The Fountains of Paradise, Page 2

  No one could mistake this as any herald of the coming rains. They were not scheduled for another three weeks, and Monsoon Control was never in error by more than twenty-four hours. When the reverberations had died away, the High Priest turned to his companion.

  “So much for designated re-entry corridors,” he said, with slightly more annoyance than an exponent of the Dharma should permit himself. “Did we get a meter reading?”

  The younger monk spoke briefly into his wrist microphone, and waited for a reply.

  “Yes—it peaked at a hundred and twenty. That’s five db above the previous record.”

  “Send the usual protest to Kennedy or Gagarin Control, whichever it is. On second thought, complain to them both. Not that it will make any difference, of course.”

  As his eye traced the slowly dissolving vapor trail across the sky, the Venerable Bodhidharma Mahanayake Thero—eighty-fifth of his name—had a sudden and most unmonkish fantasy: Kalidasa would have had a suitable treatment for space-line operators who thought only of dollars per kilo to orbit—something that probably involved impalement, or metal-shod elephants, or boiling oil.

  But life, of course, had been so much simpler, two thousand years ago.

  2

  The Engineer

  His friends, whose numbers sadly dwindled every year, called him Johan. The world, when it remembered him, called him Raja. His full name epitomized five hundred years of history: Johan Oliver de Alwis Sri Rajasinghe.

  There had been a time when the tourists visiting Demon Rock had sought him out with cameras and recorders, but now a whole generation knew nothing of the days when his was the most familiar face in the solar system. He did not regret his past glory, for it had brought him the gratitude of all mankind. But it had also brought vain regrets for the mistakes he had made, and sorrow for the lives he had squandered, when a little more foresight or patience might have saved them.

  It was easy now, with the perspective of history, to see what should have been done to avert the Auckland Crisis, or to assemble the unwilling signatories of the Treaty of Samarkand. To blame himself for the unavoidable errors of the past was folly; yet there were times when his conscience hurt him more than the fading twinges of that old Patagonian bullet. . . .

  No one had believed that his retirement would last so long. “You’ll be back within six months,” World President Chu had told him. “Power is addictive.”

  “Not to me,” he had answered, truthfully enough.

  For power had come to him; he had never sought it. And it had always been a special, limited kind of power—advisory, not executive. He was only Special Assistant (Acting Ambassador) for Political Affairs, directly responsible to President and Council, with a staff that never exceeded ten—eleven, if one included ARISTOTLE. (His own console still had direct access to Ari’s memory and processing banks, and they talked to each other several times a year.) But toward the end, the Council had invariably accepted his advice, and the world had given him much of the credit that should have gone to the unsung, unhonored bureaucrats of the Peace Division.

  And so it was Ambassador-at-Large Rajasinghe who got all the publicity, as he moved from one trouble spot to another, massaging egos here, defusing crises there, and manipulating the truth with consummate skill. Never actually lying, of course; that would have been fatal. Without Ari’s infallible memory, he could never have kept control of the intricate webs he was sometimes compelled to spin, in order that mankind might live in peace. When he had begun to enjoy the game for its own sake, he knew it was time to quit.

  That had been twenty years ago, and he had never regretted his decision. Those who predicted that boredom would succeed where the temptations of power had failed did not know their man or understand his origins. He had gone back to the fields and forests of his youth, and was living only a kilometer from the great, brooding rock that had dominated his childhood. Indeed, his villa was actually inside the wide moat that surrounded the pleasure gardens, and the fountains that Kalidasa’s architect had designed now splashed in Johan’s own courtyard, after a silence of two thousand years. The water flowed in the original stone conduits; nothing had been changed, except that the cisterns high up on the rock were now filled by electric pumps, not relays of sweating slaves.

  Securing this history-drenched piece of land for his retirement had given Johan more satisfaction than anything in his whole career, fulfilling a dream that he had never really believed could come true. The achievement had required all his diplomatic skills, plus some delicate blackmail in the Department of Archaeology. Later, questions had been asked in the State Assembly; but fortunately not answered.

  He was insulated from all but the most determined tourists and students by an extension of the moat, and screened from their gaze by a thick wall of mutated Ashoka trees, blazing with flowers throughout the year. The trees also supported several families of monkeys, who were amusing to watch but occasionally invaded the villa and made off with any portable objects that took their fancy. Then there would be a brief interspecies war, with firecrackers and recorded danger cries that distressed the humans at least as much as the simians—who would be back quickly enough, since they had long ago learned that no one would really harm them.

  One of Taprobane’s more outrageous sunsets was transfiguring the western sky when a small electrotricycle came silently through the trees and drew up beside the granite columns of the portico. (Genuine Chola, from the late Ranapura period, and therefore a complete anachronism here. But only Professor Paul Sarath had ever commented on it; and of course he invariably did so.)

  Through long and bitter experience, Rajasinghe had learned never to trust first impressions, but also never to ignore them. He had half expected that Vannevar Morgan would, like his achievements, be a large, imposing man. Instead, the engineer was well below average height, and at first glance might have been called frail. That slender body was all sinew, however, and the raven-black hair framed a face that looked considerably younger than its fifty-one years.

  The video display from Ari’s Biog file had not done him justice. He should have been a romantic poet, or a concert pianist—or, perhaps, a great actor, holding thousands spellbound by his skill. Rajasinghe knew power when he saw it, since power had been his business; and it was power that he was facing now. Beware of small men, he had often told himself, because they are the movers and shakers of the world.

  And with this thought, there came the first flicker of apprehension. Almost every week, old friends and old enemies came to this remote spot, to exchange news and to reminisce about the past. He welcomed such visits; they gave a continuing pattern to his life. Yet he always knew, to a high degree of accuracy, the purpose of the meeting, and the ground that would be covered.

  But as far as Rajasinghe was aware, he and Morgan had no interests in common beyond those of any men in this day and age. They had never met or had any prior communication. Indeed, he had barely recognized Morgan’s name. Still more unusual was the fact that the engineer had asked him to keep this meeting confidential.

  Though Rajasinghe had complied, he had done so with a feeling of resentment. There was no need, any more, for secrecy in his peaceful life. The very last thing he wanted now was for some important mystery to impinge upon his well-ordered existence. He had finished with Security forever. Ten years ago—or was it even longer?—his personal guards had been removed, at his own request.

  What upset him most was not the mild secrecy, but his own total bewilderment. The Chief Engineer (Land) of the Terran Construction Corporation was not going to travel thousands of kilometers merely to ask for his autograph, or to express the usual tourist platitudes. He must have come here for some specific purpose—and, try as he might, Rajasinghe was unable to imagine it.

  Even in his days as a public servant, Rajasinghe had never had occasion to deal with TCC. Its three divisions—Land, Sea, Space—huge though they were, made perhaps the least news of all the World Federation’s specialized
bodies. Only when there was some resounding technical failure, or a head-on collision with an environmental or historical group, did TCC emerge from the shadows. The last confrontation of this kind had involved the Antarctic Pipeline, that miracle of twenty-first-century engineering, built to pump fluidized coal from the vast polar deposits to the power plants and factories of the world. In a mood of ecological euphoria, TCC had proposed demolishing the last remaining section of the pipeline and restoring the land to the penguins.

  Instantly, there had been cries of protest from the industrial archaeologists, outraged at such vandalism, and from the naturalists, who pointed out that the penguins simply loved the abandoned pipeline. It had provided housing of a standard they had never before enjoyed, and thus contributed to a population explosion that the killer whales could barely handle. So TCC had surrendered without a fight.

  Rajasinghe did not know if Morgan had been associated with this minor debacle. It hardly mattered, since his name was now linked with TCC’s greatest triumph. . . .

  The Ultimate Bridge, it had been christened; and perhaps with justice. Rajasinghe had watched, with half the world, when the final section was lifted gently skyward by the Graf Zeppelin II—itself one of the marvels of the age. All the airship’s luxurious fittings had been removed to save weight, the famous swimming pool had been drained, and the reactors pumped their excess heat into the gasbags to give extra lift. It was the first time that a dead weight of more than a thousand tons had ever been hoisted three kilometers straight up into the sky, and everything—doubtless to the disappointment of millions—had gone without a hitch.

  No ship would ever again pass the Pillars of Hercules without saluting the mightiest bridge that man had ever built—or, in all probability, would ever build. The twin towers at the junction of Mediterranean and Atlantic were themselves the tallest structures in the world, and faced each other across fifteen kilometers of space—empty except for the incredible, delicate arch of the Gibraltar Bridge. It would be a privilege to meet the man who had conceived it; even though he was an hour late. . . .

  “My apologies, Ambassador,” said Morgan as he climbed out of the electrotricycle. “I hope the delay hasn’t inconvenienced you.”

  “Not at all. My time is my own. You’ve eaten, I hope?”

  “Yes. When they canceled my Rome connection, at least they gave me an excellent lunch.”

  “Probably better than you’d get at the Hotel Yakkagala. I’ve arranged a room for the night—it’s only a kilometer from here. I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our discussion until breakfast.”

  Morgan looked disappointed, but gave a shrug of acquiescence.

  “Well, I’ve plenty of work to keep me busy. I assume that the hotel has full executive facilities—or at least a standard terminal.”

  Rajasinghe laughed.

  “I wouldn’t guarantee anything much more sophisticated than a telephone. But I have a better suggestion. In just over half an hour, I’m taking some friends to the Rock. There’s a son-et-lumière performance that I strongly recommend, and you’re welcome to join us.”

  He could tell that Morgan was hesitating, as he tried to think of a polite excuse.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I really must get in touch with my office.”

  “You can use my console. I can promise you—you’ll find the show fascinating, and it lasts only an hour. . . . Oh, I forgot—you don’t want anyone to know you’re here. Well, I’ll introduce you as Dr. Smith from the University of Tasmania. I’m sure my friends won’t recognize you.”

  Rajasinghe had no intention of offending his visitor, but there was no mistaking Morgan’s brief flash of irritation. The former diplomat’s instincts automatically came into play; he filed the reaction for future reference.

  “I’m sure they won’t,” Morgan said, and Rajasinghe noted the unmistakable tone of bitterness in his voice. “Dr. Smith will be fine. And now—if I could use your console.”

  Interesting, thought Rajasinghe as he led his guest into the villa, but probably not important. Provisional hypothesis: Morgan is a frustrated, perhaps even a disappointed, man. It was hard to see why, since he was one of the leaders of his profession. What more could he want?

  There was one obvious answer. Rajasinghe knew the symptoms well, if only because in his case the disease had long since burned itself out.

  “Fame is the spur. . .” he recited in the silence of his thoughts. How did the rest of it go? “(That last infirmity of noble mind) / To scorn delights, and live laborious days.”

  Yes, that might explain the discontent his still-sensitive antennae had detected. And he suddenly recalled that the immense rainbow linking Europe and Africa was almost invariably called the Bridge, sometimes the Ultimate Bridge or the Gibraltar Bridge—but never Morgan’s Bridge.

  Well, Rajasinghe thought, if you’re looking for fame, Dr. Morgan, you won’t find it here. So why in the name of a thousand yakkas have you come to quiet little Taprobane?

  3

  The Fountains

  For days, elephants and slaves had toiled in the cruel sun, hauling the endless chains of buckets up the face of the cliff. “Is it ready?” the King had asked, time and again. “No, Majesty,” the master craftsman had answered. “The tank is not yet full. But tomorrow, perhaps . . .”

  Tomorrow had come at last, and now the whole court was gathered in the pleasure gardens, beneath awnings of brightly colored cloth. The King himself was cooled by large fans, waved by supplicants who had bribed the Chamberlain for this risky privilege. It was an honor that might lead to riches, or to death.

  All eyes were on the face of the Rock, and the tiny figures moving upon its summit. A flag fluttered; far below, a horn sounded briefly. At the base of the cliff, workmen frantically manipulated levers, hauled on ropes. For a long time, nothing happened.

  A frown began to spread across the face of the King, and the whole court trembled. Even the waving fans lost momentum for a few seconds, only to speed up again as the wielders recalled the hazards of their task.

  Then a great shout came from the workers at the foot of Yakkagala—a cry of joy and triumph that swept steadily closer and closer as it was taken up all along the flower-lined paths. And with it came another sound, one not so loud, yet giving the impression of irresistible, pent-up forces, rushing toward their goal.

  One after the other, springing from the earth as if by magic, the slim columns of water leaped toward the cloudless sky. At four times the height of a man, they burst into flowers of spray. The sunlight, breaking through them, created a rainbow-hued mist that added to the strangeness and beauty of the scene. Never, in the whole history of Taprobane, had the eyes of men witnessed such a wonder.

  The King smiled, and the courtiers dared to breathe again. This time, the buried pipes had not burst beneath the weight of water; unlike their luckless predecessors, the masons who had laid them had as good a chance of reaching old age as anyone who labored for Kalidasa.

  Almost as imperceptibly as the westering sun, the jets were losing altitude. Presently they were no taller than a man; the painfully filled reservoirs were nearly drained. But the King was well satisfied; he lifted his hand, and the fountains dipped and rose again as if in one last curtsy before the throne, then silently collapsed. For a little while, ripples raced back and forth across the surface of the reflecting pools, before they once again became still mirrors, framing the image of the eternal Rock.

  “The workmen have done well,” said Kalidasa. “Give them their freedom.”

  How well, of course, they would never understand, for none could share the lonely visions of an artist-king. As Kalidasa surveyed the exquisitely tended gardens that surrounded Yakkagala, he felt as much contentment as he would ever know.

  Here, at the foot of Demon Rock, he had conceived and created Paradise. There only remained, upon its summit, to build Heaven.

  4

  Demon Rock

  The cunningly contrived pageant of light
and sound still had power to move Rajasinghe, though he had seen it a dozen times and knew every trick of the programing. To see it was, of course, obligatory for every visitor to the Rock, though critics like Paul Sarath complained that it was merely instant history for tourists. Yet instant history was better than no history at all, and it would have to serve while Sarath and his colleagues continued vociferously to disagree about the precise sequence of events here two thousand years ago.

  The little amphitheater faced the western wall of Yakkagala, its two hundred seats all carefully orientated so that each spectator looked up into the laser projectors at the correct angle. The performance always began at exactly the same time throughout the year—1900 hours—as the last glow of the invariant equatorial sunset faded from the sky.

  Already, it was so dark that the Rock was invisible, revealing its presence only as a huge black shadow eclipsing the early stars. Out of that darkness, there came the slow beating of a muffled drum, and presently a calm, dispassionate voice:

  “This is the story of a king who murdered his father and was killed by his brother. In the bloodstained history of mankind, that is nothing new. But this king left an abiding monument; and a legend that has endured for centuries.”

  Rajasinghe stole a glance at Vannevar Morgan, sitting there in the darkness on his right. Though he could see the engineer’s features only in silhouette, he could tell that his visitor was already caught in the spell of the narration. On his left, his other two guests, old friends from his diplomatic days, were equally entranced. As he had assured Morgan, they had not recognized Dr. Smith; or, if they had, they had politely accepted the fiction.

  “His name was Kalidasa, and he was born a hundred years after Christ, in Ranapura, City of Gold—for centuries the capital of the Taprobanean kings. But there was a shadow across his birth. . . .”