The Fountains of Paradise

No – not a ring – a wheel. This Tower was only the first spoke. There would be others (four? six? a score?) spaced along the equator. When they were all connected rigidly up there in orbit, the problems of stability that plagued a single tower would vanish. Africa – South America, the Gilbert Islands, Indonesia – they could all provide locations for earth terminals, if desired. For some day, as materials improved and knowledge advanced, the Towers could be made invulnerable even to the worst hurricanes, and mountain sites would no longer be necessary. If he had waited another hundred years, perhaps he need not have disturbed the Maha Thero.

While he was dreaming the thin crescent of the waning moon had lifted unobtrusively above the eastern horizon, already aglow with the first hint of dawn. Earthshine lit the entire lunar disc so brilliantly that Morgan could see much of the nightland detail; he strained his eyes in the hope of glimpsing that loveliest of sights, never seen by earlier ages – a star within the arms of the crescent moon. But none of the cities of man's second home was visible tonight.

Only two hundred kilometers – less than an hour to go. There was no point in trying to keep awake; Spider had automatic terminal programming and would touch gently down without disturbing his sleep.

The pain woke him first; CORA was a fraction of a second later. "Don't try to move," she said soothingly. "I've radioed for help. The ambulance is on the way."

That was funny. But don't laugh, Morgan ordered himself, she's only doing her best. He felt no fear; though the pain beneath his breastbone was intense, it was not incapacitating. He tried to focus his mind upon it, and the very act of concentration relieved the symptoms. Long ago he had discovered that the best way of handling pain was to study it objectively.

Warren was calling him, but the words were far away and had little meaning. He could recognise the anxiety in his friend's voice, and wished that he could do something to alleviate it; but he had no strength left to deal with this problem – or with any other. Now he could not even hear the words; a faint but steady roar had obliterated all other sounds. Though he knew that it existed only in his mind – or the labyrinthine channels of his ears – it seemed completely real; he could believe that he was standing at the foot of some great waterfall…

It was growing fainter, softer – more musical. And suddenly he recognised it. How pleasant to hear once more, on the silent frontier of space, the sound he remembered from his very first visit to Yakkagala!

Gravity was drawing him home again, as through the centuries its invisible hand had shaped the trajectory of the Fountains of Paradise. But he had created something that gravity could never recapture, as long as men possessed the wisdom and the will to preserve it.

How cold his legs were! What had happened to Spider's life-support system? But soon it would be dawn; then there would be warmth enough.

The stars were fading, far more swiftly than they had any right to do. That was strange; though the day was almost here, everything around him was growing dark. And the fountains were sinking back into the earth, their voices becoming fainter fainter… fainter.

And now there was another voice, but Vannevar Morgan did not hear it. Between brief, piercing bleeps CORA cried to the approaching dawn:

HELP! WILL ANYONE WHO HEARS ME PLEASE COME AT ONCE!

THIS IS A CORA EMERGENCY!

HELP! WILL ANYONE WHO HEARS ME PLEASE COME AT ONCE!

She was still calling when the sun came up, and its first rays caressed the summit of mountain that had once been sacred. Far below the shadow of Sri Kanda leaped forth upon the clouds, its perfect cone still unblemished, despite all that man had done.

There were no pilgrims now, to watch that symbol of eternity lie across the face of the awakening land. But millions would see it, in the centuries ahead, as they rode in comfort and safety to the stars.

58. Epilogue: Kalidasa's Triumph

In the last days of that last brief summer, before the jaws of ice clenched shut around the equator, one of the Starholme envoys came to Yakkagala.

A Master of the Swarms, It had recently conjugated Itself into human form. Apart from one minor detail, the likeness was excellent; but the dozen children who had accompanied the Holmer in the autocopter were in a constant state of mild hysteria – the younger ones frequently dissolving into giggles.

"What's so funny?" It had asked in Its perfect Solar. "Or is this a private joke?"