The Fountains of Paradise

The news editor had already starred the latest development; a line of continuously flashing type a

MORGAN STUCK 200 KM SHORT OF GOAL

Rajasinghe's fingertips 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 – indeed, 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 bed-ridden he had been unable to use it. Then Morgan had paid one of his brief courtesy calls, analysed 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; it 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, for 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 hair-lines 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 upwards, looking for any sign of the capsule, he wondered what the Maha Thero was thinking about this latest development. Though Rajasinghe had not spoken to the prelate – 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. According to Rajasinghe's latest information, the Maha Thero was now negotiating with the Vatican – also in chronic financial difficulties, but at least still master of its own house.

All things were indeed impermanent, but 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 recognised him; he was clean-shaven and wearing a suit cut in the very 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 towards 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 cha

Long ago he had seen a two-century-old video-documentary of the first aerial wars, and he suddenly 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 a

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 infra-red 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; 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. Very cautiously, Morgan opened his eyes again. The beam was coming from high in the west, still dazzlingly brilliant despite its journey of almost forty thousand kilometres. 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.

After a few seconds' adjustment of the mirror he managed to get a clear view of the offending strap, half a metre beneath his feet. The end that he could see was secured to the base of Spider by a large butterfly nut; all be had to do was to unscrew that, and the battery would drop off.

Morgan sat silently analysing the situation for so many minutes that Kingsley called him again. For the first time there was a trace of hope in his deputy's voice.

“We've been doing some calculations, Van…. What do you think of this idea?”

Morgan heard him out, then whistled softly. “You're certain of the safety margin?” he asked.

“Of course,” answered Kingsley, sounding somewhat aggrieved; Morgan hardly blamed him, but he was not the one who would be risking his neck.

“Well – I'll give it a try. But only for one second, the first time.”

“That won't be enough. Still, it's a good idea – you'll get the feel of it.”

Gently Morgan released the friction brakes that were holding Spider motionless on the tape. Instantly he seemed to rise out of the seat, as weight vanished. He counted “One, TWO !” and engaged the brakes again.

Spider gave a jerk, and for a fraction of a second Morgan was pressed uncomfortably down into the seat. There was an ominous squeal from the braking mechanism, then the capsule was at rest again, apart from a slight torsional vibration that quickly died away.