The Complete Stories_ Volume 1 - Isaac Asimov [207]
He glared out the window, down the slopes to where the farmed patches gave way to clumps of white houses in the suburbs; down to where the metropolis itself was a blur on the horizon --a mist in the waning blaze of Beta.
He repeated without turning. 'It will take time. Keep on working and pray that totality comes first.'
Beta was cut in half, the line of division pushing a slight concavity into the still-bright portion of the Sun. It was like a gigantic eyelid shutting slantwise over the light of a world.
The faint clatter of the room in which he stood faded into oblivion, and he sensed only the thick silence of the fields outside. The very insects seemed frightened mute. And things were dim.
He jumped at the voice in his ear. Theremon said. 'Is something wrong?'
'Eh? Er --no. Get back to the chair. We're in the way.' They slipped back to their comer, but the psychologist did not speak for a time. He lifted a finger and loosened his collar. He twisted his neck back and forth but found no relief. He looked up suddenly.
'Are you having any difficulty in breathing?'
The newspaperman opened his eyes wide and drew two or three long breaths. 'No. Why?'
'I looked out the window too long, I suppose. The dimness got me. Difficulty in breathing is one of the first symptoms of a claustrophobic attack. '
Theremon drew another long breath. 'Well, it hasn't got me yet. Say, here's another of the fellows.'
Beenay had interposed his bulk between the light and the pair in the corner, and Sheerin squinted up at him anxiously. 'Hello, Beenay.'
The astronomer shifted his weight to the other foot and smiled feebly. 'You won't mind if I sit down awhile and join in the talk? My cameras are set, and there's nothing to do till totality.' He paused and eyed the Cultist, who fifteen minutes earlier had drawn a small, skin-bound book from his sleeve and had been pouring intently over it ever since.
'That rat hasn't been making trouble, has he?'
Sheerin shook his head. His shoulders were thrown back and he frowned his concentration as he forced himself to breathe regularly. He said, 'Have you had any trouble breathing, Beenay?'
Beenay sniffed the air in his turn. 'It doesn't seem stuffy to me.'
'A touch of claustrophobia,' explained Sheerin apologetically.
'Ohhh! It worked itself differently with me. I get the impression that my eyes are going back on me. Things seem to blur and --well, nothing is clear. And it's cold, too.'
'Oh, it's cold, all right. That's no illusion.' Theremon grimaced. 'My toes feel as if I've been shipping them cross-country in a refrigerating car.'
'What we need,' put in Sheerin, 'is to keep our minds busy with extraneous affairs. I was telling you a while ago, Theremon, why Faro's experiments with the holes in the roof came to nothing.'
'You were just beginning,' replied Theremon. He encircled a knee with both arms and nuzzled his chin against it.
'Well, as I started to say, they were misled by taking the Book of Revelations literally. There probably wasn't any sense in attaching any physical significance to the Stars. It might be, you know, that in the presence of total Darkness, the mind finds it absolutely necessary to create light. This illusion of light might be all the Stars there really are.'
'In other words,' interposed Theremon, 'you mean the Stars arc the results of the madness and not one of the causes. Then, what good will Beenay's photographs be?'
'To prove that it is an illusion, maybe; or to prove the opposite; for all I know. Then again --'
But Beenay had drawn his chair closer, and there was an expression of sudden enthusiasm on his face. 'Say, I'm glad you two got onto this subject.' His eyes narrowed and he lifted one finger. 'I've been thinking about these Stars and I've got a really cute notion. Of course it's strictly ocean foam, and I'm not trying to advance it seriously, but I think it's interesting. Do you