Nightfall and Other Stories

  NIGHTFALL

  AND OTHER STORIES

  BY ISAAC ASIMOV

  Copyright © 1969 by Isaac Asimov

  To John W. Campbell, Jr.

  for making “Nightfall” possible,

  and for thirty years of friendship;

  and

  To the memory of Anthony Boucher

  and Groff Conklin

  CONTENTS

  Nightfall

  Green Patches

  Hostess

  Breeds There a Man?

  C-Chute

  In a Good Cause--

  What If--

  Sally

  Flies

  Nobody Here but--

  It’s Such a Beautiful Day

  Strikebreaker

  Insert Knob A in Hole B

  The Up-to-Date Sorcerer

  Unto the Fourth Generation

  What Is This Thing Called Love?

  The Machine That Won the War

  My Son, the Physicist

  Eyes Do More than See

  Segregationist

  The writing of “Nightfall” was a watershed in my professional career. When I wrote it, I had just turned twenty-one. I had been writing professionally (in the sense that I was submitting my stories to magazines and occasionally selling them) for two and a half years, but had created no tidal wave. I had published about a dozen stories and had failed to sell a dozen others.

  Then John W. Campbell, Jr., the editor of Astounding Science Fiction, showed me the Emerson quotation that starts “Nightfall.” We discussed it; then I went home and, over the course of the next few weeks, wrote the story.

  Now let’s get something straight. I didn’t write that story any differently from the way I had written my earlier stories--or, for that matter, from the way I wrote my later stories. As far as writing is concerned, I am a complete and utter primitive. I have no formal training at all and to this very day I don’t know How To Write.

  I just write any old way it comes into my mind to write and just as fast as it comes into my mind.

  And that’s the way I wrote “Nightfall.”

  Mr. Campbell never sends letters of acceptance. He sends checks, instead, and very promptly, and that is an excellent way of handling the matter. I always found it thrilling. I received a check for “Nightfall” but my initial pang of delight was almost instantly snuffed out by the fact that Mr. Campbell had made a mistake.

  Standard payment at that time was a munificent 1 cent a word. (No complaints, folks; I was glad to get it.) The story was 12,000 words long and therefore I expected $120.00, but the check was for $15.00.

  I groaned. It would be so simple to cash the check and ask no questions, but the Ten Commandments, as preached to me by my stern and rockbound father, made it absolutely necessary to call Mr. Campbell at once and make arrangements for a new and smaller check.

  It turned out there was no mistake. The story seemed so good to Mr. Campbell that he gave me a bonus of ¼ cent a word.

  I had never, till then, received so huge a payment for any story, and that was just the beginning. When the story appeared, it was given the lead position and the cover.

  What’s more, I was suddenly taken seriously and the world of science fiction became aware that I existed. As the years passed, in fact, it became evident that I had written a “classic.” It has appeared in ten anthologies that I know of--including one British, one Dutch, one German, one Italian, and one Russian.

  I must say, though, that as time passed, I began to feel some irritation at being told, over and over again, that “Nightfall” was my best story. It seemed to me, after all, that although I know no more about Writing now than I knew then, sheer practice should have made me more proficient, technically, with each year.

  The thing has preyed on my mind, in fact, until the idea of this book came to me.

  First appearance--Astounding Science Fiction, September 1941. Copyright, 1941, by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.; copyright renewed, 1968, by Isaac Asimov.

  I have never included “Nightfall” in any of my own collections of stories because it always seemed to me to have been so well anthologized that it must be familiar to all my readers. Yet perhaps that’s not so. Most of my readers weren’t even born when the story first appeared and perhaps many of them haven’t seen the anthologies.

  Besides, if it’s my best story, then I want it in one of my own collections. I can also include other stories of mine that have proven successful in one way or another but have not appeared in any of my own collections.

  So, with Doubleday’s kind permission, I have prepared Nightfall and Other Stories, with all the tales in the order of publication. “Nightfall” itself is the first and now you can see for yourself how my writing has developed (or has failed to develop) with the years. Then you can decide for yourself why (or if) “Nightfall” is better than the others.

  I don’t know enough about Writing to be able to tell.

  Nightfall

  If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God?”

  EMERSON

  Aton 77, director of Saro University, thrust out a belligerent lower lip and glared at the young newspaperman in a hot fury.

  Theremon 762 took that fury in his stride. In his earlier days, when his now widely syndicated column was only a mad idea in a cub reporter’s mind, he had specialized in ‘impossible’ interviews. It had cost him bruises, black eyes, and broken bones; but it had given him an ample supply of coolness and self-confidence.

  So he lowered the outthrust hand that had been so pointedly ignored and calmly waited for the aged director to get over the worst. Astronomers were queer ducks, anyway, and if Aton’s actions of the last two months meant anything; this same Aton was the queer-duckiest of the lot.

  Aton 77 found his voice, and though it trembled with restrained emotion, the careful, somewhat pedantic phraseology, for which the famous astronomer was noted, did not abandon him.

  “Sir,” he said, “you display an infernal gall in coming to me with that impudent proposition of yours.”

  The husky telephotographer of the Observatory, Beenay 25, thrust a tongue’s tip across dry lips and interposed nervously, “Now, sir, after all -- “

  The director turned to him and lifted a white eyebrow. “Do not interfere, Beenay. I will credit you with good intentions in bringing this man here; but I will tolerate no insubordination now.”

  Theremon decided it was time to take a part. “Director Aton, if you’ll let me finish what I started saying, I think -- “

  “I don’t believe, young man,” retorted Aton, “that anything you could say now would count much as compared with your daily columns of these last two months. You have led a vast newspaper campaign against the efforts of myself and my colleagues to organize the world against the menace which it is now too late to avert. You have done your best with your highly personal attacks to make the staff of this Observatory objects of ridicule.”

  The director lifted a copy of the Saro City Chronicle from the table and shook it at Theremon furiously. “Even a person of your well-known impudence should have hesitated before coming to me with a request that he be allowed to cover today’s events for his paper. Of all newsmen, you!”

  Aton dashed the newspaper to the floor, strode to the window, and clasped his arms behind his back.

  “You may leave,” he snapped over his shoulder. He stared moodily out at the skyline where Gamma, the brightest of the planet’s six suns, was setting. It had already faded and yellowed into the horizon mists, and Aton knew he would never see it again as a sane man.

  He w
hirled. “No, wait, come here!” He gestured peremptorily. I’ll give you your story.”

  The newsman had made no motion to leave, and now he approached the old man slowly. Aton gestured outward. “Of the six suns, only Beta is left in the sky. Do you see it?”

  The question was rather unnecessary. Beta was almost at zenith, its ruddy light flooding the landscape to an unusual orange as the brilliant rays of setting Gamma died. Beta was at aphelion. It was small; smaller than Theremon had ever seen it before, and for the moment it was undisputed ruler of Lagash’s sky.

  Lagash’s own sun. Alpha, the one about which it revolved, was at the antipodes, as were the two distant companion pairs. The red dwarf Beta -- Alpha’s immediate companion -- was alone, grimly alone.

  Aton’s upturned face flushed redly in the sunlight. “In just under four hours,” he said, “civilization, as we know it, comes to an end. It will do so because, as you see. Beta is the only sun in the sky.” He smiled grimly. “Print that! There’ll be no one to read it.”

  “But if it turns out that four hours pass -- and another four -- and nothing happens?” asked Theremon softly.

  “Don’t let that worry you. Enough will happen.”

  “Granted! And still -- it nothing happens?”

  For a second time, Beenay 25 spoke. “Sir, I think you ought to listen to him.”

  Theremon said, “Put it to a vote, Director Aton.”

  There was a stir among the remaining five members of the Observatory staff, who till now had maintained an attitude of wary neutrality.

  “That,” stated Aton flatly, “is not necessary.” He drew out his pocket watch. “Since your good friend, Beenay, insists so urgently, I will give you five minutes. Talk away.”

  “Good! Now, just what difference would it make if you allowed me to take down an eyewitness account of what’s to come? If your prediction comes true, my presence won’t hurt; for in that case my column would never be written. On the other hand, if nothing comes of it, you will just have to expect ridicule or worse. It would be wise to leave that ridicule to friendly hands.”

  Aton snorted. “Do you mean yours when you speak of friendly hands?”

  “Certainly!” Theremon sat down and crossed his legs. “My columns may have been a little rough, but I gave you people the benefit of the doubt every time. After all, this is not the century to preach “The end of the world is at hand” to Lagash. You have to understand that people don’t believe the Book of Revelations anymore, and it annoys them to have scientists turn about-face and tell us the Cultists are right after all -- “

  “No such thing, young man,” interrupted Aton. “While a great deal of our data has been supplied us by the Cult, our results contain none of the Cult’s mysticism. Facts are facts, and the Cult’s so-called mythology has certain facts behind it. We’ve exposed them and ripped away their mystery. I assure you that the Cult hates us now worse than you do.”

  “I don’t hate you. I’m just trying to tell you that the public is in an ugly humor. They’re angry.”

  Aton twisted his mouth in derision. “Let them be angry.”

  “Yes, but what about tomorrow?”

  “There’ll be no tomorrow!”

  “But if there is. Say that there is -- just to see what happens. That anger might take shape into something serious. After all, you know, business has taken a nosedive these last two months. Investors don’t really believe the world is coming to an end, but just the same they’re being cagy with their money until it’s all over. Johnny Public doesn’t believe you, either, but the new spring furniture might just as well wait a few months -- just to make sure.

  “You see the point. Just as soon as this is all over, the business interests will be after your hide. They’ll say that if crackpots -- begging your pardon -- can upset the country’s prosperity any time they want, simply by making some cockeyed prediction -- it’s up to the planet to prevent them. The sparks will fly, sir.”

  The director regarded the columnist sternly. “And just what were you proposing to do to help the situation?”

  “Well” -- Theremon grinned -- “I was proposing to take charge of the publicity. I can handle things so that only the ridiculous side will show. It would be hard to stand, I admit, because I’d have to make you all out to be a bunch of gibbering idiots, but if I can get people laughing at you, they might forget to be angry. In return for that, all my publisher asks is an exclusive story.”

  Beenay nodded and burst out, “Sir, the rest of us think he’s right. These last two months we’ve considered everything but the million-to-one chance that there is an error somewhere in our theory or in our calculations. We ought to take care of that, too.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the men grouped about the table, and Aton’s expression became that of one who found his mouth full of something bitter and couldn’t get rid of it.

  “You may stay if you wish, then. You will kindly refrain, however, from hampering us in our duties in any way. You will also remember that I am in charge of all activities here, and in spite of your opinions as expressed in your columns, I will expect full cooperation and full respect -- “

  His hands were behind his back, and his wrinkled face thrust forward determinedly as he spoke. He might have continued indefinitely but for the intrusion of a new voice.

  “Hello, hello, hello!” It came in a high tenor, and the plump cheeks of the newcomer expanded in a pleased smile. “What’s this morgue-like atmosphere about here? No one’s losing his nerve, I hope.”

  Aton started in consternation and said peevishly, “Now what the devil are you doing here, Sheerin? I thought you were going to stay behind in the Hideout.”

  Sheerin laughed and dropped his stubby figure into a chair. “Hideout be blowed! The place bored me. I wanted to be here, where things are getting hot. Don’t you suppose I have my share of curiosity? I want to see these Stars the Cultists are forever speaking about.” He rubbed his hands and added in a soberer tone. “It’s freezing outside. The wind’s enough to hang icicles on your nose. Beta doesn’t seem to give any heat at all, at the distance it is.”

  The white-haired director ground his teeth in sudden exasperation. “Why do you go out of your way to do crazy things, Sheerin? What kind of good are you around here?”

  “What kind of good am I around there?” Sheerin spread his palms in comical resignation. “A psychologist isn’t worth his salt in the Hideout. They need men of action and strong, healthy women that can breed children. Me? I’m a hundred pounds too heavy for a man of action, and I wouldn’t be a success at breeding children. So why bother them with an extra mouth to feed? I feel better over here.”

  Theremon spoke briskly. “Just what is the Hideout, sir?”

  Sheerin seemed to see the columnist for the first time. He frowned and blew his ample cheeks out. “And just who in Lagash are you, redhead?”

  Aton compressed his lips and then muttered sullenly, “That’s Theremon 762, the newspaper fellow. I suppose you’ve heard of him.”

  The columnist offered his hand. “And, of course, you’re Sheerin 501 of Saro University. I’ve heard of you.” Then he repeated, “What is this Hideout, sir?”

  “Well,” said Sheerin, “we have managed to convince a few people of the validity of our prophecy of -- er -- doom, to be spectacular about it, and those few have taken proper measures. They consist mainly of the immediate members of the families of the Observatory staff, certain of the faculty of Saro University, and a few outsiders. Altogether, they number about three hundred, but three quarters are women and children.”

  “I see! They’re supposed to hide where the Darkness and the -- er -- Stars can’t get at them, and then hold out when the rest of the world goes poof.”

  “If they can. It won’t be easy. With all of mankind insane, with the great cities going up in flames -- environment will not be conducive to survival. But they have food, water, shelter, and weapons -- “


  “They’ve got more,” said Aton. “They’ve got all our records, except for What we will collect today. Those records will mean everything to the next cycle, and that’s what must survive. The rest can go hang.”

  Theremon uttered a long, low whistle and sat brooding for several minutes. The men about the table had brought out a multi-chess board and started a six-member game. Moves were made rapidly and in silence. All eyes bent in furious concentration on the board. Theremon watched them intently and then rose and approached Aton, who sat apart in whispered conversation with Sheerin.

  “Listen,” he said, let’s go somewhere where we won’t bother the rest of the fellows. I want to ask some questions.”

  The aged astronomer frowned sourly at him, but Sheerin chirped up, “Certainly. It will do me good to talk. It always does. Aton was telling me about your ideas concerning world reaction to a failure of the prediction -- and I agree with you. I read your column pretty regularly, by the way, and as a general thing I like your views.”

  “Please, Sheerin,” growled Aton.

  “Eh? Oh, all right. We’ll go into the next room. It has softer chairs, anyway.”

  There were softer chairs in the next room. There were also thick red curtains on the windows and a maroon carpet on the floor. With the bricky light of Beta pouring in, the general effect was one of dried blood.

  Theremon shuddered. “Say, I’d give ten credits for a decent dose of white light for just a second. I wish Gamma or Delta were in the sky.”

  “What are your questions?” asked Aton. “Please remember that our time is limited. In a little over an hour and a quarter we’re going upstairs, and after that there will be no time for talk.”

  “Well, here it is.” Theremon leaned back and folded his hands on his chest. “You people seem so all-fired serious about this that I’m beginning to believe you. Would you mind explaining what it’s all about?”