The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [21]
“And one of them, for better or for worse, is going to make your quiet little island the center of the world. No—not merely the world. The whole solar system.
“Thanks to this filament, Taprobane will be the steppingstone to all the planets. And one day, perhaps, the stars.”
10
The Ultimate
Bridge
Paul and Maxine were two of his best and oldest friends, yet until this moment they had never met, or, as far as Rajasinghe knew, even communicated. There was little reason why they should; no one outside Taprobane had ever heard of Professor Sarath, but the whole solar system would instantly recognize Maxine Duval, either by sight or by sound.
His two guests were reclining in the library’s comfortable lounge chairs, while Rajasinghe sat at the villa’s main console. They were all staring at the fourth figure, who was standing motionless.
Too motionless. A visitor from the past, knowing nothing of the everyday electronic miracles of this age, might have decided after a few seconds that he was looking at a superbly detailed wax dummy. However, more careful examination would have revealed two disconcerting facts. The “dummy” was transparent enough for highlights to be clearly visible through it; and its feet blurred out of focus a few centimeters above the carpet.
“Do you recognize this man?” Rajasinghe asked.
“I’ve never seen him in my life,” Sarath replied instantly. “He’d better be important, since you dragged me back from Maharamba. We were just about to open the relic chamber.”
“I had to leave my trimaran at the beginning of the Lake Saladin races,” said Duval, her famous contralto voice containing just enough annoyance to put anyone less thick-skinned than Professor Sarath neatly in his place. “And I know him, of course. Does he want to build a bridge from Taprobane to Hindustan?”
Rajasinghe laughed.
“No. We’ve had a perfectly serviceable causeway for two centuries. And I’m sorry to have dragged you both here—though you, Maxine, have been promising to come for twenty years.”
“True.” She sighed. “But I have to spend so much time in my studio that I sometimes forget there’s a real world out there, occupied by about five thousand dear friends and fifty million intimate acquaintances.”
“In which category would you put Dr. Morgan?”
“I’ve met him—oh, three or four times. We did a special interview when the Gibraltar Bridge was completed. He’s a very impressive character.”
Coming from Maxine Duval, thought Rajasinghe, that was a fine tribute. For more than thirty years, she had been perhaps the most respected member of her exacting profession, and had won every honor that it could offer. A Pulitzer Prize, the Global Times Trophy, the David Snow Award—these were merely the tip of the iceberg. And she had only recently returned to active work after two years as Walter Cronkite Professor of Electronic Journalism at Columbia University.
All this had mellowed her, though it had not slowed her down. She was no longer the sometimes fiery chauvinist who had once remarked: “Since women are better at producing babies, presumably Nature has given men some talent to compensate. But for the moment I can’t think of it.” However, she had only recently embarrassed a hapless panel chairman with the loud aside: “I’m a newswoman, dammit—not a news person.”
Of her femininity, there had never been any doubt. She had been married four times, and her choice of Rems was famous. Whatever their sex, remotes were always young and athletic, so that they could move swiftly despite the encumbrance of up to twenty kilos of communications gear. Duval’s were invariably very male and very handsome; it was an old joke in the trade that all her Rems were also rams. The jest was completely without rancor, since even her fiercest professional rivals liked her almost as much as they envied her.
“I’m sorry about the race,” said Rajasinghe, “but I note