"We're here," said the voice of the American reporter, "as we have been all morning, waiting for the first capsules to be loaded into the Cube. That event is supposed to take place at noon our time, but it seems there has been a delay. All morning long, German and Chinese engineers have been testing the system, but we are informed that-Ah, now I see that something is happening down at the railheads. Peter, will you come in?"
The view switched to a stage draped with red bunting, where the correspondent Peter Wilkins stood with the wind ruffling his hair. Behind him, people sweating in formal suits were popping in and out of the golden curtains. "Alan," he said, "as you can see from the activity here, we seem to be getting ready to receive our distinguished guests. I am informed that Walter John Perry of the United States of America will have the honor to be the first to enter the capsule. After him, I believe it will be Katya Goldmark of the European Federation, and after her- But I am being signaled to leave the stage, and I believe that means the ceremony is about to begin." He walked off camera.
Below the platform, raucous music burst out. The curtains parted to reveal the open space capsule on a pedestal, gleaming pink-silver under the lights. Standing in front of it was the American rock star in a sequined suit. He bowed; then, to a roll of drums, walked to the capsule and climbed in. Sitting there, he raised his arms in an enfolding gesture, then brought his hands to his mouth and blew kisses. He lay down in the padded interior; as he did so, the halo above the stage came on, displaying an overhead view of the open capsule. Two men came from either side, wheeling carts from which they took small parcels and began packing them in around the singer's body. They moved with effort, as if the parcels were very heavy. The singer squirmed a little to accommodate them.
"Peter, what's in the parcels?"
"Alan, that's his payoff-it is rumored to be a hundred million dollars ' worth of gold bullion. I'm told that he was offered a second capsule to put it in, but he said no thanks; he wants it with him so he'll know it's going to be there when he wakes up."
The two commentators laughed gently. "And they say you can't take it with you!" said the first. "Are they all getting that much, Peter?"
"Yes, Alan, they are. People at this level of fame don't do anything for nothing. But, in a sense, they're doing a public service by demonstrating their confidence in the Cube, and it's worth the money."
"What about all the other VIPs-won't they want to be paid too?"
"My guess is that they'll get a little lulu,just to keep them happy, but by that stage there'll be too much competition for them to hold out. Once this gets started, it's a status thing to be high on the list, and in a couple of weeks it wouldn't surprise me if they were paying to get in early. "
The lid of the capsule came down. The capsule sank through the floor of the platform, reappeared below. Now it was moving slowly on the track, faster now, and now as the camera followed it they could see it speeding toward the construction site two miles away.
"Bye, Walter John," said one of the talking heads.
Professor Rafael Torres y Molina of the University of Lima spent the night at the old hotel on top of Machu Picchu, as he always did. The new hotel at the foot of the mountain was much more commodious, but Torres y Molina liked to sit on the terrace in the early morning and watch the clouds slowly unveil the Andes. The sight never failed to move him. These mountains were unlike other mountains; they went beyond majesty.
Professor Torres y Molina was fifty-two years old. He had devoted half his life to Peruvian archaeology; in his younger days he had clambered all over the Inca Trail, and he had supervised the last ten years of the restoration of Machu Picchu. As he drank his coffee (flash frozen, from Colombia; he considered Peruvian coffee undrinkable) , he gazed alternately at the black spires opposite across the chasm and at the entrance to Machu Picchu itself a hundred yards away, where a solitary llama was hanging around hoping to get in. He was alone on the terrace; the air was cool and fresh.
Presently the first tour bus came up the switchback road and pulled over to the curb. Tourists emerged one by one. A few went into the lobby of the hotel; the rest, following their guide, walked down the path to the entrance.
Torres y Molina waited. The second bus pulled up, and this time only five people got out. Two of them, heavily built men in gray suits, came up the steps and stopped in front of him. "Professor Torres y Molina?" the first one said.
"Yes."
"May I see some ID, please?" He spoke in English with an American accent.
"Certainly, if you will first tell me who you are."
Without changing his expression, the man removed a leather folder from his breast pocket and flipped it open. It contained some sort of badge and a plastic card. In his turn, Torres y Molina took out his wallet and offered his internal passport. The guard examined it carefully, handed it back, and nodded to the others.
The third man came up the steps and put his hand out. "I'm Ed Stone, Professor. Thanks for showing me around."
"I have not done it yet, but you are welcome. Now, to begin with, do you see the peak over there? That is Huayna Picchu. Can you see the goat?" On the side of the peak a white dot was moving, no bigger than a flea. "There is a little temple there. The only way to reach it is by a ridge trail that is so dangerous that only the crazy Germans try it."
"Have you been there?" Stone asked.
Torres y Molina smiled. "Yes. When I was younger. And did you notice the path up the mountainside-not the road you came up by, but the other one?"
"No."
"I have a picture here." He took it out of his breast pocket and showed it to them. "You see, the modem road goes back and forth, back and forth. The Inca path goes straight up the mountain. Well, now let us go into Machu Picchu."
They passed between the thatched guard towers and proceeded down the narrow path beside the terraces that rose to the top of the mountain. The llama, which had got in somehow, was grazing in one of the walled fields below.
"They tell me nobody knows who built this place, is that right?" said Stone.
Torres y Molina turned. "That's true. It was a separate little Inca kingdom, apparently. What you see here is just one part of it. By the time the Spaniards came, all these people were gone. Disease, or maybe their springs dried up and they left because they had no water. All over the continent, there are ruins of civilizations that died, and we don't know why."
Stone looked around and breathed deeply. Clouds were pouring like water over the ridge above; the sun was bright. "It's beautiful here," he said.
"Yes. Did you have any trouble with the altitude?"
"I had a headache in Cuzco and had to lay down awhile, but then I was fine."
They climbed up and down the stone stairways on either side of the central plaza. At the Carceles, Torres showed them the narrow trapezoidal niches in the walls. "We think these were prison cells. They would put a man in each one, close the wooden gate, which of course is not here any more, and then feed him through the window in the back wall. They had many of these cells. We don't know what the crime was, but it was probably disobedience."
Half an hour later, they descended from the battlement walk into a little courtyard, completely enclosed and private. "This is a favorite place of mine," Torres y Molina said. "I think there must have been a great many flowers here. Perhaps it was a place where a certain young woman came to be alone." He smiled. "When you spend enough time here, you think you feel the presence of people who are gone."
In a little nook beside the path, someone had deposited two empty sardine tins and a cigarette package. Torres y Molina looked at them and walked on.