? Fire forbidden?



So they were crazy after all!



"The penalty for trying to start a fire, first offense," the first man said, "is a fine. We fine you this animal here. To teach you not to endanger innocent people. Take it, Listigon. It's a good lesson to him. The next time this fellow catches something, he'll remember that he oughtn't try to conjure up the enemy just because he feels like having some cooked meat."



"No!" Theremon cried in a half-strangled voice, as Listigon bent to pick up the graben. "That's mine, you morons! Mine! Mine!"



And he charged wildly at them, all caution swept away by exasperation and frustration.



Someone hit him, hard, in the midsection. He gasped and gagged and doubled over, clutching his belly with his arms, and someone else hit him from behind, a blow in the small of the back that nearly sent him tumbling forward on his face. But this time he jabbed backward sharply with his elbow, felt a satisfying contact, heard a grunt of pain.



He had been in fights before, but not for a long, long time. And never one against five. But there was no running away from this one now. What he had to do, he told himself, was stay on his feet and keep on backpedaling until he was up against the rock wall, where at least they couldn't come at him from the rear. And then just try to hold them off, kicking and punching and if necessary biting and roaring, until they decided to let him be.



A voice somewhere deep within him said, They 're completely nuts. They 're perfectly likely to keep this up until they beat you to death.



Nothing he could do about that now, though. Except try to hold them off.



He kept his head down and punched as hard as he could, while steadily pushing onward toward the wall. They crowded around him, battering him from all sides. But he stayed on his feet. Their numerical advantage wasn't as overwhelming as he had expected. In these close quarters, the five of them were unable all to get at him at once, and Theremon was able to play the confusion to his own benefit, striking out in any direction and moving as quickly as he could while they lumbered around trying to avoid hitting each other.



Even so, he knew he couldn't take much more. His lip was cut and one eye was starting to swell, and he was getting short of breath. One more good punch could send him down. He held one arm in front of his face and struck with the other, while continuing to back toward the shelter of the rock wall. He kicked someone. There was a howl and a curse. Someone else kicked back. Theremon took it on his thigh and swung around, hissing in pain.



He swayed. He struggled desperately for air. It was hard to see, hard to tell what was going on. They were all around him now, fists flailing at him from all sides. He wasn't going to reach the wall. He wasn't going to stay on his feet much longer. He was going to fall, and they were going to trample him, and he was going to die- Going-to--die- Then he became aware of confusion within the confusion: the shouts of different voices, new people mingling in the melee, a host of figures everywhere. Fine, he thought. Another bunch of crazies joining the fun. But maybe I can slip away somehow while all this is going on- "In the name of the Fire Patrol, stop!" a woman's voice called, clear, loud, commanding. "That's an order! Stop, all of you! Get away from him! Now!"



Theremon blinked and rubbed his forehead. He looked around, bleary-eyed.



There were four newcomers in the clearing. They seemed fresh and crisp, and were wearing clean clothes. Flowing green neckerchiefs were tied about their throats. They were carrying needle-guns.



The woman-she appeared to be in charge-made a quick imperative gesture with the weapon she held, and the five men who had attacked Theremon moved away from him and went obediently to stand in front of her. She glowered sternly at them.



Theremon stared in disbelief.



"What's all this about?" she asked the leader of the five in a steely tone.



"He was starting a fire-trying to-he was going to roast an animal, but we came along-"



"All right. I see no fire here. The laws have been maintained. Clear off."



The man nodded. He reached down to take the graben.



"Hey! That belongs to me," Theremon said hoarsely.



"No," the other said. "You have to lose it. We fined you for breaking the fire laws."



"I'll decide the punishment," the woman said. "Leave the animal and clear off! Clear off!"



"But-"



"Clear off, or I'll have you up on charges before Altinol. Get! Get!"



The five men went slinking away. Theremon continued to stare.



The woman wearing the green neckerchief came toward him.



"I guess I was just in time, wasn't I, Theremon?"



"Siferra," he said in amazement. "Siferra!"



He was hurting in a hundred places. He wasn't at all sure how intact his bones were. One of his eyes was practically swollen shut. But he suspected he was going to survive. He sat leaning against the rock wall, waiting for the haze of pain to diminish a little.



Siferra said, "We've got a little Jonglor brandy back at our headquarters. I can authorize you to have some, I guess. For medicinal purposes, of course."



"Brandy? Headquarters? What headquarters? What is this all about, Siferra? Are you really here at all?"



"You think I'm a hallucination?" She laughed and dug her fingertips lightly into his forearm. "Is that a hallucination, would you say?"



He winced. "Careful. I'm pretty tender there. And everywhere else, right now. -You just dropped right down out of the sky, is that it?"



"I was on Patrol duty, passing through the forest, and we heard the sounds of a scuffle. So we came to investigate. I had no idea you were mixed up in it until I saw you. We're trying to restore order around here somehow."



"We?"



"The Fire Patrol. It's as close as there is to a new local government. The headquarters is at the university Sanctuary, and a man named Altinol who used to be some sort of company executive is in charge. I'm one of his officers. It's a vigilante group, really, which has managed to put across the notion that the use of fire must be controlled, and that only members of the Fire Patrol have the privilege of-"



Theremon raised his hand. "Hold on, Siferra. Slow down, will you? The university people in the Sanctuary have formed a vigilante group, you say? They're going around putting out fires? How can that be? Sheerin told me that they had all cleared out, that they had gone south to some sort of rendezvous at Amgando National Park."



"Sheerin? Is he here?"



"He was. He's on his way to Amgando now. I-decided to stick around here a little while longer." It seemed impossible to tell her that he had stuck around on the unlikely chance that he would manage to find her.



Siferra nodded. "What Sheerin told you was true. All the university people left the Sanctuary the day after the eclipse. I suppose they're off in Amgando by now-I haven't heard anything about them. They left the Sanctuary wide open, and Altinol and his bunch wandered in and took possession of it. The Fire Patrol has fifteen, twenty members, all of them in pretty good shape, mentally. They've been able to establish their authority over about half the area of the forest, and some of the surrounding territory of the city where people are still living."



"And you?" Theremon asked. "How did you get involved with them?"



"I went into the forest first, once the Stars were gone. But it looked pretty dangerous here, so when I remembered about the Sanctuary, I headed there. Altinol and his people were already there. They invited me to join the Patrol." Siferra smiled in what might have been a rueful way. "They didn't really offer me much of a choice," she said. "They aren't particularly gentle sorts."



"These aren't gentle times."



"No. So I decided, better off with them than drifting around on my own. They gave me this green neckerchief-everybody around here respects it. And this needle-gun. People respect that too."



"So you're a vigilante," Theremon said, musing. "Somehow I never figured you for that kind of thing."



"I never did either."



"But you believe that this Altinol and his Fire Patrol are righteous folk who are helping to restore law and order, is that it?"



She smiled again, and again it was not an expression of mirth.



"Righteous folk? They think they are, yes."



"You don't?"



A shrug. "They're out for themselves first, and no kidding about that. There's a power vacuum here and they mean to fill it. But I suppose they're not the worst possible people to try to impose a governmental structure right now. They're easier to take than some of the outfits I can think of, at least."



"You mean the Apostles? Are they trying to form a government too?"



"Very likely they are. But I haven't heard anything about them since it all happened. Altinol thinks that they're still hidden away underground somewhere, or that Mondior has led them off to some place far out in the country where they'll set up their own kingdom. But we've got a couple of new fanatic groups that are real lulus, Theremon. You just had a run-in with one of them, and it's only by wild luck that they didn't finish you off. They believe that the only salvation for humanity now is to give up the use of fire completely, since fire has been the ruin of the world. So they're going around destroying fire-making equipment wherever they can find it, and killing anyone who seems to enjoy starting fires."



"I was simply trying to cook some dinner for myself," said Theremon somberly.



Siferra said, "It's all the same to them whether you're cooking a meal or amusing yourself with a little bit of arson. Fire is fire, and they abhor it. Lucky thing for you that we came along in time. They accept the authority of the Fire Patrol. We're the elite, you understand, the only ones whose use of fire will be tolerated."



"It helps to have needle-guns," Theremon said. "That gets you a lot of toleration too." He rubbed a sore place on his arm and looked off bleakly into the distance. -"There are other fanatics besides these, you say?"



"There are the ones who think the university astronomers had discovered the secret of making the Stars appear. They blame Athor, Beenay & Co. for everything that's happened. It's the old hatred of the intellectual that crops up whenever medieval emotions start surfacing."



"Gods! Are there many like that?"



"Enough. Darkness only knows what they'll do if they actually catch any university people who haven't already reached Amgando safely. String them up to the nearest lamppost, I suppose."



Morosely Theremon said, "And I'd be responsible."



"You?"



"Everything that's happened is my fault, Siferra. Not Athor's, not Folimun's, not the gods', but mine. Mine. Me, Theremon 762. That time you called me irresponsible, you were being too easy with me. I wasn't just irresponsible, I was criminally negligent."



"Theremon, stop it. What's the good of-"



He swept right on. "I should have been writing columns day in and day out, warning of what was coming, crying out for a crash program to build shelters, to set aside provisions and emergency generating equipment, to provide counseling for the disturbed, to do a million different things-and instead what did I do? Sneered. Poked fun at the astronomers in their lofty tower! Made it politically impossible for anybody in the government to take Athor seriously."



"Theremon-"



"You should have let those crazies beat me to death, Siferra."



Her eyes met his. She looked angry. "Don't talk like a fool. All the government planning in the world wouldn't have changed anything. I wish you hadn't written those articles too, Theremon. You know how I felt about them. But what does any of that matter now? You were sincere in what you felt. You were wrong, but you were sincere. And in any case there's no sense speculating about what might have been. What we have to deal with now is what is." More gently she said, "Enough of this. Are you able to walk? We need to get you back to the Sanctuary. A chance to wash up, some fresh clothes, a little food in you-"



"Food?"



"The university people left plenty of provisions behind."



Theremon chuckled and pointed to the graben. "You mean I don't have to eat that?"



"Not unless you really want to. I suggest you give it to someone who needs it more than you do, while we're on our way out of the forest."



"Good idea."



He pulled himself to his feet, slowly and painfully. Gods, the way everything was hurting! An experimental step or two: not bad, not bad. Nothing seemed to be broken after all. Just a little bit misused. The thought of a warm bath and actual substantial food was healing his bruised and aching body already.



He took a last look around at his little flung-together lean-to, his stream, his scruffy little bushes and weeds. His home, these strange few days. He wouldn't miss it much, but he doubted that he'd forget his life here very soon, either.



Then he picked up the graben and slung it over his shoulder.



"Lead the way," he said to Siferra.



They had not gone more than a hundred yards when Theremon caught sight of a group of boys skulking behind the trees. They were the same ones, he realized, who had flushed the graben from its burrow and hunted it to its death. Evidently they had come back to search for it. Now, sullenly, they were staring from a distance, obviously annoyed that Theremon was walking off with their prize. But they were too intimidated by the green neckerchiefs of office that identified the Fire Patrol group-or, more likely, simply by their needle-guns-to stake a claim to it.



"Hey!" Theremon called. "This is yours, isn't it? I've been taking care of it for you!"



He flung the carcass of the graben toward them. It fell to the ground well short of the place where they were, and they hung back, looking mystified and uneasy. They were obviously eager to have the animal but afraid to come forward.



"There's life in the post-Nightfall era for you," he said sadly to Siferra. "They're starving, but they don't dare make a move. They think it's a trap. They figure that if they step out from those trees to get the animal we'll shoot them down, just for fun."



Siferra said, "Who can blame them? Everyone's afraid of everyone, now. Leave it there. They'll go after it when we're out of sight."



He followed her onward, limping as he went.



Siferra and the other Patrol people moved confidently through the forest, as though invulnerable to the dangers that were lurking everywhere. And indeed there were no incidents as the group headed-as rapidly as Theremon's injuries permitted-toward the road that ran through the woods. It was interesting to see, he thought, how quickly society was beginning to reconstitute itself. In just a few days an irregular outfit like this Fire Patrol had begun to take on a kind of governmental authority. Unless it was just the needle-guns and the general air of self-assurance that kept the crazies away, of course.



They came to the edge of the forest, finally. The air was growing cooler and the light was uncomfortably dim, now that Patru and Trey were the only suns in the sky. In the past Theremon had never been bothered by the relatively low light levels that were typical of the hours when the only illumination came from one of the double-sun pairs. Ever since the eclipse, though, such a two-sun evening had seemed disturbing and threatening to him, a possible harbinger-although he knew it could not be so-of the imminent return of Darkness. The psychic wounds of Nightfall would be a long time healing, even for the world's sturdiest minds.



"The Sanctuary is just a little way down this road," Siferra said. "How're you doing?"



"I'm all right," said Theremon sourly. "They didn't cripple me, you know."



But it was a considerable struggle to force his sore, throbbing legs to carry him along. He was intensely gladdened and relieved when at last he found himself at the cave-like entrance to the underground domain that was the Sanctuary.



The place was like a maze. Caverns and corridors led off in all directions. Vaguely in the distance he saw the intricate loops and coils of scientific-looking gear, mysterious and unfathomable, running along the walls and ceiling. This place, he remembered now, had been the site of the university's atom smasher until the big new experimental lab at Saro Heights opened. Apparently the physicists had left a good deal of obsolete equipment behind.



A tall man appeared, radiating authority.



Siferra said, "This is Altinol 111. Altinol, I want you to meet Theremon 762."



"Of the Chronicle?" Altinol said. He didn't sound awed or in any way impressed: he seemed merely to be registering the fact out loud.



"Formerly," said Theremon.



They eyed each other without warmth. Altinol, Theremon thought, looked to be a very tough cookie indeed: a man in early middle age, obviously trim and in prime condition. He was well dressed in sturdy clothing and carried himself with the air of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed. Theremon, studying him, riffled quickly through the well stocked files of his memory and after a moment was pleased to strike a chord of recognition.



He said, "Morthaine Industries? That Altinol?"



A momentary flicker of-amusement? Or was it annoyance? -appeared in Altinol's eyes. "That one, yes."



"They always said you wanted to be Prime Executive. Well, it looks like you are, now. Of what's left of Saro City, at least, if not the whole Federal Republic."



"One thing at a time," Altinol said. His voice was measured. "First we try to stumble back out of anarchy. Then we think about putting the country together again and worry about who's going to be Prime Executive. We have the problem of the Apostles, for example, who have seized control of the entire north side of the city and the territory beyond, and placed it under religious authority. They won't be easy to displace." Altinol smiled coolly. "First things first, my friend."



"And for Theremon," Siferra said, "the first thing is a bath, and then a meal. He's been living in the forest since Nightfall.



"Come with me," she said to him.



Partitions had been set up all along the old particle-accelerator track, carving it up into a long series of little rooms. Siferra showed him to one in which copper pipes mounted overhead carried water to a porcelain tank. "It won't be really warm," she warned him. "We only run the boilers a couple of hours a day, because the fuel supply is so low. But it's bound to be better than bathing in a chilly forest stream. -You knew something about Altinol?"



"Chairman of Morthaine Industries, the big shipping combine. He was in the news a year or two back, something about wangling a contract by possibly irregular means to develop a huge real-estate tract on government land in Nibro Province."



"What does a shipping combine have to do with real-estate development?" Siferra asked.



"That's exactly the point. Nothing at all. He was accused of using improper government influence-something about offering lifetime passes on his cruise line to senators, I think-" Theremon shrugged. "Makes no difference now, really. There's no more Morthaine Industries, no more real-estate developing to be done, no Federal senators to bribe. He probably didn't like my recognizing him."



"He probably didn't care. Running the Fire Patrol is all that matters to him now."



"For the time being," said Theremon. "Today the Saro City Fire Patrol, tomorrow the world. You heard him talking about displacing the Apostles who've grabbed the far side of the city. Well, someone's got to do it. And he's the kind who enjoys running things."



Siferra went out. Theremon lowered himself into the porcelain tank.



Not exactly sybaritic. But pretty wonderful, after all he had been through lately. He leaned back and closed his eyes and relaxed. And luxuriated.



Siferra took him to the Sanctuary dining hall, a simple tin roofed chamber, when he was finished with his bath, and left him there by himself, telling him she had to make her day's report to Altinol. A meal was waiting for him there-one of the packaged dinners that had been stockpiled here in the months that the Sanctuary was being set up. Lukewarm vegetables, tepid meat of some unknown kind, a pale green non-alcoholic drink of nondescript flavor.



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?"