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which he worked, on hesitant tiptoes; the occasional indrawn breath of someone
trying to retain composure in a world that was retreating into the shadow.
It was Theremon who first heard the extraneous noise. It was a vague,
unorganized impression of sound that would have gone unnoticed but for the
dead silence that prevailed within the dome.
The newsman sat upright and replaced his notebook. He held his breath
and listened; then, with considerable reluctance, threaded his way between the
solarscope and one of Beenay's cameras and stood before the window.
The silence ripped to fragments at his startled shout: 'Sheerin!"
Work stopped! The psychologist was at his side in a moment. Aton joined
him. Even Yimot 70, high in his little lean-back seat at the eyepiece of the
gigantic solarscope, paused and looked downward.
Outside, Beta was a mere smoldering splinter, taking one last desperate
look at Lagash. The eastern horizon, in the direction of the city, was lost in
Darkness, and the road from Saro to the Observatory was a dull-red line
bordered on both sides by wooded tracts, the trees of which had somehow lost
individuality and merged into a continuous shadowy mass.
But it was the highway itself that held attention, for along it there
surged another, and infinitely menacing, shadowy mass.
Aton cried in a cracked voice, "The madmen from the city! They've come!"
"How long to totality?" demanded Sheerin.
"Fifteen minutes, but . . . but they'll be here in five."
"Never mind, keep the men working. We'll hold them off. This place is
built like a fortress. Aton, keep an eye on our young Cultist just for luck.
Theremon, come with me."
Sheerin was out the door, and Theremon was at his heels. The stairs
stretched below them in tight, circular sweeps about the central shaft, fading
into a dank and dreary grayness.
The first momentum of their rush had carried them fifty feet down, so
that the dim, flickering yellow from the open door of the dome had disappeared
and both above and below the same dusky shadow crushed in upon them.
Sheerin paused, and his pudgy hand clutched at his chest. His eyes
bulged and his voice was a dry cough. "I can't . . . breathe . . . Go down . .
. yourself. Close all doors -- "
Theremon took a few downward steps, then turned.
"Wait! Can you hold out a minute?" He was panting himself. The air
passed in and out his lungs like so much molasses, and there was a little germ
of screeching panic in his mind at the thought of making his way into the
mysterious Darkness below by himself.
Theremon, after all, was afraid of the dark!
"Stay here," he said. I'll be back in a second." He dashed upward two
steps at a time, heart pounding -- not altogether from the exertion -- tumbled
into the dome and snatched a torch from its holder. It was foul-smelling, and
the smoke smarted his eyes almost blind, but he clutched that torch as if he
wanted to kiss it for joy, and its flame streamed backward as he hurtled down
the stairs again.
Sheerin opened his eyes and moaned as Theremon bent over him. Theremon
shook him roughly. "All right, get a hold on yourself. We've got light."
He held the torch at tiptoe height and, propping the tottering
psychologist by an elbow, made his way downward in the middle of the
protecting circle of illumination.
The offices on the ground floor still possessed what light there was,
and Theremon felt the horror about him relax.
"Here," he said brusquely, and passed the torch to Sheerin. "You can
hear them outside."
And they could. Little scraps of hoarse, wordless shouts.
But Sheerin was right; the Observatory was built like a fortress.
Erected in the last century, when the neo-Gavottian style of architecture was
at its ugly height, it had been designed for stability and durability rather
than for beauty.
The windows were protected by the grillwork of inch-thick iron bars sunk
deep into the concrete sills. The walls were solid masonry that an earthquake
couldn't have touched, and the main door was a huge oaken slab rein -- forced
with iron. Theremon shot the bolts and they slid shut with a dull clang.
At the other end of the corridor, Sheerin cursed weakly. He pointed to
the lock of the back door which had been neatly jimmied into uselessness.
"That must be how Latimer got in," he said.
"Well, don't stand there," cried Theremon impatiently. "Help drag up the
furniture -- and keep that torch out of my eyes. The smoke's killing me."
He slammed the heavy table up against the door as he spoke, and in two
minutes had built a barricade which made up for what it lacked in beauty and
symmetry by the sheer inertia of its massiveness.
Somewhere, dimly, far off, they could hear the battering of naked fists
upon the door; and the screams and yells from outside had a sort of half
reality.
That mob had set off from Saro City with only two things in mind: the
attainment of Cultist salvation by the destruction of the Observatory, and a
maddening fear that all but paralyzed them. There was no time to think of
ground cars, or of weapons, or of leadership, or even of organization. They
made for the Observatory on foot and assaulted it with bare hands.
And now that they were there, the last flash of Beta, the last ruby-red
drop of flame, flickered feebly over a humanity that had left only stark,
universal fear!
Theremon groaned, "Let's get back to the dome!"
In the dome, only Yimot, at the solarscope, had kept his place. The rest were
clustered about the cameras, and Beenay was giving his instructions in a
hoarse, strained voice.
"Get it straight, all of you. I'm snapping Beta just before totality and
changing the plate. That will leave one of you to each camera. You all know
about . . . about times of exposure -- "
There was a breathless murmur of agreement.
Beenay passed a hand over his eyes. "Are the torches still burning?
Never mind, I see them!" He was leaning hard against the back of a chair. "Now
remember, don't. . . don't try to look for good shots. Don't waste time trying
to get t-two stars at a time in the scope field. One is enough. And . . . and
if you feel yourself going, get away from the camera."
At the door, Sheerin whispered to Theremon, "Take me to Aton. I don't
see him."
The newsman did not answer immediately. The vague forms of the
astronomers wavered and blurred, and the torches overhead had become only
yellow splotches.
"It's dark," he whimpered.
Sheerin held out his hand. "Aton." He stumbled forward. "Aton!"
Theremon stepped after and seized his arm. "Wait, I'll take you."
Somehow he made his way across the room. He closed his eyes against the
Darkness and his mind against the chaos within it.
No one heard them or paid attention to them. Sheerin stumbled against
the wall. "Aton!"
The psychologist felt shaking hands touching him, then withdrawing, a
voice muttering, "Is that you, Sheerin?"
"Aton!" He strove to breathe normally. "Don't worry about the mob. The
place will hold them off."
Latimer, the Cultist, rose to his feet, and his face twisted in
desperation. His word was pledged, and to break it would mean placing his soul
in mortal peril. Yet that word had been forced from him and had not been given
freely. The Stars would come soon! He could not stand by and allow -- And yet
his word was pledged.
Beenay's face was dimly flushed as it looked upward at Beta's last ray,
and Latimer, seeing him bend over his camera, made his decision. His nails cut
the flesh of his palms as he tensed himself.
He staggered crazily as he started his rush. There was nothing before
him but shadows; the very floor beneath his feet lacked substance. And then
someone was upon him and he went down with clutching fingers at his throat.
He doubled his knee and drove it hard into his assailant. "Let me up or
I'll kill you."
Theremon cried out sharply and muttered through a blinding haze of pain.
"You double-crossing rat!"
The newsman seemed conscious of everything at once. He heard Beenay [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]