The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [93]
All things were indeed impermanent, and it was not easy to discern any cyclic pattern. Perhaps the mathematical genius of Parakarma-Goldberg might be able to do so. The last time Rajasinghe had seen him, he was receiving a major scientific award for his contributions to meteorology. Rajasinghe would never have recognized him; he was clean-shaven and wearing a suit cut in the latest neo-Napoleonic fashion. But now, it seemed, he had switched religions again. . . .
The stars slid slowly down the big monitor screen at the end of the bed as the telescope tilted up toward the Tower. But there was no sign of the capsule, though Rajasinghe was sure that it must now be in the field of view.
He was about to switch back to the regular news channel when, like an erupting nova, a star flashed out near the lower edge of the picture. Rajasinghe wondered if the capsule had exploded, but then he saw that it was shining with a perfectly steady light. He centered the image and zoomed to maximum power.
Long ago, he had seen a two-century-old video documentary of the first aerial wars, and he remembered a sequence showing a night attack upon London. An enemy bomber had been caught in a cone of searchlights, and had hung like an incandescent mote in the sky. He was seeing the same phenomenon now, on a hundredfold greater scale; but this time, all the resources on the ground were combined to help, not to destroy, the determined invader of the night.
49
A Bumpy Ride
Warren Kingsley’s voice had regained its control. Now it was merely dull and despairing.
“We’re trying to stop that mechanic from shooting himself,” he said. “But it’s hard to blame him. He was interrupted by another rush job on the capsule, and simply forgot to remove the safety strap.”
So, as usual, it was human error. While the explosive links were being attached, the battery had been held in place by two metal bands. And only one of them had been removed.
Such things happened with monotonous regularity. Sometimes they were merely annoying; sometimes they were disastrous, and the man responsible had to carry the guilt for the rest of his days. In any event, recrimination was pointless. The only thing that mattered now was what to do next.
Morgan adjusted the external viewing mirror to its maximum downward tilt, but it was impossible to see the cause of the trouble. Now that the auroral display had faded, the lower part of the capsule was in total darkness, and he had no means of illuminating it. But that problem, at least, could be readily solved. If Monsoon Control could dump kilowatts of infrared into the Basement of the Tower, it could easily spare him a few visible photons.
“We can use our own searchlights,” said Kingsley, when Morgan passed on his request.
“No good. They’ll shine straight into my eyes, and I won’t be able to see a thing. I want a light behind and above me—there must be somebody in the right position.”
“I’ll check,” Kingsley answered, obviously glad to make some useful gesture. It seemed a long time before he called again, but looking at his timer, Morgan was surprised to see that only three minutes had elapsed.
“Monsoon Control could manage it, but they’d have to retune and defocus—I think they’re scared of frying you. But Kinte can light up immediately. They have a pseudo-white laser—and they’re in the right position. Shall I tell them to go ahead?”
Morgan checked his bearings. Let’s see, Kinte would be very high in the west—that would be fine.
“I’m ready,” he answered, and closed his eyes. Almost instantly, the capsule exploded with light.
Cautiously, Morgan opened his eyes again. The beam was coming from high in the west, dazzlingly brilliant despite its journey of almost forty thousand kilometers. It appeared to be pure white, but he knew that it was actually a blend of three sharply tuned lines in the red, green, and blue parts of the spectrum.