The Fountains of Paradise

by Arthur C. Clarke

  The Chief Engineer of the proposed Gibraltar Bridge had announced a startling innovation. Because all vehicles would be on automatic guidance, there was absolutely no point in having parapets or guardrails at the edge of the roadway. Eliminating them would save thousands of tons.

  Of course, everyone thought that this was a perfectly horrible idea. What would happen, the public demanded, if some car’s guidance failed and the vehicle headed toward the edge?

  The Chief Engineer had the answers. Unfortunately, he had rather too many.

  If the guidance failed, the brakes would go on automatically, as everyone knew, and the vehicle would stop in less than a hundred meters. Only in the outermost lanes was there any possibility that a car could go over the edge, and that would require a total failure of guidance, sensors, and brakes, and might happen once in twenty years.

  So far, so good. But then the Chief Engineer added a caveat. Perhaps he did not intend it for publication; possibly he was half joking. He went on to say that if such an accident did occur, the quicker the car went over the edge, without damaging his beautiful bridge, the happier he would be. . . .

  Needless to say, the Bridge was eventually built with wire deflector cables along the outer lanes, and, as far as Rajasinghe knew, no one had yet taken a high dive into the Mediterranean. Morgan, however, appeared suicidally determined to sacrifice himself to gravity here on Yakkagala. Otherwise, it was hard to account for his actions.

  Now what was he doing? He was on his knees at the side of the Elephant Throne, and was holding a small rectangular box, about the shape and size of an old-fashioned book. Rajasinghe could catch only glimpses of it, and the manner in which the engineer was using it made no sense at all. Possibly it was some kind of analysis device, though he did not see why Morgan should be interested in the composition of Yakkagala.

  Was he planning to build something here? Not that it would be allowed, of course, and Rajasinghe could imagine no conceivable attractions for such a site; megalomaniac kings were fortunately now in short supply. In any event, he was quite certain, from the engineer’s reactions on the previous evening, that Morgan had never heard of Yakkagala before coming to Taprobane.

  And then Rajasinghe, who had always prided himself on his self-control even in the most dramatic and unexpected situations, gave an involuntary cry of horror. Vannevar Morgan had stepped casually backward off the face of the cliff, out into empty space.

  6

  The Artist

  “Bring the Persian to me,” said Kalidasa, as soon as he had recovered his breath. The climb from the frescoes back to the Elephant Throne was not difficult, and it was perfectly safe now that the stairway down the sheer rock face had been enclosed by walls. But it was tiring; for how many more years, Kalidasa wondered, would he be able to make this journey unaided? Though slaves could carry him, that did not befit the dignity of a king. And it was intolerable that any eyes but his should look upon the hundred goddesses and their hundred equally beautiful attendants, who formed the retinue of his celestial court.

  So from now on, night and day, there would always be a guard standing at the entrance to the stairs, the only way down from the palace to the private heaven that Kalidasa had created. After ten years of toil, his dream was now complete. Whatever the jealous monks on their mountaintop might claim to the contrary, he was a god at last.

  Despite his years in the Taprobanean sun, Firdaz was as light-skinned as a Roman. Today, as he bowed before the King, he looked even paler, and ill at ease. Kalidasa regarded him thoughtfully, then gave one of his rare smiles of approval.

  “You have done well, Persian,” he said. “Is there any artist in the world who could do better?”

  Pride obviously strove with caution before Firdaz gave his hesitant reply.

  “None that I know of, Majesty.”

  “And have I paid you well?”

  “I am quite satisfied.”

  That reply, thought Kalidasa, was hardly accurate. There had been continuous pleas for more money, more assistants, expensive materials that could be obtained only from distant lands. But artists could not be expected to understand economics, or to know how the royal treasury had been drained by the awesome cost of the palace and its surroundings.

  “And now that your work here is finished, what do you wish?”

  “I would like Your Majesty’s permission to return to Isfahan, so that I may see my own people once again.”

  It was the answer that Kalidasa had expected, and he sincerely regretted the decision he must make. But there were too many other rulers on the long road to Persia, who would not let the master artist of Yakkagala slip through their greedy fingers. And the painted goddesses of the western wall must remain forever unchallenged.

  “There is a problem,” he said flatly, and Firdaz turned yet paler, his shoulders slumping at the words. A king did not have to explain anything, but this was one artist speaking to another.

  “You have helped me to become a god. That news has already reached many lands. If you leave my protection, there are others who will make similar requests of you.”

  For a moment, the artist was silent. The only sound was the moaning of the wind, which seldom ceased to complain when it met this unexpected obstacle upon its journey. Then Firdaz said, so quietly that Kalidasa could hardly hear him: “Am I then forbidden to leave?”

  “You may go, and with enough wealth for the rest of your life. But only on condition that you never work for any other prince.”

  “I am willing to give that promise,” replied Firdaz, with almost unseemly haste.

  Sadly, Kalidasa shook his head.

  “I have learned not to trust the word of artists,” he said. “Especially when they are no longer within my power. So I will have to enforce that promise.”

  To Kalidasa’s surprise, Firdaz no longer looked so uncertain. It was almost as if he had made some great decision, and was finally at ease.

  “I understand,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height. Then he deliberately turned his back upon the King, as though his royal master no longer existed, and stared straight into the blazing sun.

  The sun, Kalidasa knew, was the god of the Persians, and those words Firdaz was murmuring must be a prayer in his language. There were worse gods to worship, and the artist was staring into that blinding disk as if he knew it was the last thing he would ever see.

  “Hold him!” cried the King.

  The guards rushed swiftly forward, but they were too late. Blind though he must now have been, Firdaz moved with precision. In three steps he had reached the parapet, and vaulted over it. He made no sound in his long arc down to the gardens he had planned over so many years, nor was there any echo when the architect of Yakkagala reached the foundations of his masterwork.

  Kalidasa grieved for many days, but his grief turned to rage when the Persian’s last letter to Isfahan was intercepted. Someone had warned Firdaz that he would be blinded when his work was done; and that was a damnable falsehood.

  He never discovered the source of the rumor, though not a few men died slowly before they proved their innocence. It saddened him that the Persian had believed such a lie; surely he should have known that a fellow artist would never have robbed him of the gift of sight.

  Kalidasa was not a cruel man, or an ungrateful one. He would have laden Firdaz with gold—or at least silver—and sent him on his way with servants to take care of him for the remainder of his life.

  He would never have needed to use his hands again; and after a while, he would not have missed them.

  7

  The God-King’s

  Palace

  Vannevar Morgan had not slept well, and that was most unusual. He had always taken pride in his self-awareness and his insight into his own drives and emotions. If he could not sleep, he wanted to know why.

  Slowly, as he watched the first predawn light glimmer on the ceiling of his hotel 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 it; 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 rediscovery by nineteenth-century archaeologists.

  Morgan walked past the line of fountains, feeling their spray against his skin, and stopped once to admire the beautifully carved stone guttering, obviously original, that carried the overflow. He wondered how the old-time hydraulic engineers lifted the water to drive the fountains, and what pressure differences they could handle. These soaring vertical jets must have been truly astonishing to those who first witnessed them.

  Now ahead was a steep flight of granite steps, their treads so uncomfortably narrow that they could barely accommodate Morgan’s boots. Did the people who built this extraordinary place really have such tiny feet? he wondered. Or was it a clever ruse of the architect, to discourage unfriendly visitors? It would certainly be difficult for soldiers to charge up this sixty-degree slope on steps that seemed to have been made for midgets.

  A small platform, then an identical flight of steps, and Morgan found himself on a long, slowly ascending gallery cut into the lower flanks of the Rock. He was now more than fifty meters above the surrounding plain, but the view was completely blocked by a high wall coated with smooth yellow plaster. The rock above him overhung so much that he might almost have been walking along a tunnel, for only a narrow band of sky was visible.

  The plaster of the wall looked completely new and unworn; it was almost impossible to believe that the masons had left their work two thousand years ago. Here and there, however, the gleaming, mirror-flat surface was scarred with scratched messages, where visitors had made their usual bids for immortality. Few of the inscriptions were in alphabets that Morgan could recognize, and the latest date he noticed was 1931. Thereafter, presumably, the Department of Archaeology had intervened to prevent such vandalism. Most of the graffiti were in flowing, rounded Taprobani. Morgan recalled from the previous night’s entertainment that many were poems, dating back to the second and third centuries. For a little while after the death of Kalidasa, Yakkagala had known its first brief spell as a tourist attraction, thanks to the still-lingering legends of the accursed King.

  Halfway along the stone gallery, Morgan came to the now locked door of the little elevator leading to the famous frescoes, twenty meters directly above. He craned his head to see them, but they were obscured by the platform of the visitors’ viewing cage, clinging like a metal bird’s nest to the outward-leaning face of the rock. Some tourists, Rajasinghe had told him, took one look at the dizzy location of the frescoes and decided to satisfy themselves with photographs.

  For the first time, Morgan could appreciate one of the chief mysteries of Yakkagala. It was not how the frescoes were painted—a scaffolding of bamboo could have taken care of that problem—but why. Once they were completed, no one could ever have seen them properly. From the gallery immediately beneath, they were hopelessly foreshortened, and from the base of the Rock, they were no more than tiny, unrecognizable patches of color. Perhaps, as some had suggested, they were of purely religious or magical significance, like those Stone Age paintings found in the depths of almost inaccessible caves.

  The frescoes would have to wait until the attendants arrived and unlocked the elevator. There were plenty of other things to see. He was only a third of the way to the summit, and the gallery was still slowly ascending, as it clung to the face of the Rock.

  The high yellow-plastered wall gave way to a low parapet, and Morgan could once more see the surrounding countryside. There below him lay the whole expanse of the pleasure gardens, and he could now appreciate not only their huge scale (was Versailles larger?), but also their skillful plan, and the way in which the moat and outer ramparts protected them from the forest beyond.

  No one knew what trees and shrubs and flowers had grown here in Kalidasa’s day, but the pattern of artificial lakes, canals, pathways, and fountains was exactly as he had left it. As Morgan looked down on those dancing jets of water, he suddenly remembered a quotation from the previous night’s commentary:

  “From Taprobane to Paradise in forty leagues; there may be heard the so
und of the Fountains of Paradise.”

  He savored the phrase in his mind: the Fountains of Paradise. Was Kalidasa trying to create, here on earth, a garden fit for the gods, in order to establish his claim to divinity? If so, it was no wonder that the priests had accused him of blasphemy, and placed a curse upon all his work.

  At last, the long gallery, which had skirted the entire western face of the Rock, ended in another steeply rising stairway, though this time the steps were much more generous in size. But the palace was still far above. The stairs ended on a large plateau, obviously artificial. Here was all that was left of the gigantic, leonine monster which had once dominated the landscape and struck terror into the hearts of everyone who looked upon it. Springing from the face of the rock were the paws of the gigantic crouching beast; the claws alone were half the height of a man.

  Nothing else remained except another granite stairway, rising up through the piles of rubble that must once have formed the head of the creature. Even in ruin, the concept was awe-inspiring. Anyone who dared to approach the King’s ultimate stronghold had first to walk through gaping jaws.

  The final ascent up the sheer—indeed, slightly overhanging—face of the cliff was by a series of iron ladders, with guard-rails to reassure nervous climbers. But the real danger here, Morgan had been warned, was not vertigo. Swarms of normally placid hornets occupied small caves in the rock, and visitors who made too much noise had sometimes disturbed them, with fatal results.

  Two thousand years ago, this northern face of Yakkagala had been covered with walls and battlements to provide a fitting background to the Taprobanean sphinx, and behind those walls there must have been stairways that gave easy access to the summit. Now, time, weather, and the vengeful hand of man had swept everything away. There was only the bare rock, grooved with myriads of horizontal slots and narrow ledges that had once supported the foundations of vanished masonry.