Arthur Clarke - The Songs of Distant Earth

He had many other visitors, of course. With two exceptions, most were welcome.

Mayor Waldron could bully his little nurse to let her in at any time; fortunately, her visitations never coincided with Mirissa’s. The first time the mayor arrived, Loren contrived to be in an almost moribund state, but this tactic proved disastrous, as it made it impossible for him to fend off some moist caresses. On the second visit — luckily there had been a ten-minute warning — he was propped up by pillows and fully conscious. However, by a strange coincidence, an elaborate respiratory function test was in progress, and the breathing-tube inserted in Loren’s mouth made conversation impossible. The test was completed about thirty seconds after the mayor’s departure.

Brant Falconer’s one courtesy visit was something of a strain for them both. They talked politely about the scorps, progress at the Mangrove Bay freezing plant, North Island politics — anything, in fact, except Mirissa. Loren could see that Brant was worried, even embarrassed, but the very last thing he expected was an apology. His visitor managed to get it off his chest just before he left.

“You know, Loren,” he said reluctantly, “there was nothing else I could have done about that wave. If I’d kept on course, we’d have smashed into the reef. It was just too bad Calypso couldn’t reach deep water in time.”

“I’m quite sure,” Loren said with complete sincerity, “that no one could have done a better job.”

“Er — I’m glad you understand that.”

Brant was obviously relieved, and Loren felt a surge of sympathy — even of pity — for him. Perhaps there had been some criticism of his seamanship; to anyone as proud of his skills as Brant, that would have been intolerable.

“I understand that they’ve salvaged the sledge.”

“Yes — it will soon be repaired, and as good as new.”

“Like me.”

In the brief comradeship of their joint laughter, Loren was struck by a sudden, ironic thought.

Brant must often have wished that Kumar had been a little less courageous.

Why had he dreamed of Kilimanjaro?

It was a strange word; a name, he felt sure — but of what?

Moses Kaldor lay in the grey light of the Thalassan dawn, slowly wakening to the sounds of Tarna. Not that there were many at this hour; a sand-sledge was whirring somewhere on its way to the beach, probably to meet a returning fisherman.

Kilimanjaro.

Kaldor was not a boastful man, but he doubted if any other human being had read quite so many ancient books on such a wide range of subjects. He had also received several terabytes of memory implant, and though information stored that way was not really knowledge, it was available if you could recall the access codes.

It was a little early to make the effort, and he doubted if the matter was particularly important. Yet he had learned not to neglect dreams; old Sigmund Freud had made some valid points, two thousand years ago. And anyway, he would not be able to get to sleep again…

He closed his eyes, triggered the search command, and waited. Though that was pure imagination — the process took place at a wholly subconscious level — he could picture myriads of Ks flickering past somewhere in the depths of his brain.

Now something was happening to the phosphenes that forever dance in random patterns on the retina of the tightly closed eye. A dark window had appeared magically in the faintly luminescent chaos; letters were forming and there it was:

KILIMANJARO: Volcanic mountain, Africa. Ht. 5.9 km.

Site of first Space Elevator Earth Terminus.

Well! What did that mean? He let his mind play with this scanty information.

Something to do with that other volcano, Krakan — which had certainly been in his thoughts a good deal recently? That seemed rather farfetched. And he needed no warning that Krakan — or its boisterous offspring — might erupt again.

The first space elevator? That was indeed ancient history; it marked the very beginning of planetary colonization by giving mankind virtually free access to the Solar System. And they were employing the same technology here, using cables of super-strength material to lift the great blocks of ice up to Magellan as the ship hovered in stationary orbit above the Equator.

Yet this, too, was a very far cry from that African mountain. The connection was too remote; the answer, Kaldor felt certain, must be somewhere else.

The direct approach had failed. The only way to find the link — if he ever would — was to leave it to chance and time, and the mysterious workings of the unconscious mind.

He would do his best to forget about Kilimanjaro, until it chose the auspicious time to erupt in his brain.

Next to Mirissa, Kumar was Loren’s most welcome — and most frequent — visitor. Despite his nickname, it seemed to Loren that Kumar was more like a faithful dog — or, rather, a friendly puppy — than a lion. There were a dozen much-pampered dogs in Tarna, and someday they might also live again on Sagan 2, resuming their long acquaintanceship with man.

Loren had now learned what a risk the boy had taken in that tumultuous sea. It was well for them both that Kumar never left shore without a diver’s knife strapped to his leg; even so, he had been underwater for more than three minutes, sawing through the cable entangling Loren. Calypso’s crew had been certain that they had both drowned.

Despite the bond that now united them, Loren found it difficult to make much conversation with Kumar. After all, there were only a limited number of ways in which one could say, “Thank you for saving my life’, and their backgrounds were so utterly dissimilar that they had very few common grounds of reference. If he talked to Kumar about Earth, or the ship, everything had to be explained in agonizing detail; and after a while Loren realized that he was wasting his time. Unlike his sister, Kumar lived in the world of immediate experience; only the here and now of Thalassa were important to him. “How I envy him!” Kaldor had once remarked. “He’s a creature of today — not haunted by the past or fearful of the future!”

Loren was about to go to sleep on what he hoped would be his last night in the clinic when Kumar arrived carrying a very large bottle, which he held up in triumph.

“Guess!”

“I’ve no idea,” Loren said, quite untruthfully.

“The first wine of the season, from Krakan. They say it will be a very good year.”

“How do you know anything about it?”

“Our family’s had a vineyard there for more than a hundred years. The Lion Brands are the most famous in the world.”

Kumar hunted around until he had produced two glasses and poured generous helpings into each. Loren took a cautious sip; it was a little sweet for his taste, but very, very smooth.

“What do you call it?” he asked.

“Krakan Special.”

“Since Krakan’s nearly killed me once, should I risk it?”

“It won’t even give you a hangover.”

Loren took another, longer draught, and in a surprisingly short time the glass was empty. In an even shorter time it was full again.

This seemed an excellent way of spending his last night in hospital, and Loren felt his normal gratitude towards Kumar extending to the entire world. Even one of Mayor Waldron’s visits would no longer be unwelcome.

“By the way, how is Brant? I haven’t seen him for a week.”

“Still on North Island, arranging repairs to the boat and talking to the marine biologists. Everyone’s very excited about the scorps. But no one can decide what to do about them. If anything.”