“Only fifteen kilometres?” Maxine had protested. “A glider can do better than that!”
“But you can’t, with nothing more than an oxygen mask. Of course, if you like to wait a year until we have the operational unit with its life-support system…”
“What’s wrong with a spacesuit?”
Morgan had refused to budge, for his own good reasons. Though he hoped it would not be needed, a small jet-crane was standing by at the foot of Sri Kanda. Its highly skilled operators were used to odd assignments; they would have no difficulty in rescuing a stranded Maxine, even at twenty kilometres altitude.
But there was no vehicle in existence that could reach her at twice that height. Above forty kilometres was no-man’s land – too low for rockets, too high for balloons.
In theory, of course, a rocket could hover beside the tape, for a very few minutes, before it burned up all its propellent. The problems of navigation and actual contact with the Spider were so horrendous that Morgan had not even bothered to think about them. It could never happen in real life, and he hoped that no producer of videodrama would decide that there was good material here for a cliff-hanger. That was the sort of publicity he could do without.
Maxine Duval looked rather like a typical Antarctic tourist as, glittering in her metal-foil thermosuit, she walked towards the waiting Spider and the group of technicians round it. She had chosen the time carefully; the sun had risen only an hour ago, and its slanting rays would show the Taprobanean landscape to best advantage. Her Remote, even younger and huskier than on the last memorable occasion, recorded the sequence of events for her System-wide audience.
She had, as always, been thoroughly rehearsed. There was no fumbling or hesitation as she strapped herself in, pressed the BATTERY CHARGE button, took a deep draught of oxygen from her facemask, and checked the monitors on all her video and sound channels. Then, like a fighter pilot in some old historical movie, she signalled “Thumbs Up”, and gently eased the speed control forward.
There was a small burst of ironic clapping from the assembled engineers, most of whom had already taken joy-rides up to heights of a few kilometres. Someone shouted: “Ignition! We have lift off!” and, moving about as swiftly as a brass bird-cage elevator in the reign of Victoria I, Spider began its stately ascent.
This must be like ballooning, Maxine told herself. Smooth, effortless, silent. No – not completely silent; she could hear the gentle whirr of the motors powering the multiple drive wheels that gripped the flat face of the tape. There was none of the sway or vibration that she had half expected; despite its slimness, the incredible band she was climbing was as rigid as a bar of steel, and the vehicle’s gyros were holding it rock-steady. If she closed her eyes, she could easily imagine that she was already ascending the final tower. But, of course, she would not close her eyes; there was so much to see and absorb. There was even a good deal to hear; it was amazing how well sound carried, for the conversations below were still quite audible.
She waved to Vannevar Morgan, then looked for Warren Kingsley. To her surprise she was unable to find him; though he had helped her aboard Spider, he had now vanished. Then she remembered his frank admission – sometimes he made it sound almost like a wry boast – that the best structural engineer in the world couldn’t stand heights… Everyone had some secret – or perhaps not-so-secret – fear. Maxine did not appreciate spiders, and wished that the vehicle she was riding had some other name; yet she could handle one if it was really necessary. The creature she could never bear to touch – though she had met it often enough on her diving expeditions – was the shy and harmless octopus.
The whole mountain was now visible, though from directly above it was impossible to appreciate its true height. The two ancient stairways winding up its face might have been oddly twisting level roads; along their entire length, as far as Maxine could observe, there was no sign of life. Indeed, one section had been blocked by a fallen tree – as if Nature had given advance notice, after three thousand years, that she was about to reclaim her own.
Leaving Camera One pointed downwards, Maxine started to pan with Number Two. Fields and forests drifted across the monitor screen, then the distant white domes of Ranapura – then the dark waters of the inland sea. And, presently, there was Yakkagala.
She zoomed on to the Rock, and could just make out the faint pattern of the ruins covering the entire upper surface. The Mirror Wall was still in shadow, as was the Gallery of the Princesses – not that there was any hope of making them out from such a distance. But the layout of the Pleasure Gardens, with their ponds and walkways and massive surrounding moat, was clearly visible.
The line of tiny white plumes puzzled her for a moment, until she realised that she was looking down upon another symbol of Kalidasa’s challenge to the Gods – his so-called Fountains of Paradise. She wondered what the king would have thought, could he have seen her rising so effortlessly towards the heaven of his envious dreams.
It was almost a year since she had spoken to Ambassador Rajasinghe. On a sudden impulse she called the Villa.
“Hello, Johan,” she greeted him. “How do you like this view of Yakkagala?”
“So you’ve talked Morgan into it. How does it feel?”
“Exhilarating – that’s the only word for it. And unique; I’ve flown and travelled in everything you can mention, but this feels quite different.”
“‘To ride secure the cruel sky…’” “What was that?”
“An English poet, early twentieth century – I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky.”
“Well, I care, and I’m feeling secure. Now I can see the whole island – even the Hindustan coast. How high am I, Van?”
“Coming up to twelve kilometres, Maxine. Is your oxygen mask on tight?”
“Confirmed. I hope it’s not muffling my voice.”
“Don’t worry – you’re still unmistakeable. Three kilometres to go.”
“How much gas is still left in the tank?”
“Sufficient. And if you try to go above fifteen, I’ll use the override to bring you home.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. And congratulations, by the way – this is an excellent observing platform. You may have customers standing in line.”
“We’ve thought of that – the comsat and metsat people are already making bids. We can give them relays and sensors at any height they like; it will all help to pay the rent.”
“I can see you!” exclaimed Rajasinghe suddenly. “Just caught your reflection in the ‘scope. Now you’re waving your arm… Aren’t you lonely up there?”
For a moment there was an uncharacteristic silence. Then Maxine Duval answered quietly: “Not as lonely as Yuri Gagarin must have been, a hundred kilometres higher still. Van, you have brought something new into the world. The sky may still be cruel – but you have tamed it. There may be some people who could never face this ride: I feel very sorry for them.”
37 . The Billion-Ton Diamond
In the last seven years much had been done, yet there was still so much to do. Mountains – or at least asteroids – had been moved. Earth now possessed a second natural moon, circling just above synchronous altitude. It was less than a kilometre across, and was rapidly becoming smaller as it was rifled of its carbon and other light elements. Whatever was left – the core of iron, tailings and industrial slag – would form the counterweight that would keep the Tower in tension. It would be the stone in the forty-thousand-kilometre-long sling that now turned with the planet once every twenty-four hours.
Fifty kilometres eastwards of Ashoka Station floated the huge industrial complex which processed the weightless – but not mass-less – megatons of raw material and converted them into hyperfilament. Because the final product was more than ninety percent carbon, with its atoms arranged in a precise crystalline lattice, the Tower had acquired the popular nickname “The Billion Ton Diamond”. The Jeweller’s Association of Amsterdam had sourly pointed out that (a) hyperfilament wasn’t diamond at all (b) if it was, then the Tower weighed five times ten to the fifteen carats.
Carats or tons, such enormous quantities of material had taxed to the utmost the resources of the space colonies and the skills of the orbital technicians. Into the automatic mines, production plants and zero-gravity assembly systems had gone much of the engineering genius of the human race, painfully acquired during two hundred years of spacefaring. Soon all the components of the Tower – a few standardised units, manufactured by the million – would be gathered in huge floating stock-piles, waiting for the robot handlers.