The Fountains of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,13

bedroom, and heard the bell-like cries of alien birds, he began to marshal his thoughts. He would never have become a senior engineer of Terran Construction if he had not planned his life to avoid surprises. Although no man could be immune to the accidents of chance and fate, he had taken all reasonable steps to safeguard his career and, above all, his reputation. His future was as fail-safe as he could make if, even if he died suddenly, the programs stored in his computer bank would protect his cherished dream beyond the grave.

Until yesterday, he had never heard of Yakkagala; indeed, until a few weeks ago, he was only vaguely aware of Taprobane itself, until the logic of his quest directed him inexorably toward the island. By now, he should already have left, whereas in fact his mission had not yet begun. He did not mind the slight disruption of his schedule; what did perturb him was the feeling that he was being moved by forces beyond his understanding.

Yet the sense of awe had a familiar resonance. He had experienced it before, when, as a child, he had flown his kite in Kiribilli Park, beside the granite monoliths that had once been the piers of the long-demolished Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Those twin mountains had dominated his boyhood, and had controlled his destiny. Perhaps, in any event, he would have been an engineer; but the accident of his birthplace had determined that he would be a builder of bridges. And so he had been the first man to step from Morocco to Spain, with the angry waters of the Mediterranean three kilometers below—never dreaming, in that moment of triumph, of the far more stupendous challenge that lay ahead.

If he succeeded in the task that confronted him, he would be famous for centuries to come. Already, his mind, strength, and will were being taxed to the utmost; he had no time for idle distractions. Yet he had become fascinated by the achievements of an engineer-architect two thousands years dead, belonging to a totally alien culture. And there was the mystery of Kalidasa himself. What was his purpose in building Yakkagala? The King might have been a monster, but there was something about his character that struck a chord in the secret places of Morgan’s own heart.

Sunrise would be in thirty minutes. It was two hours before his breakfast with Ambassador Rajasinghe. That would be long enough—and he might have no other opportunity.

Morgan was never one to waste time. Slacks and sweater were on in less than a minute, but the careful checking of his footwear took considerably longer. Though he had done no serious climbing for years, he always carried a pair of strong light-weight boots; in his profession, he often found them essential.

He had already closed the door of his room when he had a sudden afterthought. For a moment he stood hesitantly in the corridor; then he smiled and shrugged his shoulders. It wouldn’t do any harm, and one never knew….

Back in the room, Morgan unlocked his suitcase and took out a small flat box, about the size and shape of a pocket calculator. He checked the battery charge, tested the manual override, and clipped it to the steel buckle of his waist belt. Now he was ready to enter Kalidasa’s haunted kingdom, and to face whatever demons it held.

The sun rose, pouring welcome warmth upon his back as Morgan passed through the gap in the massive rampart that formed the outer defenses of the fortress. Before him, spanned by a narrow stone bridge, were the still waters of the great moat, stretching in a perfectly straight line for half a kilometer on either side. A small flotilla of swans sailed hopefully toward him through the lilies, then dispersed with ruffled feathers when it was clear that he had no food to offer. On the far side of the bridge, he came to a second, smaller, wall and climbed the narrow flight of stairs cut through it. There before him were the pleasure gardens, with the sheer face of the Rock looming beyond them.

The fountains along the axis of the gardens rose and fell together with a languid rhythm, as if they were breathing slowly in unison. There was not another human being in sight; he had the whole expanse of Yakkagala to himself. The fortress-city could hardly have been lonelier, even during the seventeen hundred years when the jungle had overwhelmed it, between the death of Kalidasa and its