The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [92]
Rajasinghe had never thought that he would outlive Paul, or would see the fantastic billion-ton stalactite of the Tower almost span the gulf between its orbital foundation and Taprobane, thirty-six thousand kilometers below. To the end, Paul had been utterly opposed to the project. He had called it a Sword of Damocles, and had never ceased to predict its eventual plunge to Earth. Yet even Paul had admitted that the Tower had already produced some benefits.
For perhaps the first time in history, the rest of the world actually knew that Taprobane existed, and was discovering its ancient culture. Yakkagala, with its brooding presence and its sinister legends, had attracted special attention. As a result, Paul had been able to get support for some of his cherished projects. The enigmatic personality of Yakkagala’s creator had already given rise to numerous books and video dramas, and the son-et-lumière display at the foot of the Rock was invariably sold out. Shortly before his death, Paul had remarked wryly that a minor Kalidasa industry was in the making, and it was becoming more and more difficult to distinguish fiction from reality.
Soon after midnight, when it was obvious that the auroral display had passed its climax, Rajasinghe had been carried back into his bedroom. As he always did when he had said good-night to his household staff, he relaxed with a glass of toddy and switched on the late news summary. The only item that really interested him was the progress that Morgan was making. By this time, he should be approaching the base of the Tower.
The news editor had already starred the latest development. A line of continuously flashing type announced:
MORGAN STUCK 200 KM SHORT OF GOAL
Rajasinghe’s finger tips requested the details, and he was relieved to find that his first fears were groundless. Morgan was not stuck; he was unable to complete the journey. He could return to earth whenever he wished. But if he did, Professor Sessui and his colleagues would certainly be doomed.
Directly above his head, the silent drama was being played out at this very moment. Rajasinghe switched from text to video, but there was nothing new. The item now being screened in the news recap was Maxine Duval’s ascent, years ago, in Spider’s precursor.
“I can do better than that,” muttered Rajasinghe, and switched to his beloved telescope.
For the first months after he had become bedridden, he had been unable to use it. Then Morgan had paid one of his brief courtesy calls, analyzed the situation, and swiftly prescribed the remedy. A week later, to Rajasinghe’s surprise and pleasure, a small team of technicians had arrived at the Villa Yakkagala, and had modified the instrument for remote operation. Now he could lie comfortably in bed, and still explore the starry skies and the looming face of the Rock. He was deeply grateful to Morgan for the gesture, which had shown a side of the engineer’s personality he had not suspected.
He was not sure what he could see, in the darkness of the night, but he knew exactly where to look, since he had long been watching the slow descent of the Tower. When the sun was at the correct angle, he could even glimpse the four guiding tapes converging into the zenith, a quartet of shining hairlines scratched upon the sky.
He set the azimuth bearing on the telescope control and swung the instrument around until it pointed above Sri Kanda. As he began to track slowly upward, looking for any sign of the capsule, he wondered what Bodhidharma was thinking about this latest development.
Though Rajasinghe had not spoken to the Mahanayake, now well into his nineties, since the order had moved to Lhasa, he gathered that the Potala had not provided the hoped-for accommodation. The huge palace was slowly falling into decay while the Dalai Lama’s executors haggled with the Chinese federal government over the cost of maintenance.