The Fountains of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,22

his bets?”

“As usual, my dear Maxine, your powers of deduction are phenomenal. You’re on the right line—but you won’t get any further. Though Morgan’s done his best to explain the problem to me, I don’t pretend to understand all the scientific details.

“Anyway, it turns out that Africa and South America are not suitable for the Space Elevator. It’s something to do with unstable points in the earth’s gravitational field. Only Taprobane will do. Worse still, only one spot in Taprobane. And that, Paul, is where you come into the picture.”

“Mamada?” yelped Sarath, indignantly reverting to Taprobani in his surprise.

“Yes, you. To his great annoyance, Morgan has just discovered that the one site he must have is already occupied—to put it mildly. He wants my advice on dislodging your good friend Buddy.”

Now it was Duval’s turn to be baffled.

“Who?” she queried.

Sarath answered at once. “The Venerable Anandatissa Bodhidharma Mahanayake Thero, incumbent of the Sri Kanda temple,” he intoned, almost as if chanting a litany. “So that’s what it’s all about.”

There was silence for a moment. Then a look of pure mischievous delight appeared on the face of Paul Sarath, Emeritus Professor of Archaeology of the University of Taprobane.

“I’ve always wanted,” he said dreamily, “to know exactly what would happen when an irresistible force meets an immovable object.”

11. The Silent Princess

When his visitors had left, in a very thoughtful mood, Rajasinghe depolarized the library windows and sat for a long time staring out at the trees around the villa, and the rock walls of Yakkagala looming beyond. He had not moved when, precisely on the stroke of four, the arrival of his afternoon tea jolted him out of his reverie.

“Rani,” he said, “ask Dravindra to get out my heavy shoes, if he can find them. I’m going up the Rock.”

Rani pretended to drop the tray in astonishment.

“Aiyo, Mahathaya!” she keened in mock distress. “You must be mad! Remember what Dr. McPherson told you.”

“That Scots quack always reads my cardiogram backward. Anyway, my dear, what have I got to live for, when you and Dravindra leave me?”

He spoke not entirely in jest, and was instantly ashamed of his self-pity. For Rani detected it, and the tears started in her eyes.

She turned away so that he could not see her emotion, and said in English:

“I did offer to stay—at least for Dravindra’s first year….”

“I know you did, and I wouldn’t dream of it. Unless Berkeley’s changed since I last saw it, he’ll need you there.” (Yet no more than I, though in different ways, he added silently to himself.) “And whether you take your own degree or not, you can’t start training too early to be a college president’s wife.”

Rani smiled.

“I’m not sure that’s a fate I’d welcome, from some of the horrid examples I’ve seen.” She switched back to Taprobani. “You aren’t really serious, are you?”

“Quite serious. Not to the top, of course—only to the frescoes. It’s five years since I visited them. If I leave it much longer…” There was no need to complete the sentence.

Rani studied him in silence for a few moments, and decided that argument was futile.

“I’ll tell Dravindra,” she said. “And Jaya—in case they have to carry you back.”

“Very well—though I’m sure Dravindra could manage that by himself.”

Rani gave him a delighted smile, mingling pride and pleasure. This couple, he thought fondly, had been his luckiest draw in the state lottery, and he hoped that their two years of social service had been as enjoyable to them as it had been to him. In this age, personal servants were the rarest of luxuries, awarded only to men of outstanding merit. Rajasinghe knew of no other private citizen who had three.

To conserve his strength, he rode a sun-powered tricycle through the pleasure gardens. Dravindra and Jaya preferred to walk, claiming that it was quicker. They were right; but they were able to take short cuts. He climbed very slowly, pausing several times for breath, until he had reached the long corridor of the Lower Gallery, where the Mirror Wall ran parallel to the face of the Rock.

Watched by the usual inquisitive tourists, a young archaeologist from one of the African countries was searching the wall for inscriptions, with the aid of a powerful oblique light. Rajasinghe felt like warning her that the chance of making a new discovery was virtually zero. Paul Sarath had spent twenty years going over every square millimeter of the surface, and the three-volume Yakkagala Graffiti was a monumental work of scholarship that would never