The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [7]
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,