Nightfall by Isaac Asimov, Robert Silverberg Page A
Authors: Isaac Asimov, Robert Silverberg
Theremon said. “Let’s see if I’ve got it. ‘The maintask of science is to separate truth from untruth, in the hope of—of—’ What came next, Beenay?”
Beenay repeated the whole thing word for word, as though he had memorized it hours before.
Then he drained his third drink at a single astonishing long gulp.
And then he stood up, smiled for the first time all evening, and fell flat on his face.
[9]
Athor 77’s eyes narrowed, and he scrutinized the little sheaf of printouts lying before him on his desk as though they were maps of continents that no one had ever known existed.
He was very calm. He was amazed at how calm he was.
“Very interesting, Beenay,” he said slowly. “Very,
very
interesting.”
“Of course, sir, there’s always the possibility that not only have I made some crucial error in fundamental assumptions, but that Yimot and Faro also—”
“All three of you getting your basic postulates wrong? No, Beenay. I think not.”
“I just wanted to indicate that the possibility exists.”
“Please,” Athor said. “Let me think.”
It was midmorning. Onos in full glory blazed in the sky that was visible through the tall window of the Observatory director’s office. Dovim was barely apparent, a small hard red dot of light, making a high northerly transit.
Athor fingered the papers, moving them about again and again on his desk. And moved them yet again. How strange to be taking this so easily, he thought. Beenay was the one who seemed all wrought up over it; he himself had scarcely reacted at all.
Perhaps I’m in shock, Athor speculated.
“Over here, sir, I have the orbit of Kalgash according to the generally accepted almanac computation. And here, on the printout, we have the orbital prediction that the new computer—”
“Please, Beenay. I said I wanted to think.”
Beenay nodded jerkily. Athor smiled at him, not an easy thing for Athor to do. The formidable head of the Observatory, a tall, thin, commanding-looking man with an impressive shock of thick white hair, had allowed himself so long ago to slip into the role of Austere Giant of Science that it was difficult for him to unbend and permit himself to show ordinary human responses. At least, it was difficult for him while he was here at the Observatory, where everyone looked upon him as a sort of demigod. At home, with his wife, with his children, especially with his noisy flock of grandchildren, it was a different matter.
So Universal Gravitation wasn’t quite right, was it?
No! No, that was impossible! Every atom of common sense in him protested at the thought. The concept of Universal Gravitation was fundamental to any comprehension of the structure of the universe, Athor was certain. Athor
knew.
It was too clean, too logical, too beautiful, to be wrong.
Take Universal Gravitation away, and the entire logic of the cosmos dissolved into chaos.
Inconceivable. Unimaginable.
But these figures—this damnable printout of Beenay’s—
“I can see you’re angry, sir.” Beenay, chattering again! “And I want to tell you, I can quite understand it—the way this must hit you—anyone would be angry, having his life’s work jeopardized this way—”
“Beenay—”
“Just let me say, sir, that I’d give anything not to have had to bring you this today. I know you’re furious with me for coming in here with this, but I can only say that I thought long and hard before I did. What I really wanted to do was burn everything and forget I ever got started on any of this. I’m appalled that I found what I did, and appalled that I was the one who—”
“Beenay,” Athor said again, in his most ominous voice.
“Sir?”
“I
am
furious with you, yes. But not for the reason you think.”
“Sir?”
“Number one, I’m annoyed at the way you’ve been babbling at me, when all I want to do is sit here and quietly work through the implications of these papers you’ve just tossed atme. Number two, and much more
Beenay repeated the whole thing word for word, as though he had memorized it hours before.
Then he drained his third drink at a single astonishing long gulp.
And then he stood up, smiled for the first time all evening, and fell flat on his face.
[9]
Athor 77’s eyes narrowed, and he scrutinized the little sheaf of printouts lying before him on his desk as though they were maps of continents that no one had ever known existed.
He was very calm. He was amazed at how calm he was.
“Very interesting, Beenay,” he said slowly. “Very,
very
interesting.”
“Of course, sir, there’s always the possibility that not only have I made some crucial error in fundamental assumptions, but that Yimot and Faro also—”
“All three of you getting your basic postulates wrong? No, Beenay. I think not.”
“I just wanted to indicate that the possibility exists.”
“Please,” Athor said. “Let me think.”
It was midmorning. Onos in full glory blazed in the sky that was visible through the tall window of the Observatory director’s office. Dovim was barely apparent, a small hard red dot of light, making a high northerly transit.
Athor fingered the papers, moving them about again and again on his desk. And moved them yet again. How strange to be taking this so easily, he thought. Beenay was the one who seemed all wrought up over it; he himself had scarcely reacted at all.
Perhaps I’m in shock, Athor speculated.
“Over here, sir, I have the orbit of Kalgash according to the generally accepted almanac computation. And here, on the printout, we have the orbital prediction that the new computer—”
“Please, Beenay. I said I wanted to think.”
Beenay nodded jerkily. Athor smiled at him, not an easy thing for Athor to do. The formidable head of the Observatory, a tall, thin, commanding-looking man with an impressive shock of thick white hair, had allowed himself so long ago to slip into the role of Austere Giant of Science that it was difficult for him to unbend and permit himself to show ordinary human responses. At least, it was difficult for him while he was here at the Observatory, where everyone looked upon him as a sort of demigod. At home, with his wife, with his children, especially with his noisy flock of grandchildren, it was a different matter.
So Universal Gravitation wasn’t quite right, was it?
No! No, that was impossible! Every atom of common sense in him protested at the thought. The concept of Universal Gravitation was fundamental to any comprehension of the structure of the universe, Athor was certain. Athor
knew.
It was too clean, too logical, too beautiful, to be wrong.
Take Universal Gravitation away, and the entire logic of the cosmos dissolved into chaos.
Inconceivable. Unimaginable.
But these figures—this damnable printout of Beenay’s—
“I can see you’re angry, sir.” Beenay, chattering again! “And I want to tell you, I can quite understand it—the way this must hit you—anyone would be angry, having his life’s work jeopardized this way—”
“Beenay—”
“Just let me say, sir, that I’d give anything not to have had to bring you this today. I know you’re furious with me for coming in here with this, but I can only say that I thought long and hard before I did. What I really wanted to do was burn everything and forget I ever got started on any of this. I’m appalled that I found what I did, and appalled that I was the one who—”
“Beenay,” Athor said again, in his most ominous voice.
“Sir?”
“I
am
furious with you, yes. But not for the reason you think.”
“Sir?”
“Number one, I’m annoyed at the way you’ve been babbling at me, when all I want to do is sit here and quietly work through the implications of these papers you’ve just tossed atme. Number two, and much more