The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [54]
There was a long pause on the other end of the circuit.
“I shouldn’t say this,” said the banker at last, “but my hair is standing on end.”
Morgan laughed.
“Put as bluntly as this, it does sound like—what was it called?—Russian roulette. But remember, we’re dealing with exactly predictable movements. We always know where Phobos will be, and we can control the displacement of the Tower simply by the way we schedule traffic along it.”
“Simply,” thought Morgan, was hardly the right word, but anyone could see that it was possible. And then an analogy flashed into his mind that was so perfect, yet so incongruous, that he almost burst into laughter. No—it would not be a good idea to use it on the banker.
Once again, he was back at the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, but this time in a world of fantasy. There was a ship that had to sail beneath it, on a perfectly regular schedule. Unfortunately, the mast was a meter too tall. . . .
No problem. Just before it was due to arrive, a few heavy trucks would be sent racing across the bridge at intervals carefully calculated to match its resonant frequency. A gentle wave would sweep along the roadway from pier to pier, the crest timed to coincide with the arrival of the ship. And so the masthead would glide beneath, with whole centimeters to spare. . . . On a scale thousands of times larger, this was how Phobos would miss the structure towering out into space from Mons Pavonis.
“I’m glad to have your assurance,” said the banker, “but I think I’d do a private check on the position of Phobos before I took a trip.”
“Then you’ll be surprised to know that some of your bright young people—they’re certainly bright, and I’m assuming they’re young because of their sheer technical effrontery—want to use the critical periods as a tourist attraction. They think they could charge premium rates for views of Phobos sailing past at arm’s length at a couple of thousand kilometers an hour. Quite a spectacle, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I prefer to imagine it. But they may be right. . . . Anyway, I’m relieved to hear that there is a solution. I’m also happy to note that you approve of our engineering talent. Does this mean we can expect a decision soon?”
“You can have it now,” said Morgan. “When can we start work?”
26
The Night
Before Vesak
It was still, after twenty-seven centuries, the most revered day of the Taprobanean calendar. At the May full moon, according to legend, the Buddha had been born, had achieved enlightenment, and had died. Though to most people Vesak now meant no more than did that other great annual holiday, Christmas, it continued to be a time for meditation and tranquillity.
For many years, Monsoon Control had guaranteed that there would be no rain on the nights of Vesak plus and minus one. And for almost as long, Rajasinghe had gone to the City of Gold two days before that full moon, on a pilgrimage that annually refreshed his spirit. He avoided Vesak itself; on that day, Ranapura was too crowded with visitors, some of whom would be guaranteed to recognize him, and disturb his solitude.
Only the sharpest eye could have noticed that the huge yellow moon lifting above the bell-shaped domes of the ancient dagobas was not yet a perfect circle. The light it gave was so intense that only a few of the most brilliant satellites and stars were visible in the cloudless sky. And there was not a breath of wind.
Twice, it was said, Kalidasa had stopped on this road when he had left Ranapura forever. The first halt was at the tomb of Hanuman, the loved companion of his boyhood; and the second was at the Shrine of the Dying Buddha.
Rajasinghe had often wondered what solace the haunted King had gathered—perhaps at this very spot, for it was