The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [72]
Duval looked rather like a typical Antarctic tourist as, glittering in her metal-foil thermosuit, she walked toward the waiting spider and the group of technicians around it. She had chosen the time carefully. The sun had risen only an hour ago, and its slanting rays would show the Taprobanean landscape to best advantage. Her remote, even younger and huskier than the one used on the last memorable occasion, recorded the sequence of events for her systemwide audience.
She had, as always, been thoroughly rehearsed. There was no fumbling or hesitation as she strapped herself in, pressed the BATTERY CHARGE button, took a deep draught of oxygen from her face mask, and checked the monitors on all her video and sound channels. Then, like a fighter pilot in some old historical movie, she signaled “thumbs up” and gently eased the speed control forward.
There was a small burst of ironic clapping from the assembled engineers, most of whom had already taken joy rides up to heights of a few kilometers. Someone shouted, “Ignition! We have lift-off !” Moving about as swiftly as a brass birdcage elevator in the reign of Victoria I, the spider began its stately ascent.
This must be like ballooning, Duval told herself. Smooth, effortless, silent. No—not completely silent. She could hear the gentle whirr of the motors powering the multiple drive wheels that gripped the flat face of the tape.
There was none of the sway or vibration that she had half expected. Despite its slimness, the incredible band she was climbing was as rigid as a bar of steel, and the vehicle’s gyros were holding it rock steady. If she closed her eyes, she could easily imagine that she was already ascending the final Tower.
But she would not close her eyes. There was so much to see and absorb. There was even a good deal to hear. It was amazing how well sound carried; the conversations below were still quite audible.
She waved to Morgan, and looked for Kingsley. To her surprise, she was unable to find him. Though he had helped her aboard the spider, he had now vanished. Then she remembered his frank admission—sometimes he made it sound almost like a wry boast—that the best structural engineer in the world couldn’t stand heights.
Everyone had some secret, or perhaps not-so-secret, fear. Duval did not appreciate spiders, and wished that the vehicle she was riding in had some other name. Yet she could handle one if it was really necessary. The creature she could never bear to touch—though she had met it often enough on her diving expeditions—was the shy and harmless octopus.
The whole mountain was now visible, though from directly above it was impossible to appreciate its true height. The two ancient stairways winding up its face might have been oddly twisting level roads. Along their entire length, as far as she could observe, there was no sign of life. One section had been blocked by a fallen tree, as if Nature had given advance notice, after three thousand years, that she was about to reclaim her own.
Leaving camera one pointed downward, Duval started to pan with number two. Fields and forests drifted across the monitor screen, then the distant white domes of Ranapura, then the dark waters of the inland sea. And, presently, there was Yakkagala. . . .
She zoomed onto the Rock, and could just make out the faint pattern of the ruins covering the entire upper surface. The Mirror Wall was still in shadow, as was the Gallery of the Princesses—not that there was any hope of making them out from such a distance. But the layout of the pleasure gardens, with their ponds and walkways and massive surrounding moat, was clearly visible.
The line of tiny white plumes puzzled her for a moment, until she realized that she