‘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?’
Theremon 762, only a mad idea in (a cub reporters mind)…
the impossible (interviews)…
bruises, blackened, broken bones led to an ample supply of calm and (self) confidence so he lowered his grasp. calmly waited for the director to get over the worst of it all.
“Astromers (were the) queerest of ducks.
This same Aton was the duckiest of (them all)”
Aton found his voice and though it trembled with restrained emotion, the careful somewhat pedantic phraseology
Of which the famous astronomer was known by all, did not abandon him.
“Sir you display an infernal gall coming to me with propositions.”
“Do not interfere, (Beenay) I will credit you with good intentions, bringing this man, (but) I will tolerate no disrespect.”
“Director Aton if you let me finish what I started to say, I think-”
“‘I don’t believe, young man that anything you could 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 stop”
Apostles (of the flame)
Data that only the apostles had it was given to me. For that thanks and in return i did agree in a manner of speech. To make public mathematic conformation and proof that shows (the) Apostles basic law. Darkness would descend on Kalgash.
Yes you did, (with) a foxes subtlety. Pretended (explanation backed) our beliefs and at the same time removed necessity for them to exist. You made the darkness and the stars nothing (more than) natural phenomenon removed all significance, and that surely is THE VILEST BLASPHEMY. Your facts are a fraud and a delusion.
“How do you know?”
The answer came with the certainty of absolute faith: “I know”
The point is simply that your ill advised and blasphemous attempts can only fail.
Apostles basic law. Darkness would descend on Kalgash.
Yes you did, (with) a foxes subtlety. Pretended (explanation backed) our beliefs and at the same time removed necessity for them to exist. You made the darkness and the stars nothing (more than) natural phenomenon removed all significance, and that surely is THE VILEST BLASPHEMY
With the air of one carrying through the most sacred item of a religious ritual, Sheerin scraped a large, clumsy match into spluttering life.
There it would wait, dancing about, futilely playing about the tip. Then it was topped by the wavering flames until the room began to glow.
THE LIGHT WAS OH SO DIM, MORE THAN SUNS and what we had.
The flames reeled crazily, giving birth to drunken, swaying shadows. The torches smoked devilishly … But they emitted yellow light.
With a light there was hope, through the end, what would follow. There was something about that warm yellow light, after hrs having spent in Beta’s dim, somber glow. And as he (Sheerin) stood warming his hands, It was without regard of the soot now upon. To himself he cried out “BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL. I never knew what a wonderful color yellow could be.”
But Theremon regarded the torches suspiciously. He wrinkled his nose at the rancid odor and said, ‘What are those things?’
‘Wood,’ said Sheerin shortly.
‘Oh, no, they’re not. They aren’t burning. The top inch is charred and the flame just keeps shooting up out of nothing.’
‘That’s the beauty of it. This is a really efficient artificial-light mechanism. We made a few hundred of them, but most went to the Hideout, of course. You see’ — he turned and wiped his blackened hands upon his handkerchief — ‘you take the pithy core of coarse water reeds, dry them thoroughly, and soak them in animal grease. Then you set fire to it and the grease burns, little by little. These torches will burn for almost half an hour without stopping. Ingenious, isn’t it?”
After the moment’s excitement had past, a stirring confluence had come to an end.
THE DOME WAS OH SO QUIET.
Latimer snuck his chair to the torch lips moving in monotonous tones…
…OF INVOCATIONS TO THE STARS.
Let them all die, come lonely stars the vengeance is yours, pour down your wrath and let the blood flow
…Like a palpable entity
Beenay had drifted away to his cameras once more, and Theremon seized the opportunity to add to his notes on the article he was going to write for the Saro City Chronicle the next day — a procedure he had been following for the last two hours in a perfectly methodical, perfectly conscientious and, as he was well aware, perfectly meaningless fashion. But, as the gleam of amusement in Sheerin’s eyes indicated, careful note-taking occupied his mind with something other than the fact that the sky was gradually turning a horrible deep purple-red, as if it were one gigantic, freshly peeled beet; and so it fulfilled its purpose.
The air grew, somehow, denser. Dusk, like a palpable entity, entered the room, and the dancing circle of yellow light about the torches etched itself into ever-sharper distinction against the gathering grayness beyond. There was the odor of smoke and the presence of little chuckling sounds that the torches made as they burned; the soft pad of one of the men circling the table at 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.
(these songs come from the short story and novel called Nightfall by Isaac Asimov)