The Fountains of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,6

cliff, workmen frantically manipulated levers, hauled on ropes. For a long time, nothing happened.

A frown began to spread across the face of the King, and the whole court trembled. Even the waving fans lost momentum for a few seconds, only to speed up again as the wielders recalled the hazards of their task.

Then a great shout came from the workers at the foot of Yakkagala—a cry of joy and triumph that swept steadily closer and closer as it was taken up all along the flower-lined paths. And with it came another sound, one not so loud, yet giving the impression of irresistible, pent-up forces, rushing toward their goal.

One after the other, springing from the earth as if by magic, the slim columns of water leaped toward the cloudless sky. At four times the height of a man, they burst into flowers of spray. The sunlight, breaking through them, created a rainbow-hued mist that added to the strangeness and beauty of the scene. Never, in the whole history of Taprobane, had the eyes of men witnessed such a wonder.

The King smiled, and the courtiers dared to breathe again. This time, the buried pipes had not burst beneath the weight of water; unlike their luckless predecessors, the masons who had laid them had as good a chance of reaching old age as anyone who labored for Kalidasa.

Almost as imperceptibly as the westering sun, the jets were losing altitude. Presently they were no taller than a man; the painfully filled reservoirs were nearly drained. But the King was well satisfied; he lifted his hand, and the fountains dipped and rose again as if in one last curtsy before the throne, then silently collapsed. For a little while, ripples raced back and forth across the surface of the reflecting pools, before they once again became still mirrors, framing the image of the eternal Rock.

“The workmen have done well,” said Kalidasa. “Give them their freedom.”

How well, of course, they would never understand, for none could share the lonely visions of an artist-king. As Kalidasa surveyed the exquisitely tended gardens that surrounded Yakkagala, he felt as much contentment as he would ever know.

Here, at the foot of Demon Rock, he had conceived and created Paradise. There only remained, upon its summit, to build Heaven.

4. Demon Rock

The cunningly contrived pageant of light and sound still had power to move Rajasinghe, though he had seen it a dozen times and knew every trick of the programing. To see it was, of course, obligatory for every visitor to the Rock, though critics like Paul Sarath complained that it was merely instant history for tourists. Yet instant history was better than no history at all, and it would have to serve while Sarath and his colleagues continued vociferously to disagree about the precise sequence of events here two thousand years ago.

The little amphitheater faced the western wall of Yakkagala, its two hundred seats all carefully orientated so that each spectator looked up into the laser projectors at the correct angle. The performance always began at exactly the same time throughout the year—1900 hours—as the last glow of the invariant equatorial sunset faded from the sky.

Already, it was so dark that the Rock was invisible, revealing its presence only as a huge black shadow eclipsing the early stars. Out of that darkness, there came the slow beating of a muffled drum, and presently a calm, dispassionate voice:

“This is the story of a king who murdered his father and was killed by his brother. In the bloodstained history of mankind, that is nothing new. But this king left an abiding monument; and a legend that has endured for centuries.”

Rajasinghe stole a glance at Vannevar Morgan, sitting there in the darkness on his right. Though he could see the engineer’s features only in silhouette, he could tell that his visitor was already caught in the spell of the narration. On his left, his other two guests, old friends from his diplomatic days, were equally entranced. As he had assured Morgan, they had not recognized Dr. Smith; or, if they had, they had politely accepted the fiction.

“His name was Kalidasa, and he was born a hundred years after Christ, in Ranapura, City of Gold—for centuries the capital of the Taprobanean kings. But there was a shadow across his birth….”

The music became louder as flutes and strings joined the throbbing drum to trace a haunting, regal melody in the night air. A point of light began to burn on the face of the Rock; abruptly,