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 wheelchair 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.