The Fountains of Paradise

22. Apostate

Driven to despair by his fruitless attempts to understand the Universe, the sage Devadasa finally announced in exasperation

ALL STATEMENTS THAT CONTAIN THE WORD GOD ARE FALSE.

Instantly, his least-favourite disciple Somasiri replied “The sentence I am now speaking contains the word God. I fail to see, Oh Noble Master, how that simple statement can be false.”

Devadasa considered the matter for several Poyas. Then he answered, this time with apparent satisfaction:

ONLY STATEMENTS THAT DO NOT CONTAIN THE WORD GOD CAN BE TRUE.

After a pause barely sufficient for a starving mongoose to swallow a millet seed, Somasiri replied: “If this statement applies to itself; Oh Venerable One, it cannot be true, because it contains the word God. But if it is not true -”

At this point, Devadasa broke his begging-bowl upon Somasiri's head, and should therefore be honoured as the true founder of Zen.

(From a fragment of the Culavamsa, as yet undiscovered)

In the late afternoon, when the stairway was no longer blasted by the full fury of the sun, the Venerable Parakarma began his descent. By nightfall he would reach the highest of the pilgrim rest-houses; and by the following day he would have returned to the world of men.

The Maha Thero had given neither advice nor discouragement, and if he was grieved by his colleague's departure he had shown no sign. He had merely intoned, “All things are impermanent”, clasped his hands, and given his blessing.

The Venerable Parakarma, who had once been Dr. Choam Goldberg, and might be so again, would have had great difficulty in explaining all his motives. “Right action” was easy to say; it was not easy to discover.

At the Sri Kanda Maha Vihara he had found peace of mind – but that was not enough. With his scientific training, he was no longer content to accept the Order's ambiguous attitude towards God; such indifference had come at last to seem worse than outright denial.

If such a thing as a rabbinical gene could exist, Dr. Goldberg possessed it. Like many before him, Goldberg-Parakarma had sought God through mathematics, undiscouraged even by the bombshell that Kurt Gцdel, with the discovery of undecidable propositions, had exploded early in the Twentieth Century. He could not understand how anyone could contemplate the dynamic asymmetry of Euler's profound, yet beautifully simple,

e^(pi * i) + I = 0

without wondering if the universe was the creation of some vast intelligence.

Having first made his name with a new cosmological theory that had survived almost ten years before being refuted, Goldberg had been widely acclaimed as another Einstein or N'goya. In an age of ultra-specialisation, he had also managed to make notable advances in aero and hydrodynamics – long regarded as dead subjects, incapable of further surprises.

Then, at the height of his powers, he had experienced a religious conversion not unlike Pascal's, though without so many morbid undertones. For the next decade, he had been content to lose himself in saffron anonymity, focusing his brilliant mind upon questions of doctrine and philosophy. He did not regret the interlude, and he was not even sure that he had abandoned the Order; one day, perhaps, this great stairway would see him again. But his God-given talents were reasserting themselves; there was massive work to be done, and he needed tools that could not be found on Sri Kanda – or even, for that matter, on Earth itself.

He felt little hostility, now, towards Vannevar Morgan. However inadvertently, the engineer had ignited the spark; in his blundering way, he too was an agent of God. Yet at all costs the temple must be protected. Whether or not the Wheel of Fate ever returned him to its tranquillity, Parakarma was implacably resolved upon that.

And so, like a new Moses bringing down from the mountain laws that would change the destinies of men, the Venerable Parakarma descended to the world he had once renounced. He was blind to the beauties of land and sky that were all around him; for they were utterly trivial compared to those that he alone could see, in the armies of equations that were marching through his mind.

23. Moondozer

“Your trouble, Dr. Morgan,” said the man in the wheelchair, “is that you're on the wrong planet.”

“I can't help thinking,” retorted Morgan, looking pointedly at his visitor's life-support system, “that much the same may be said of you.”

The Vice-President (Investments) of Narodny Mars gave an appreciative chuckle.

“At least I'm here only for a week – then it's back to the Moon, and a civilised gravity. Oh, I can walk if I really have to: but I prefer otherwise.”

“If I may ask, why do you come to Earth at all?”

“I do so as little as possible, but sometimes one has to be on the spot. Contrary to general belief; you can't do everything by remotes. I'm sure you are aware of that.”

Morgan nodded; it was true enough. He thought of all the times when the texture of some material, the feel of rock or soil underfoot, the smell of a jungle, the sting of spray upon his face, had played a vital role in one of his projects. Some day, perhaps even these sensations could be transferred by electronics-indeed, it had already been done so crudely, on an experimental basis, and at enormous cost. But there was no substitute for reality; one should beware of imitations.

“If you've visited Earth especially to meet me,” Morgan replied, “I appreciate the honour. But if you're offering me a job on Mars, you're wasting your time. I'm enjoying my retirement, meeting friends and relatives I haven't seen for years, and I've no intention of starting a new career.”

“I find that surprising; after all, you're only 52. How do you propose to occupy your time?”

“Easily. I could spend the rest of my life on any one of a dozen projects. The ancient engineers – the Romans, the Greeks, the Incas – they've always fascinated me, and I've never had time to study them. I've been asked to write and deliver a Global University course on design science. There's a text-book I'm commissioned to write on advanced structures. I want to develop some ideas about the use of active elements to correct dynamic loads – winds, earthquakes, and so forth – I'm still consultant for General Tectonics. And I'm preparing a report on the administration of TCC.”

“At whose request? Not, I take it, Senator Collins'?”

“No,” said Morgan, with a grim smile. “I thought it would be – useful. And it helps to relieve my feelings.”

“I'm sure of it. But all these activities aren't really creative. Sooner or later they'll pall – like this beautiful Norwegian scenery. You'll grow tired of looking at lakes and fir trees, just as you'll grow tired of writing and talking. You are the sort of man who will never be really happy, Dr. Morgan, unless you are shaping your universe.”

Morgan did not reply. The prognosis was much too accurate for comfort.

“I suspect that you agree with me. What would you say if I told you that my Bank was seriously interested in the space elevator project?”

“I'd be sceptical. When I approached them, they said it was a fine idea, but they couldn't put any money into it at this stage. All available funds were needed for the development of Mars. It's the old story – we'll be glad to help you, when you don't need any help.”

“That was a year ago; now there have been some second thoughts. We'd like you to build the space elevator – but not on Earth. On Mars. Are you interested?”

“I might be. Go on.”

“Look at the advantages. Only a third of the gravity, so the forces involved are correspondingly smaller. The synchronous orbit is also closer – less than half the altitude here. So at the very start, the engineering problems are enormously reduced. Our people estimate that the Mars system would cost less than a tenth of the Terran one.”

“That's quite possible, though I'd have to check it.”

“And that's just the beginning. We have some fierce gales on Mars, despite our thin atmosphere – but mountains that get completely above them. Your Sri Kanda is only five kilometres high. We have Mons Pavonis – twenty-one kilometres, and exactly on the equator! Better still, there are no Martian monks with long-term leases sitting on the summit… And there's one other reason why Mars might have been designed for a space elevator. Deimos is only three thousand kilometres above the stationary orbit. So we already have a couple of million megatons sitting in exactly the right place for the anchor.”

“That will present some interesting problems in synchronisation, but I see what you mean. I'd like to meet the people who worked all this out.”

“You can't, in real time. They're all on Mars. You'll have to go there.”

“I'm tempted, but I still have a few other questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“Earth must have the elevator, for all the reasons you doubtless know. But it seems to me that Mars could manage without it. You have only a fraction of our space traffic, and a much smaller projected growth rate. Frankly, it doesn't make a great deal of sense to me.”

“I was wondering when you'd ask.”

“Well, I'm asking.”

“Have you heard of Project Eos?”

“I don't think so.”

“Eos – Greek for Dawn – the plan to rejuvenate Mars.”

“Oh, of course I know about that. It involves melting the polar caps, doesn't it?”

“Exactly. If we could thaw out all that water and CO2 ice, several things would happen. The atmospheric density would increase until men could work in the open without spacesuits; at a later stage, the air might even be made breathable. There would be running water, small seas – and, above all, vegetation – the beginnings of a carefully planned biota. In a couple of centuries, Mars could be another Garden of Eden. It's the only planet in the solar system we can transform with known technology: Venus may always be too hot.”

“And where does the elevator come into this?”

“We have to lift several million tons of equipment into orbit. The only practical way to heat up Mars is by solar mirrors, hundreds of kilometres across. And we'll need them permanently – first to melt the ice-caps, and later to maintain a comfortable temperature.”

“Couldn't you get all this material from your asteroid mines?”

“Some of it, of course. But the best mirrors for the job are made of sodium, and that's rare in space. We'll have to get it from the Tharsis salt-beds – right by the foothills of Pavonis, luckily enough.”

“And how long will all this take?”

“If there are no problems, the first stage could be complete in fifty years. Maybe by your hundredth birthday, which the actuaries say you have a thirty-nine percent chance of seeing.”

Morgan laughed.

“I admire people who do a thorough job of research.”

“We wouldn't survive on Mars unless we paid attention to detail.”

“Well, I'm favourably impressed, though I still have a great many reservations. The financing, for example -”

“That's my job, Dr. Morgan. I'm the banker. You're the engineer.”

“Correct, but you seem to know a good deal about engineering, and I've had to learn a lot of economics – often the hard way. Before I'd even consider getting involved in such a project, I should want a detailed budget breakdown -”

“Which can be provided -”

“– and that would just be the start. You may not realise that there's still a vast amount of research involved in half-a-dozen fields – mass production of the hyperfilament material, stability and control problems – I could go on all night.”

“That won't be necessary; our engineers have read all your reports. What they are proposing is a small-scale experiment that will settle many of the technical problems, and prove that the principle is sound -”

“There's no doubt about that.”

“I agree, but it's amazing what a difference a little practical demonstration can make. So this is what we would like you to do. Design the minimum possible system – just a wire with a payload of a few kilogrammes. Lower it from synchronous orbit to Earth – yes, Earth. If it works here, it will be easy on Mars. Then run some thing up it just to show that rockets are obsolete. The experiment will be relatively cheap, it will provide essential information and basic training – and, from our point of view, it will save years of argument. We can go to the Government of Earth, the Solar Fund, the other interplanetary banks – and just point to the demonstration.”

“You really have worked all this out. When would you like my answer?”

“To be honest, in about five seconds. But obviously, there's nothing urgent about the matter. Take as long as seems reasonable.”

“Very well. Give me your design studies, cost analyses, and all the other material you have. Once I've been through them, I'll let you have my decision in – oh, a week at the most.”

“Thank you. Here's my number. You can get me at any time.”

Morgan slipped the banker's ident card into the memory slot of his communicator and checked the ENTRY CONFIRMED on the visual display. Before he had returned the card, he had already made up his mind. Unless there was a fundamental flaw in the Martian analysis – and he would bet a large sum that it was sound – his retirement was over. He had often noted, with some amusement, that whereas he frequently thought long and hard over relatively trivial decisions, he had never hesitated for a moment at the major turning-points of his career. He had always known what to do, and had seldom been wrong.

And yet, at this stage in the game, it was better not to invest too much intellectual or emotional capital into a project that might still come to nothing. After the banker had rolled out on the first stage of his journey back to Port Tranquillity, via Oslo and Gagarin, Morgan found it impossible to settle down to any of the activities he had planned for the long northern evening; his mind was in a turmoil, scanning the whole spectrum of suddenly changed futures.

After a few minutes of restless pacing, he sat down at his desk and began to list priorities in a kind of reverse order, starting with the commitments he could most easily shed. Before long, however, he found it impossible to concentrate on such routine matters. Far down in the depths of his mind something was nagging at him, trying to attract his attention. When he tried to focus upon it, it promptly eluded him, like a familiar but momentarily forgotten word.

With a sigh of frustration Morgan pushed himself away from the desk, and walked out on to the verandah running along the western face of the hotel. Though it was very cold, the air was quite still and the sub-zero temperature was more of a stimulus than a discomfort. The sky was a blaze of stars, and a yellow crescent moon was sinking down towards its reflection in the fjord, whose surface was so dark and motionless that it might have been a sheet of polished ebony.

Thirty years ago he had stood at almost this same spot, with a girl whose very appearance he could no longer clearly recall. They had both been celebrating their first degrees, and that had been really all they had in common. It had not been a serious affair; they were young, and enjoyed each other's company – and that had been enough. Yet somehow that fading memory had brought him back to Trollshavn Fjord at this crucial moment of his life. What would the young student of twenty-two have thought, could he have known how his footsteps would lead him back to this place of remembered pleasures, three decades in his future?

There was scarcely a trace of nostalgia or self-pity in Morgan's reverie-only a kind of wistful amusement. He had never for an instant regretted the fact that he and Ingrid had separated amicably, without even considering the usual one-year trial contract. She had gone on to make three other men moderately miserable before finding herself a job with the Lunar Commission, and Morgan had lost track of her. Perhaps, even now, she was up there on that shining crescent, whose colour almost matched her golden hair.

So much for the past. Morgan turned his thoughts to the future. Where was Mars? He was ashamed to admit that he did not even know if it was visible tonight. As he ran his eye along the path of the ecliptic, from the Moon to the dazzling beacon of Venus and beyond, he saw nothing in all that jewelled profusion that he could certainly identify with the red planet. It was exciting to think that in the not-too-distant future he – who had never even travelled beyond lunar orbit! – might be looking with his own eyes at those magnificent crimson landscapes, and watching the tiny moons pass swiftly through their phases.

In that moment the dream collapsed. Morgan stood for a moment paralysed, then dashed back into the hotel, forgetting the splendour of the night.

There was no general purpose console in his room, so he had to go down to the lobby to get the information he required. As luck would have it, the cubicle was occupied by an old lady who took so long to find what she wanted that Morgan almost pounded on the door. But at last the sluggard left with a mumbled apology, and Morgan was face to face with the accumulated art and knowledge of all mankind.

In his student days, he had won several retrieval championships, racing against the clock while digging out obscure items of information on lists prepared by ingeniously sadistic judges. ("What was the rainfall in the capital of the world's smallest national state on the day when the second largest number of home runs was scored in college baseball?" was one that he recalled with particular affection.) His skill had improved with years, and this was a perfectly straightforward question. The display came up in thirty seconds, in far more detail than he really needed.

Morgan studied the screen for a minute, then shook his head in baffled amazement.

“They couldn't possibly have overlooked that!” he muttered. “But what can they do about it?”

Morgan pressed the HARD COPY button, and carried the thin sheet of paper back to his room for more detailed study. The problem was so stunningly, appallingly obvious that he wondered if he had overlooked some equally obvious solution and would be making a fool of himself if he raised the matter. Yet there was no possible escape…

He looked at his watch: already after midnight. But this was something he had to settle at once.

To Morgan's relief, the banker had not pressed his DON'T DISTURB button. He replied immediately, sounding a little surprised.

“I hope I didn't wake you up,” said Morgan, not very sincerely.

“No – we're just about to land at Gagarin. What's the problem?”

“About ten teratons, moving at two kilometres a second. The inner moon, Phobos. It's a cosmic bulldozer, going past the elevator every eleven hours. I've not worked out the exact probabilities, but a collision is inevitable every few days.”

There was silence for a long time from the other end of the circuit. Then the banker said: “I could have thought of that. So obviously, someone has the answer. Perhaps we'll have to move Phobos.”

“Impossible: the mass is far too great.”

“I'll have to call Mars. The time delay's twelve minutes at the moment. I should have some sort of answer within the hour.”

I hope so, Morgan told himself. And it had better be good… that is, if I really want this job.

24. The Finger of God

Dendrobium macarthiae usually flowered with the coming of the south-west monsoon, but this year it was early. As Johan Rajasinghe stood in his orchid house, admiring the intricate violet-pink blossoms, he remembered that last season he had been trapped by a torrential downpour for half-an-hour while examining the first blooms.

He looked anxiously at the sky; no, there was little danger of rain. It was a beautiful day, with thin, high bands of cloud moderating the fierce sunlight. But that was odd.

Rajasinghe had never seen anything quite like it before. Almost vertically overhead, the parallel lanes of cloud were broken by a circular disturbance. It appeared to be a tiny cyclonic storm, only a few kilometres across, but it reminded Rajasinghe of something completely different – a knot-hole breaking through the grain in a smoothly planed board. He abandoned his beloved orchids and stepped outside to get a better view of the phenomenon. Now he could see that the small whirlwind was moving slowly across the sky, the track of its passage clearly marked by the distortion of the cloud lanes.

One could easily imagine that the finger of God was reaching down from heaven, tracing a furrow through the clouds. Even Rajasinghe, who understood the basics of weather control, had no idea that such precision was now possible; but he could take a modest pride in the fact that, almost forty years ago, he had played his part in its achievement.

It had not been easy to persuade the surviving superpowers to relinquish their orbital fortresses and hand them over to the Global Weather Authority, in what was – if the metaphor could be stretched that far – the last and most dramatic example of beating swords into ploughshares. Now the lasers that had once threatened mankind directed their beams into carefully selected portions of the atmosphere, or onto heat-absorbing target areas in remote regions of the earth. The energy they contained was trifling, compared to that of the smallest storm; but so is the energy of the falling stone that triggers an avalanche, or the single neutron that starts a chain reaction.

Beyond that, Rajasinghe knew nothing of the technical details, except that they involved networks of monitoring satellites, and computers that held within their electronic brains a complete model of the earth's atmosphere, land surfaces and seas. He felt rather like an awestruck savage, gaping at the wonders of some advanced technology, as he watched the little cyclone move purposefully into the west, until it disappeared below the graceful line of palms just inside the ramparts of the Pleasure Gardens.

Then he glanced up at the invisible engineers and scientists, racing round the world in their man-made heavens.

“Very impressive,” he said. “But I hope you know exactly what you're doing.”

25. Orbital Roulette

“I should have guessed,” said the banker ruefully, “that it would have been in one of those technical appendices that I never looked at. And now you've seen the whole report, I'd like to know the answer. You've had me worrying, ever since you raised the problem.”

“It's brilliantly obvious,” Morgan answered, “and I should have thought of it myself.”

And I would have done – eventually – he told himself, with a fair degree of confidence. In his mind's eye he saw again those computer simulations of the whole immense structure, twanging like a cosmic violin string, as the hours-long vibrations raced from earth to orbit and were reflected back again. And superimposed on that he replayed from memory, for the hundredth time, the scratched movie of the dancing bridge. There were all the clues he needed.

“Phobos sweeps past the tower every eleven hours and ten minutes, but luckily it isn't moving in exactly the same plane – or we'd have a collision every time it went round. It misses on most revolutions and the danger times are exactly predictable – to a thousandth of a second, if desired. Now the elevator, like any piece of engineering, isn't a completely rigid structure. It has natural vibration periods, which can be calculated almost as accurately as planetary orbits. So what your engineers propose to do is to tune the elevator, so that its normal oscillations – which can't be avoided anyway – always keep it clear of Phobos. Every time the satellite passes by the structure, it isn't there – it's sidestepped the danger zone by a few kilometres.”

There was a long pause from the other end of the circuit.

“I shouldn't say this,” said the Martian at last, “but my hair is standing on end.”

Morgan laughed. “Put as bluntly as this, it does sound like – what was it called – Russian Roulette. But remember, we're dealing with exactly predictable movements. We always know where Phobos will be, and we can control the displacement of the tower, simply by the way we schedule traffic along it.”

“Simply,” thought Morgan, was hardly the right word, but anyone could see that it was possible. And then an analogy flashed into his mind that was so perfect, yet so incongruous, that he almost burst into laughter. No – it would not be a good idea to use it on the banker.

Once again, he was back at the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, but this time in a world of fantasy. There was a ship that had to sail beneath it, on a perfectly regular schedule. Unfortunately, the mast was a metre too tall.

No problem. Just before it was due to arrive, a few heavy trucks would be sent racing across the bridge, at intervals carefully calculated to match its resonant frequency. A gentle wave would sweep along the roadway from pier to pier, the crest timed to coincide with the arrival of the ship. And so the mast-head would glide beneath, with whole centimetres to spare… On a scale thousands of times larger, this was how Phobos would miss the structure towering out into space from Mons Pavonis.

“I'm glad to have your assurance,” said the banker, “but I think I'd do a private check on the position of Phobos before I take a trip.”

“Then you'll be surprised to know that some of your bright young people – they're certainly bright, and I'm assuming they're young because of their sheer technical effrontery – want to use the critical periods as a tourist attraction. They think they could charge premium rates for views of Phobos sailing past at arm's length at a couple of thousand kiometres an hour. Quite a spectacle, wouldn't you agree?”

“I prefer to imagine it, but they may be right. Anyway, I'm relieved to hear that there is a solution. I'm also happy to note that you approve of our engineering talent. Does this mean we can expect a decision soon?”

“You can have it now,” said Morgan. “When can we start work?”

26. The Night Before Vesak

It was still, after twenty-seven centuries, the most revered day of the Taprobanean calendar. On the May full moon, according to legend, the Buddha had been born, had achieved enlightenment, and had died. Though to most people Vesak now meant no more than that other great annual holiday, Christmas, it was still a time for meditation and tranquillity.

For many years, Monsoon Control had guaranteed that there would be no rain on the nights of Vesak plus and minus one. And for almost as long, Rajasinghe had gone to the Royal City two days before the full moon, on a pilgrimage that annually refreshed his spirit. He avoided Vesak itself; on that day Ranapura was too crowded with visitors, some of whom would be guaranteed to recognise him, and disturb his solitude.

Only the sharpest eye could have noticed that the huge, yellow moon lifting above the bell-shaped domes of the ancient dagobas was not yet a perfect circle. The light it gave was so intense that only a few of the most brilliant satellites and stars were visible in the cloudless sky. And there was not a breath of wind.

Twice, it was said, Kalidasa had stopped on this road, when he had left Ranapura forever. The first halt was at the tomb of Hanuman, the loved companion of his boyhood; and the second was at the Shrine of the Dying Buddha. Rajasinghe had often wondered what solace the haunted king had gathered – perhaps at this very spot, for it was the best point from which to view the immense figure carved from the solid rock. The reclining shape was so perfectly proportioned that one had to walk right up to it before its real size could be appreciated. From a distance it was impossible to realise that the pillow upon which the Buddha rested his head was itself higher than a man.

Though Rajasinghe had seen much of the world, he knew no other spot so full of peace. Sometimes he felt that he could sit here forever, beneath the blazing moon, wholly unconcerned with all the cares and turmoil of life. He had never tried to probe too deeply into the magic of the Shrine, for fear that he would destroy it, but some of its elements were obvious enough. The very posture of the Enlightened One, resting at last with closed eyes after a long and noble life, radiated serenity. The sweeping lines of the robe were extraordinarily soothing and restful to contemplate; they appeared to flow from the rock, to form waves of frozen stone. And, like the waves of the sea, the natural rhythm of their curves appealed to instincts of which the rational mind knew nothing.

In timeless moments such as this, alone with the Buddha and the almost full moon, Rajasinghe felt that he could understand at last the meaning of Nirvana – that state which can be defined only by negatives. Such emotions as anger, desire, greed no longer possessed any power; indeed, they were barely conceivable. Even the sense of personal identity seemed about to fade away, like a mist before the morning sun.

It could not last, of course. Presently he became aware of the buzzing of insects, the distant barking of dogs, the cold hardness of the stone upon which he was sitting. Tranquillity was not a state of mind which could be sustained for long. With a sigh, Rajasinghe got to his feet and began the walk back to his car, parked a hundred metres outside the temple grounds.

He was just entering the vehicle when he noticed the small white patch, so clearly defined that it might have been painted on the sky, rising over the trees to the west. It was the most peculiar cloud that Rajasinghe had ever seen-a perfectly symmetrical ellipsoid, so sharp-edged that it appeared almost solid. He wondered if someone was flying an airship through the skies of Taprobane; but he could see no fins, and there was no sound of engines.

Then, for a fleeting moment, he had a far wilder fancy. The Starholmers had arrived at last.

But that, of course, was absurd. Even if they had managed to outrun their own radio signals, they could hardly have traversed the whole solar system – and descended into the skies of Earth – without triggering all the traffic radars in existence. The news would have broken hours ago.

Rather to his surprise, Rajasinghe felt a mild sense of disappointment. And now, as the apparition came closer, he could see that it undoubtedly was a cloud, because it was getting slightly frayed around the edges. Its speed was impressive; it seemed to be driven by a private gale, of which there was still no trace here at ground level.

So the scientists of Monsoon Control were at it again, testing their mastery of the winds. What, Rajasinghe wondered, would they think of next?

27. Ashoka Station

How tiny the island looked from this altitude! Thirty-six thousand kilometres below, straddling the equator, Taprobane appeared not much bigger than the moon. The entire country seemed too small a target to hit; yet he was aiming for an area at its centre about the size of a tennis court.

Even now, Morgan was not completely certain of his motives. For the purpose of this demonstration, he could just as easily have operated from Kinte Station and targeted Kilimanjaro or Mount Kenya. The fact that Kinte was at one of the most unstable points along the entire stationary orbit, and was always jockeying to remain over Central Africa, would not have mattered for the few days the experiment would last. For a while he had been tempted to aim at Chimborazo; the Americans had even offered, at considerable expense, to move Columbus Station to its precise longitude. But in the end, despite this encouragement, he had returned to his original objective – Sri Kanda.

It was fortunate for Morgan that, in this age of computer-assisted decisions, even a World Court ruling could be obtained in a matter of weeks. The vihara, of course, had protested. Morgan had argued that a brief scientific experiment, conducted on grounds outside the temple premises, and resulting in no noise, pollution or other form of interference, could not possibly constitute a tort. If he was prevented from carrying it out, all his earlier work would be jeopardised, he would have no way of checking his calculations, and a project vital to the Republic of Mars would receive a severe setback.

It was a very plausible argument, and Morgan had believed most of it himself. So had the judges, by five to two. Though they were not supposed to be influenced by such matters, mentioning the litigious Martians was a clever move. The R.o.M. already had three complicated cases in progress, and the Court was slightly tired of establishing precedents in interplanetary law.

But Morgan knew, in the coldly analytical part of his mind, that his action was not dictated by logic alone. He was not a man who accepted defeat gracefully; the gesture of defiance gave him a certain satisfaction. And yet – at a still deeper level – he rejected this petty motivation; such a schoolboy gesture was unworthy of him. What he was really doing was building up his self-assurance, and re-affirming his belief in ultimate success. Though he did not know how, or when, he was proclaiming to the world – and to the stubborn monks within their ancient walls – “I shall return”.

Ashoka Station controlled virtually all communications, meteorology, environmental monitoring and space traffic in the Hindu Cathay region. If it ever ceased to function, a billion lives would be threatened with disaster and, if its services were not quickly restored, death. No wonder that Ashoka had two completely independent sub-satellites, Bhaba and Sarabhai, a hundred kilometres away. Even if some unthinkable catastrophe destroyed all three stations, Kinte and Imhotep to the west or Confucius to the east could take over on an emergency basis. The human race had learned, from harsh experience, not to put all its eggs in one basket.

There were no tourists, vacationers or transit passengers here, so far from Earth; they did their business and sightseeing only a few thousand kilometres out, and left the high geosynchronous orbit to the scientists and engineers – not one of whom had ever visited Ashoka on so unusual a mission, or with such unique equipment.

The key to Operation Gossamer now floated in one of the station's medium-sized docking chambers, awaiting the final check-out before launch. There was nothing very spectacular about it, and its appearance gave no hint of the man-years and the millions that had gone into its development.

The dull grey cone, four metres long and two metres across the base, appeared to be made of solid metal; it required a close examination to reveal the tightly-wound fibre covering the entire surface. Indeed, apart from an internal core, and the strips of plastic interleaving that separated the hundreds of layers, the cone was made of nothing but a tapering hyperfilament thread – forty thousand kilometres of it.

Two obsolete and totally different technologies had been revived for the construction of that unimpressive grey cone. Three hundred years ago, submarine telegraphs had started to operate across the ocean beds; men had lost fortunes before they had mastered the art of coiling thousands of kilometres of cable and playing it out at a steady rate from continent to continent, despite storms and all the other hazards of the sea. Then, just a century later, some of the first primitive guided weapons had been controlled by fine wires spun out as they flew to their targets, at a few hundred kilometres an hour. Morgan was attempting a thousand times the range of those War Museum relics, and fifty times their velocity. However, he had some advantages. His missile would be operating in a perfect vacuum for all but the last hundred kilometres; and its target was not likely to take evasive action.

The Operations Manager, Project Gossamer, attracted Morgan's attention with a slightly embarrassed cough.

“We still have one minor problem, Doctor,” she said. “We're quite confident about the lowering – all the tests and computer simulations are satisfactory, as you've seen. It's reeling the filament in again that has Station Safety worried.”

Morgan blinked rapidly; he had given little thought to the question. It seemed obvious that winding the filament back again was a trivial problem, compared to sending it out. All that was needed, surely, was a simple power-operated winch, with the special modifications needed to handle such a fine, variable-thickness material. But he knew that in space one should never take anything for granted, and that intuition – especially the intuition of an earth-based engineer – could be a treacherous guide.

Let's see – when the tests are concluded, we cut the earth end and Ashoka starts to wind the filament in. Of course, when you tug – however hard – at one end of a line forty thousand kilometres long, nothing happens for hours. It would take half a day for the impulse to reach the far end, and the system to start moving as a whole. So we keep up the tension – Oh! -

“Somebody did a few calculations,” continued the engineer, “and realised that when we finally got up to speed, we'd have several tons heading towards the station at a thousand kilometres an hour. They didn't like that at all.”

“Understandably. What do they want us to do?”

“Programme a slower reeling in, with a controlled momentum budget. If the worst comes to the worst, they may make us move off-station to do the wind-up.”

“Will that delay the operation?”

“No; we've worked out a contingency plan for heaving the whole thing out of the airlock in five minutes, if we have to.”

“And you'll be able to retrieve it easily?”

“Of course.”

“I hope you're right. That little fishing line cost a lot of money – and I want to use it again.”

But where? Morgan asked himself; as he stared at the slowly waxing crescent Earth. Perhaps it would be better to complete the Mars project first, even if it meant several years of exile. Once Pavonis was fully operational, Earth would have to follow, and he did not doubt that, somehow, the last obstacles would be overcome.

Then the chasm across which he was now looking would be spanned, and the fame that Gustave Eiffel had earned three centuries ago would be utterly eclipsed.

28. The First Lowering

There would be nothing to see for at least another twenty minutes. Nevertheless, everyone not needed in the control hut was already outside, staring up at the sky. Even Morgan found it hard to resist the impulse, and kept edging towards the door.

Seldom more than a few metres from him was Maxine Duval's latest Remote, a husky youth in his late twenties. Mounted on his shoulders were the usual tools of his trade – twin cameras in the traditional “right forward, left backward” arrangement, and above those a small sphere not much larger than a grapefruit. The antenna inside that sphere was doing very clever things, several thousand times a second, so that it was always locked on the nearest comsat despite all the antics of its bearer. And at the other end of that circuit, sitting comfortably in her studio office, Maxine Duval was seeing through the eyes of her distant alter ego and hearing with his ears – but not straining her lungs in the freezing air. This time she had the better part of the bargain; it was not always the case.

Morgan had agreed to the arrangement with some reluctance. He knew that this was an historic occasion, and accepted Maxine's assurance that “my man won't get in the way”. But he was also keenly aware of all the things that could go wrong in such a novel experiment – especially during the last hundred kilometres of atmospheric entry. On the other hand, he also knew that Maxine could be trusted to treat either failure or triumph without sensationalism.

Like all great reporters, Maxine Duval was not emotionally detached from the events that she observed. She could give all points of view, neither distorting nor omitting any facts which she considered essential. Yet she made no attempt to conceal her own feelings, though she did not let them intrude. She admired Morgan enormously, with the envious awe of someone who lacked all real creative ability. Ever since the building of the Gibraltar Bridge she had waited to see what the engineer would do next; and she had not been disappointed. But though she wished Morgan luck, she did not really like him. In her opinion, the sheer drive and ruthlessness of his ambition made him both larger than life and less than human. She could not help contrasting him with his deputy, Warren Kingsley. Now there was a thoroughly nice, gentle person ("And a better engineer than I am," Morgan had once told her, more than half seriously). But no-one would ever hear of Warren; he would always be a dim and faithful satellite of his dazzling primary. As, indeed, he was perfectly content to be.

It was Warren who had patiently explained to her the surprisingly complex mechanics of the descent. At first sight, it appeared simple enough to drop something straight down to the equator from a satellite hovering motionless above it. But astrodynamics was full of paradoxes; if you tried to slow down, you moved faster. If you took the shortest route, you burned up the most fuel. If you aimed in one direction, you travelled in another… And that was merely allowing for gravitational fields. This time, the situation was much more complicated. No-one had ever before tried to steer a space-probe trailing forty thousand kilometres of wire. But the Ashoka programme had worked perfectly, all the way down to the edge of the atmosphere. In a few minutes the controller here on Sri Kanda would take over for the final descent. No wonder that Morgan looked tense.

“Van,” said Maxine softly but firmly over the private circuit, “stop sucking your thumb. It makes you look like a baby.”

Morgan registered indignation, then surprise – and finally relaxed with a slightly embarrassed laugh.

“Thanks for the warning,” he said. “I'd hate to spoil my public image.”

He looked with rueful amusement at the missing joint, wondering when the self-appointed wits would stop chortling: “Ha! The engineer hoist by his own petard!” After all the times he had cautioned others, he had grown careless and had managed to slash himself while demonstrating the properties of hyperfilament. There had been practically no pain, and surprisingly little inconvenience. One day he would do something about it; but he simply could not afford to spend a whole week hitched up to an organ regenerator, just for two centimetres of thumb.

“Altitude two five zero,” said a calm, impersonal voice from the control hut. “Probe velocity one one six zero metres per second. Wire tension ninety percent nominal. Parachute deploys in two minutes.”

After his momentary relaxation, Morgan was once again tense and alert – like a boxer, Maxine Duval could not help thinking, watching an unknown but dangerous opponent.

“What's the wind situation?” he snapped.

Another voice answered, this time far from impersonal.

“I can't believe this,” it said in worried tones. “But Monsoon Control has just issued a gale warning.”

“This is no time for jokes.”

“They're not joking; I've just checked back.”

“But they guaranteed no gusts above thirty kilometres an hour!”

“They've just raised that to sixty – correction, eighty. Something's gone badly wrong…”

“I'll say,” Duval murmured to herself. Then she instructed her distant eyes and ears: “Fade into the woodwork – they won't want you around – but don't miss anything.” Leaving her Rem to cope with these somewhat contradictory orders, she switched to her excellent information service. It took her less than thirty seconds to discover which meteorological station was responsible for the weather in the Taprobane area. And it was frustrating, but not surprising, to find that it was not accepting incoming calls from the general public.

Leaving her competent staff to break through that obstacle, she switched back to the mountain. And she was astonished to find how much, even in this short interval, conditions had worsened.

The sky had become darker; the microphones were picking up the faint, distant roar of the approaching gale. Maxine Duval had known such sudden changes of weather at sea, and more than once had taken advantage of them in her ocean racing. But this was unbelievably bad luck; she sympathised with Morgan, whose dreams and hopes might all be swept away by this unscheduled – this impossible – blast of air.

“Altitude two zero zero. Probe velocity one one five metres a second. Tension ninety-five percent nominal.”

So the tension was increasing – in more ways than one. The experiment could not be called off at this late stage; Morgan would simply have to go ahead, and hope for the best. Duval wished that she could speak to him, but knew better than to interrupt him at this crisis.

“Altitude one nine zero. Velocity one one zero zero. Tension one hundred five percent. First parachute deployment – NOW!”

So – the probe was committed; it was a captive of the earth's atmosphere. Now the little fuel that remained must be used to steer it into the catching net spread out on the mountainside. The cables supporting that net were already thrumming as the wind tore through them.

Abruptly, Morgan emerged from the control hut, and stared up at the sky. Then he turned and looked directly at the camera.

“Whatever happens, Maxine,” he said slowly and carefully, “the test is already ninety-five percent successful. No – ninety-nine percent. We've made it for thirty-six thousand kilometres, and have less than two hundred to go.”

Duval made no reply. She knew that the words were not intended for her, but for the figure in the complicated wheelchair just outside the hut. The vehicle proclaimed the occupant; only a visitor to earth would have need of such a device. The doctors could now cure virtually all muscular defects – but the physicists could not cure gravity.

How many powers and interests were now concentrated upon this mountain top! The very forces of nature – the Bank of Narodny Mars – the Autonomous North African Republic – Vannevar Morgan (no mean natural force himself) – and those gently implacable monks in their windswept eyrie.

Maxine Duval whispered instructions to her patient Rem, and the camera tilted smoothly upwards. There was the summit, crowned by the dazzling white walls of the temple. Here and there along its parapets Duval could catch glimpses of orange robes fluttering in the gale. As she had expected, the monks were watching.

She zoomed towards them, close enough to see individual faces. Though she had never met the Maha Thero (for an interview had been politely refused) she was confident that she could identify him. But there was no sign of the prelate; perhaps he was in the sanctum sanctorum, focusing his formidable will upon some spiritual exercise.

Maxine Duval was not sure if Morgan's chief antagonist indulged in anything so naпve as prayer. But if he had indeed prayed for this miraculous storm, his request was about to be answered. The Gods of the Mountain were awakening from their slumbers.

29. Final Approach

With increasing technology goes increasing vulnerability; the more Man conquers (sic) Nature the more liable he becomes to artificial catastrophes. Recent history provides sufficient proof of this – for example, the sinking of Marina City (2127), the collapse of the Tycho B dome (2098), the escape of the Arabian iceberg from its towlines (2062) and the melting of the Thor reactor (2009). We can be sure that the list will have even more impressive additions in the future. Perhaps the most terrifying prospects are those that involve psychological, not only technological, factors. In the past, a mad bomber or sniper could kill only a handful of people; today it would not be difficult for a deranged engineer to assassinate a city. The narrow escape of O'Neill Space Colony II from just such a disaster in 2047 has been well documented. Such incidents, in theory at least, could be avoided by careful screening and “fail-safe” procedures – though all too often these live up only to the first half of their name.

There is also a most interesting, but fortunately very rare, type of event where the individual concerned is in a position of such eminence, or has such unique powers, that no-one realises what he is doing until it is too late. The devastation created by such mad geniuses (there seems no other good term for them) can be worldwide, as in the case of A. Hitler (1889-1945). In a surprising number of instances nothing is heard of their activities, thanks to a conspiracy of silence among their embarrassed peers.

A classic example has recently come to light with the publication of Dame Maxine Duval's eagerly awaited, and much postponed, Memoirs. Even now, some aspects of the matter are still not entirely clear.

(Civilisation and its Malcontents: J. K. Golitsyn, Prague, 2175)

“Altitude one five zero, velocity ninety-five – repeat, ninety-five. Heat shield jettisoned.”

So the probe had safely entered the atmosphere, and got rid of its excess speed. But it was far too soon to start cheering. Not only were there a hundred and fifty vertical kilometres still to go, but three hundred horizontal ones – with a howling gale to complicate matters. Though the probe still carried a small amount of propellent, its freedom to manoeuvre was very limited. If the operator missed the mountain on the first approach, he could not go round and try again.

“Altitude one two zero. No atmospheric effects yet.”

The little probe was spinning itself down from the sky, like a spider descending its silken ladder. I hope, Duval thought to herself, that they have enough wire: how infuriating if they run out, only a few kilometres from the target! Just such tragedies had occurred with some of the first submarines cables, three hundred years ago.

“Altitude eight zero. Approach nominal. Tension one hundred percent. Some air drag.”

So – the upper atmosphere was beginning to make itself felt, though as yet only to the sensitive instruments aboard the tiny vehicle.

A small, remotely controlled telescope had been set up beside the control truck, and was now automatically tracking the still invisible probe. Morgan walked towards it, and Duval's Rem followed him like a shadow.

“Anything in sight?” Duval whispered quietly, after a few seconds. Morgan shook his head impatiently, and kept on peering through the eyepiece.

“Altitude six zero. Moving off to the left – tension one hundred five percent – correction, one hundred ten.”

Still well within limits, thought Duval – but things were starting to happen up there on the other side of the stratosphere. Surely, Morgan had the probe in sight now – “Altitude five five – giving two-second impulse correction.” “Got it!” exclaimed Morgan. “I can see the jet!” “Altitude five zero. Tension one hundred five percent. Hard to keep on course – some buffeting.”

It was inconceivable that, with a mere fifty kilometres to go, the little probe would not complete its thirty-six-thousand kilometre journey. But for that matter how many aircraft – and spacecraft – had come to grief in the last few metres?

“Altitude four five. Strong sheer wind. Going off course again. Three second impulse.”

“Lost it,” said Morgan in disgust. “Cloud in the way.”

“Altitude four zero. Buffeting badly. Tension peaking at one fifty – I repeat, one fifty percent.”

That was bad; Duval knew that the breaking strain was two hundred percent. One bad jerk, and the experiment would be over.

“Altitude three five. Wind getting worse. One second impulse. Propellent reserve almost gone. Tension still peaking – up to one seventy.”

Another thirty percent, thought Duval, and even that incredible fibre would snap, like any other material when its tensile strength has been exceeded.

“Range three zero. Turbulence getting worse. Drifting badly to the left. Impossible to calculate correction – movements too erratic.”

“I've got it!” Morgan cried. “It's through the clouds!”

“Range two five. Not enough propellent to get back on course. Estimate we'll miss by three kilometres.”

“It doesn't matter!” shouted Morgan. “Crash where you can !” “Will do soonest. Range two zero. Wind forces increasing. Losing stabilisation. Payload starting to spin.”

“Release the brake – let the wire run out!”

“Already done,” said that maddeningly calm voice. Duval could have imagined that a machine was speaking, if she had not known that Morgan had borrowed a top space-station traffic controller for the job. “Dispenser malfunction. Payload spin now five revs second. Wire probably entangled. Tension one eight zero percent. One nine zero. Two zero zero. Range one five. Tension two one zero. Two two zero. Two three zero.”

It can't last much longer, thought Duval. Only a dozen kilometres to go, and the damned wire had got tangled up in the spinning probe.

“Tension zero – repeat, zero.”

That was it; the wire had snapped, and must be slowly snaking back towards the stars. Doubtless the operators on Ashoka would wind it in again, but Duval had now glimpsed enough of the theory to realise that this would be a long and complicated task. And the little payload would crash somewhere down there in the fields and jungles of Taprobane. Yet, as Morgan had said, it had been more than ninety-five percent successful. Next time, when there was no wind…

“There it is!” someone shouted.

A brilliant star had ignited, between two of the cloud-galleons sailing across the sky; it looked like a daylight meteor, falling down to earth. Ironically, as if mocking its builders, the flare installed on the probe to assist terminal guidance had automatically triggered. Well, it could still serve some useful purpose. It would help to locate the wreckage.

Duval's Rem slowly pivoted so that she could watch the blazing day-star sail past the mountain and disappear into the east; she estimated that it would land less than five kilometres away. Then she said, “Take me back to Dr. Morgan. I'd like a word with him.”

She had intended to make a few cheerful remarks – loud enough for the Martian banker to hear – expressing her confidence that, next time, the lowering would be a complete success. Duval was still composing her little speech of reassurance when it was swept out of her mind. She was to play back the events of the next thirty seconds until she knew them by heart. But she was never quite sure if she fully understood them.

30. The Legions of the King

Vannevar Morgan was used to setbacks – even disasters – and this was, he hoped, a minor one. His real worry, as he watched the flare vanish over the shoulder of the mountain, was that Narodny Mars would consider its money wasted. The hard-eyed observer in his elaborate wheel-chair had been extremely uncommunicative; Earth's gravity seemed to have immobilised his tongue as effectively as his limbs. But this time he addressed Morgan before the engineer could speak to him.

“Just one question, Dr. Morgan. I know that this gale is unprecedented – yet it happened. So it may happen again. What if it does – when the Tower is built?”

Morgan thought quickly. It was impossible to give an accurate answer, at such short notice, and he could still scarcely believe what had happened.

“At the very worst, we might have to suspend operations briefly: there could be some track distortion. No wind forces that ever occur at this altitude could endanger the Tower structure itself. Even this experimental fibre would have been perfectly safe – if we'd succeeded in anchoring it.”

He hoped that this was a fair analysis; in a few minutes, Warren Kingsley would let him know whether it was true or not. To his relief, the Martian answered, with apparent satisfaction: “Thank you; that was all I wanted to know.”

Morgan, however, was determined to drive the lesson home.

“And on Mount Pavonis, of course, such a problem couldn't possibly arise. The atmospheric density there is less than a hundredth -”

Not for decades had he heard the sound that now crashed upon his ears, but it was one that no man could ever forget. Its imperious summons, overpowering the roar of the gale, transported Morgan halfway round the world. He was no longer standing on a windswept mountainside; he was beneath the dome of the Hagia Sophia, looking up in awe and admiration at the work of men who had died sixteen centuries ago. And in his ears sounded the tolling of the mighty bell that had once summoned the faithful to prayer.

The memory of Istanbul faded; he was back on the mountain, more puzzled and confused than ever.

What was it that the monk had told him – that Kalidasa's unwelcome gift had been silent for centuries, and was allowed to speak only in time of disaster? There had been no disaster here; indeed, as far as the monastery was concerned, precisely the opposite. Just for a moment, the embarrassing possibility occurred to Morgan that the probe might have crashed into the temple precincts. No, that was out of the question; it had missed the peak with kilometres to spare. And in any event it was much too small an object to do any serious damage as it half-fell, half-glided out of the sky.

He stared up at the monastery, from which the voice of the great bell still challenged the gale. The orange robes had all vanished from the parapets; there was not a monk in sight.

Something brushed delicately against Morgan's cheek, and he automatically flicked it aside. It was hard even to think while that dolorous throbbing filled the air and hammered at his brain. He supposed he had better walk up to the temple, and politely ask the Maha Thero what had happened.

Once more that soft, silken contact against his face, and this time he caught a glimpse of yellow out of the corner of his eye. His reactions had always been swift; he grabbed, and did not miss.

The insect lay crumpled in the palm of his hand, yielding up the last seconds of its ephemeral life even as Morgan watched – and the universe he had always known seemed to tremble and dissolve around him. His miraculous defeat had been converted into an even more inexplicable victory, yet he felt no sense of triumph – only confusion and astonishment.

For he remembered, now, the legend of the golden butterflies. Driven by the gale, in their hundreds and thousands, they were being swept up the face of the mountain, to die upon its summit. Kalidasa's legions had at last achieved their goal – and their revenge.

31. Exodus

“What happened?” said Sheik Abdullah.

That's a question I'll never be able to answer, Morgan told himself. But he replied: "The Mountain is ours, Mr. President; the monks have already started to leave. It's incredible – how could a two-thousand-year-old legend…? " He shook his head in baffled wonder.

“If enough men believe in a legend, it becomes true.”

“I suppose so. But there's much more to it than that – the whole chain of events still seems impossible.”

“That's always a risky word to use. Let me tell you a little story. A dear friend, a great scientist, now dead, used to tease me by saying that because politics is the art of the possible, it appeals only to second-rate minds. For the first-raters, he claimed, are only interested in the impossible. And do you know what I answered?”

“No,” said Morgan, politely and predictably.

“It's lucky there are so many of us – because someone has to run the world… Anyway, if the impossible has happened, you should accept it thankfully.”

I accept it, thought Morgan – reluctantly. There is something very strange about a universe where a few dead butterflies can balance a billion-ton tower.

And there was the ironic role of the Venerable Parakarma, who must surely now feel that he was the pawn of some malicious gods. The Monsoon Control Administrator had been most contrite, and Morgan had accepted his apologies with unusual graciousness. He could well believe that the brilliant Dr. Choam Goldberg had revolutionised micrometeorology, that no-one had really understood all that he was doing, and that he had finally had some kind of a nervous breakdown while conducting his experiments. It would never happen again. Morgan had expressed his – quite sincere – hopes for the scientist's recovery, and had retained enough of his bureaucrat's instincts to hint that, in due course, he might expect future considerations from Monsoon Control. The Administrator had signed off with grateful thanks, doubtless wondering at Morgan's surprising magnanimity.

“As a matter of interest,” asked the Sheik, “where are the monks going? I might offer them hospitality here. Our culture has always welcomed other faiths.”

“I don't know; nor does Ambassador Rajasinghe. But when I asked him he said: They'll be all right. An order that's lived frugally for three thousand years is not exactly destitute.”

“Hmm. Perhaps we could use some of their wealth. This little project of yours gets more expensive each time you see me.”

“Not really, Mr. President. That last estimate includes a purely book-keeping figure for deep-space operations, which Narodny Mars has now agreed to finance. They will locate a carbonaceous asteroid and navigate it to earth orbit – they've much more experience at this sort of work, and it solves one of our main problems.”

“What about the carbon for their own tower?”

“They have unlimited amounts on Deimos – exactly where they need it. Narodny has already started a survey for suitable mining sites, though the actual processing will have to be off-moon.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“Because of gravity. Even Deimos has a few centimetres per second squared. Hyperifilament can only be manufactured in completely zero gee conditions. There's no other way of guaranteeing a perfect crystalline structure with sufficient long-range organisation.”

“Thank you, Van. Is it safe for me to ask why you've changed the basic design? I liked that original bundle of four tubes, two up and two down. A straightforward subway system was something I could understand-even if it was up-ended ninety degrees.”

Not for the first time, and doubtless not for the last, Morgan was amazed by the old man's memory and his grasp of details. It was never safe to take anything for granted with him; though his questions were sometimes inspired by pure curiosity – often the mischievous curiosity of a man so secure that he had no need to uphold his dignity – he never overlooked anything of the slightest importance.

“I'm afraid our first thoughts were too earth-orientated. We were rather like the early motor-car designers, who kept producing horseless carriages. So now our design is a hollow square tower with a track up each face. Think of it as four vertical railroads. Where it starts from orbit, it's forty metres on a side, and it tapers down to twenty when it reaches Earth.”

“Like a stalag – stalac -”

“Stalactite. Yes, I had to look it up! From the engineering point of view, a good analogy now would be the old Eiffel Tower – turned upside down and stretched out a hundred thousand times.”

“As much as that?”

“Just about.”

“Well, I suppose there's no law that says a tower can't hang downwards.”

“We have one going upwards as well, remember – from the synchronous orbit out of the mass anchor that keeps the whole structure under tension.”

“And Midway Station? I hope you haven't changed that.”

“Yes, it's still at the same place – twenty-five thousand kilometres.”

"Good. I know I'll never get there, but I like to think about it… " He muttered something in Arabic. "There's another legend, you know – Mahomet's coffin, suspended between heaven and earth. Just like Midway."

“We'll arrange a banquet for you there, Mr. President, when we inaugurate the service.”

“Even if you keep to your schedule – and I admit you only slipped a year on the Bridge – I'll be ninety-eight then. No, I doubt if I'll make it.”

But I shall, said Vannevar Morgan to himself. For now I know that the gods are on my side; whatever gods may be.