At the Outpost of Fate

CHAPTER 17 — THE PILLAR OF THE ANCIENTS

Although he had asked to be let off at their first stop — the seaport of Nice, in the south of France — Sir Reginald made arrangements for the rest of the travelers to be met by a representative of the Trevayne Society upon their arrival at the Palam RAF Aerodrome near Delhi, India. Winterbourne, who was still on the mend from wounds suffered during the assault on his flat, had elected to remain with them for the duration.

"It's been too long since I was of any use to anyone," he had declared. "And this business of the skull child… well, let's just say I'd like to see it finished, one way or another."

Molly found that she enjoyed having the elderly gentleman along, enjoyed ministering to his injuries. Even so, it could not quite soothe her own hurts; the memory of that horrible attack and of her own actions, was like a sliver in her conscience, infected and festering, oozing poison into her dreams with each passing night. It didn't help that her father seemed to be growing more distant with each mile they traveled.

The uniformed man waiting for them at the aerodrome introduced himself as Chadwick or rather, "Colonel Graeme Chadwick, of His Majesty's Royal Air Force, at your service, sirs and madam."

Hurricane chuckled a little at the man's seemingly exaggerated military bearing, but Hobbs, dour as ever, simply said, "You were supposed to tell us something."

"Ah, so it's the old cloak and dagger routine, is it?" Chadwick laughed. "Jolly good. Let's see, I believe I the word for today was 'Rudyard.'

Hobbs nodded and Molly heard Winterbourne mutter under his breath, "'Go, bind you sons to exile.'"

Chadwick evidently heard him. "Indeed. It does rather feel that way sometimes. In any case, on behalf of the RAF and—" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—"the Trevayne Society, welcome to Delhi. The telegram did not specify your purpose here…"

"Sightseeing, actually. We'd like to visit the Iron Pillar."

"That old thing," Chadwick's smile was half-hearted. "Shouldn't be too hard to arrange. It's in the Qutab complex in Mehrauli."

"I know where it is," the priest replied tersely. "I've been there before."

Molly raised an eyebrow. She had assumed that her father, in his world traveling days, had visited India; how else would he have known of the Iron Pillar in the first place? But she knew him well enough to realize that the memory of that event in his past was causing him pain. She also knew that when Hobbs was in pain, he withdrew from everyone.

Chadwick seemed unfazed by the priest's brusque manner. "I've held rooms for you at the Imperial, but as it's still early, we can go there directly, if you'd like. It's only about ten miles from here."

Hobbs nodded mechanically. "We'd like."

Chadwick led them to his waiting staff car, a gray Lanchester saloon. He directed his driver, a handsome young Indian corporal, to remain behind with the aircraft in order to free up space in the car. Molly took the rear seat, sandwiched in between her father and Winterbourne, while Hurricane rode up front with the colonel. After the relatively cool and spacious environs of the plane, the interior of the car coupled with the warm humid air should have been stifling, but Molly found it strangely reminiscent of the Congo, where she had spent almost her entire life and in that familiarity she found a measure of comfort.

The breeze blowing in through the open windows carried with it the sounds and smells of a world that was nothing like the austere concrete landscape of Manhattan. The pungent odor of wood smoke, spices and animal excrement was oddly refreshing; she hadn't ever realized that she had missed it.

Though they both bore the unmistakable stamp of their colonial landlords, Delhi was nothing like the rugged backwater port of Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo — the nearest city to the rural mission where Hobbs had raised her. There had always been an undercurrent of desperation in the Congo, especially among the native population, who were virtually enslaved to their European overlords. India was…alive.

Enfolded by a juxtaposition of modern British buildings and magnificent ornamental Indian architecture, with arches and arabesques, the streets were teeming with activity. Chadwick was compelled to slow to a mere crawl as they pushed through a sea of pedestrians, oxcarts and rickshaws. Molly was dazzled by the array of colors swirling around her — red orange, saffron yellow and creamy jade. And yet, amid the bright hues, there was also misery and suffering. Naked beggars, many of them gaunt children, shared the street with fat merchants. Men in perfectly tailored suits and beautiful women wrapped in diaphanous saris walked seemingly unaware, past persons so ravaged by leprosy that it was impossible to tell whether they were men or women.

Winterbourne must have read the conflicting emotions in her gaze. "They call them dalits," he said. "The word literally means 'ground to pieces.' They are the outcasts, untouchables. Their life is one of unending suffering."

Molly was no stranger to human misery. It was woven into the fabric of life in the Congo and she had found it waiting for her in the Big Apple, where thousands of unemployed men and women lived in Hooverville shanties in the shadow of the tallest buildings in the world. But somehow, the contrast between rich and poor was much more pronounced. "Can't someone help them?"

"It's their way. The good or evil you do in this life will come back to you in the next. That’s called karma. It is one's duty… one's dharma… to play the hand he’s dealt."

"These people are paying for the sins of a past life? That's horrible."

Chadwick looked over his shoulder. "Actually, there is an effort afoot to improve their lot. A fellow named Gandhi has been working to end the oppression of the untouchables. He's even coined a new word for them: Harijan. It means 'Children of God.'"

"It's a sin to ignore the suffering of our neighbors. I've got to believe that's as true for karma as it is for Christianity." She glanced over at her father, hoping for an approving nod, but although Hobbs was sitting right next to her, he might as well have been in a different universe.

Hurley finally broke the awkward silence. "Looks like rain,"

Antarctica was now many hours and several hundred miles behind them, but it was hardly a distant memory for Dodge. The thought of what must be happening deep beneath the ice haunted him and the thought of what might happen kept him wide-awake behind the Tin Goose's control column long past the point when most people would have dropped from exhaustion.

If I sleep now, the world may die. And I'm not even sure I can stop it.

Despite what Jocasta had said about the man she called Schadel, he could not bring himself to believe that mere destruction was his aim. Self-preservation, not self-destruction, was the instinct of every creature. Despite the fact that Fuller — or Schadel or whatever his real name was — had deceived him from the outset and in the end even tried to kill him, he felt there had to be some kind of basis for reasoning with him, for convincing him to, if nothing else, put the brakes on the runaway engine of destruction he had set in motion.

If that was even possible.

As they waited for the plane to be refueled in Cape Town, they discussed their next move. Dodge expected the physicist to supply him with facts and figures and timetables, but what Newcombe revealed was even more unsettling.

"I touched that column," the scientist began, "and I saw things. Unbelievable things."

"You saw things? I don't understand."

"I don't understand either." He sounded bewildered. "I'm a scientist, I need to be able to understand how things function, but I never could figure out what made the things from the Outpost work."

"You once told me that the technology utilized the earth's magnetic field." Dodge recalled his first meeting with Newcombe, at the White House, of all places. "You mentioned principles similar to what Tesla proposed."

"It's one thing to know what is happening and quite another to know why. Yes, the devices did tap into that abundant energy, but I could never make sense of how they were able to do that. We can harness the energy of rivers to make electricity, but it requires dams and turbines and generators. The same is true of the earth's electromagnetic field. It's there and it's powerful, but that doesn't mean we can just reach out and take whatever we need.

"But that's exactly what these devices do and I could never explain how." Newcombe sighed and gazed out through the windscreen at the clear skies ahead. "Until I touched that column."

"You called it the Source," Jocasta supplied.

Dodge regarded her across the table. She seemed to have cast her lot with them, but Dodge was unsure of her motives. He had no reason to trust her and many reasons to be suspicious. In the end, Jocasta would do what was best for Jocasta above all else.

And of course, there was the kiss.

Surely it had been an impulsive thing; a good luck gesture and nothing else. What troubled him most about it was not the question of her motives, but rather his own uncertain reaction.

No time to worry about that now, he told himself.

Newcombe launched into his lecture. "Tesla theorized that it might be possible to take electricity out of the magnetic field using metal towers. The column served a similar function, acting both as a receiver and a transmitter. The flying devices did not draw their energy directly from the magnetic field, but rather from those columns."

"Columns?" Dodge asked. "There’s more than one?"

"Several actually, strategically placed at different points around the planet, to tap into the flow of electromagnetic energy. They were placed there thousands of years ago by the same prehistoric civilization that built the Outpost. Most, if not all of them, lie buried and forgotten, just like the people who built them, but they are still active."

"Could there be other places like the Outpost?" For just a moment, Dodge thought he saw a straw of hope to grasp at. "Maybe we could find the means to stop what's happening in Antarctica."

"It's possible I suppose. The ancients had a capital city; if we could find it, then I suppose we could…"

"But?"

"When I touched that column, it felt like I was remembering things that had happened to someone else. In this case, the memories of the men that lived and eventually died at the Outpost. They were not omniscient. They knew about the power network, but not necessarily where all the columns were located, much the same way that the average person on the street knows that the electricity they need for their light bulbs and radios comes from a power station and is delivered by copper wires, but may not know exactly where that power station is. I have memories of that city, but I don't know if I could find it. The world does not look the same way as it did ten thousand years ago."

"Schadel seemed awfully keen to learn where the city was," Jocasta said. "It was all he asked about."

"That makes sense. The real power would be at the heart of their empire, not some backwater station at the bottom of the world."

Newcombe continued to fidget, as if the conversation had once more escaped his control.

"Something else you want to add, Doc?"

"No, I agree. He probably wants to find the city for that purpose. But…well…yes, there's something else you need to know."

He took a deep breath. "Have you ever heard of atomic power? It's something that a number of scientists have been working to develop. I won't go into the details, but it is believed to be possible to release enormous amounts of energy by breaking apart atoms — infinitely small particles of matter. The problem is the best candidates for releasing such energy are transuranic elements, which are highly radioactive. You could receive a lethal dose of radiation just from being too close to these elements. And there are, even now, scientists who are trying to figure out how to use the process to build a bomb that could destroy an entire city and irradiate the landscape, making it uninhabitable for years to come."

"And that's what Schadel wants?" Jocasta asked. "Atom power?"

"No, you misunderstand. I merely meant to illustrate the risks inherent in trying to find greater sources of power. You cannot have something for nothing. And there are always unexpected consequences. That is what happened to the ancient civilization that built the Outpost. I told you that I could never figure out how the devices were able to make use of the earth's energy. When I touched that pillar, I finally discovered the answer.

"The men whose memories I experienced were wardens and the Outpost was a prison built to hold one extraordinary individual. He was their greatest mind; his genius was beyond the capacity of those men to comprehend; to them he was a magician. He found a way to open the door to other universes—"

"Other universes?" Dodge shook his head. "That's beyond science fiction, Doc. That's the stuff of fairy tales."

"In a way, you're absolutely right. It is almost certain that other universes exist, but everything about them would be completely alien to us. Our best attempt to understand such planes of existence would be to think of them as spiritual experiences; fairy realms, heaven and hell, wonderland. In fact, it seems likely that knowledge of these universes has shaped our mythology ever since… well, ever since the time of this ancient civilization.

"The prisoner at the Outpost discovered a way to open the door between these worlds, but that was only the beginning. His greatest accomplishment was in containing the entities that reside there and bringing them into our universe."

“Containing them?” Dodge saw the connection. "The strange metal."

"Exactly. I can't fathom how he did it, but this ancient scientist was able to trap those entities the way a child might catch fireflies in a jar."

"Or a genie in a lamp?" Jocasta suggested.

Newcombe inclined his head. "A very apt analogy. In this case, he trapped them in those columns. These entities are, like the universe they inhabit, beyond our ability to comprehend, but my hypothesis is that they are very reactive to focused human thought. They make it possible for someone using one of those metal devices to tap into the earth's energy. The flying devices do so in a very specific way, while the object that you call the Staff—"

"Is the master key," Jocasta finished. "But there would have to be more than one. You wouldn't ship something so important off to the ends of the earth if it was one of a kind."

"That's where you're wrong. You need to hear the rest. As you can well imagine, the entities on the other side did not appreciate being taken and used this way. They could not take physical action against their captors, because in truth, they do not have a physical existence, but they could manipulate the thoughts of humans who used their devices. Naturally, the scientist who made these discoveries was the first to be corrupted. He became their vessel and through him, a war was begun that nearly destroyed the earth. He was captured eventually and imprisoned in the Outpost, but the damage was already done. The risk inherent in the use of this technology was understood and so all of it was removed to the Outpost. Except of course for the columns, they were much too dangerous to move. Even that wasn't enough to save them; their civilization was completely destroyed."

Dodge chewed over this. "So Fuller…Schadel…basically used the Staff to tell the column to start heating up or maybe to destroy itself."

"Or it may be that the entity trapped within the column compelled him to give that command. Only by destroying the columns can their imprisonment end."

"And in order to destroy the columns," Dodge added, "they have to destroy the entire planet."

"Just like the prophecy," Jocasta murmured. "Schadel makes the earth uninhabitable."

Newcombe glanced at her, not comprehending, but Dodge steered the conversation back. "We have to assume that the Staff is the only thing that can stop this and that Schadel has the only one. We know he wants to find the ancient city, so that's where we have to go. Doc, you're the only one who's seen this place. The memories you experienced… there's got to be something in them that will help us."

"You mentioned mountains," Jocasta said. "Mountains running east to west. Process of elimination; how many can there be?"

"Hundreds." Newcombe closed his eyes, as if consulting a mental relief map. "But most of the major mountain ranges of the Western Hemisphere run north to south, so that narrows it down somewhat. Perhaps if I had access to a library and a stack of photographic magazines, I might recognize something."

Dodge bit his lip to hide his frustration. "I guess it's our only lead."

"There is another angle to consider," Jocasta said. "Schadel doesn't know where it is either. And it's him we're looking for."

"What are you suggesting?"

For the first time since he had met her, Jocasta looked uncomfortable. "Schadel believes he's the prophesized Child of Skulls, destined to bring the earth to ruin. Everything he does will be guided by his understanding of that prophecy."

"So you're saying we should learn as much as we can about the prophecy, so that we can outthink him?"

"That's what your friend the priest decided to do. They were going to London to visit this Trevayne Society. Now, I've never heard of Trevayne, but my contacts in London may be able to put us in touch with your friends."

Although it didn't sound like a solution to their immediate problem, for a fleeting instant, the prospect of seeing his friends again, of being with Molly again, filled him joy.

"However," Jocasta continued in a grave voice. "There's something else you need to know."

The heavens opened up.

In the space of only a few minutes, the streets filled with water and emptied of people. Lightning flashes danced in the black clouds that had appeared as if from nowhere and thunder rattled the steel canopy that was their only protection from the downpour. The gray Lanchester plowed through the deluge, more a boat than a car, but the six inches of water on the paving stones proved even more of an impediment than the traffic. A liquid curtain covered the windows faster than the windshield wipers could whisk the water away.

Chadwick stopped the car in the middle of the street. "Just give it a few minutes," he said. "It will clear up."

And clear up it did. It was as if someone had turned off the tap. Although the monsoon clouds still hovered above the city, throwing off thunderbolts like some angry god, the sky overhead was clear. The streets shed water, some of it running into the gutters and some of it evaporating in a haze of humidity.

"There it is." Chadwick pointed to the city skyline, now revealed as the shroud of water dribbled from the windshield. A tall reddish-colored tower, like a finger pointing at the sky, jutted above the city, directly ahead. "The Qutab Minar."

"That's the pillar?" Molly marveled. "It's enormous."

The Padre shook his head. "No, that's a Muslim minar — a prayer tower. The Iron Pillar stands in the courtyard of the Qutab Mosque."

"I thought the Iron Pillar predated Islam by hundreds of years."

"You are correct, madam," Chadwick supplied. "The Qutab Minar wasn't completed until the thirteenth century. But the Iron Pillar has always been very important to Delhi, so when a Muslim general conquered the city it must have seemed the natural place to build the first mosque. Sort of like planting your flag in the enemy’s front lawn."

The road from Palam to Mehrauli seemed to orbit around the tower, curving first to the south and moving in an out of populated areas as it wended back north. Chadwick finally pulled off the main road and navigated the narrow streets until arriving at the offices of the Indian Archaeological Survey, a white colonial-style building that lay conspicuously in the shadow cast by the enormous tower that stood, perhaps only a few hundred yards, to the west. Several rickshaws were parked in front of the building and even before Chadwick was out of the car, he was swarmed by a crowd of young boys offering souvenirs or guided tours of the site. The officer barely seemed to notice them, shooing them away like they were flies, as he opened the rear door to let his passengers out.

They were met on the steps by a middle-aged Indian man wearing a dark gray suit complete with a waistcoat, seemingly in defiance of the heat. Chadwick introduced him as Dr. Chandra Pradesh.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance." Pradesh spoke with a lilting, almost sing-song voice, but his accent was indistinguishable from that of the other subjects of the Crown Molly had met. "Colonel Chadwick tells me you are interested in the Iron Pillar."

"We are," Hobbs answered. "May we see it now?"

Pradesh's brow creased. "I had hoped to persuade you to sit for tea."

"Brilliant!" Winterbourne declared. "Consider me persuaded, sir."

As eager as she was to unravel the mystery of the metal pillars, Molly was inclined to agree. It had been several days since she'd had anything like a formal meal; they had been more or less subsisting on tinned food and stale rolls since leaving New York. Even in London, they had barely taken the time to catch their breath.

Perhaps sensing her weariness, Hobbs assented and they followed Pradesh inside. The interior of the building was like a combination of a history museum with the lobby of a luxury hotel. Several ceiling fans beat the air above their heads, helping alleviate some of the heat and humidity. Their host guided them to a long table where a jovial looking Englishman in an immaculate white linen suit, rose to greet them.

"We are fortunate to have many guests today," Pradesh intoned. "This is Mr. Steven Savile from the Royal Geographical Society."

Savile's round face was beaming like the moon as he inclined his bald head to them. "Sirs and M'lady. I should correct Dr. Pradesh, however. I am not an official representative of the RGS. I am just a humble writer, doing a piece for their journal."

Molly noticed Hurricane studying Savile, searching his expression for any hint that he might be like one of the poor devil's that had attacked them and the New York museum and again at Winterbourne's flat. To her chagrin, she realized she had done the same thing and immediately felt guilty for having done so. It seemed her capacity for trust, for faith in the essential humanity of her fellow man, had also been a casualty of this life into which she had been drawn.

Though he held her chair for her, Hurley did not sit. "If it's all the same, Doc, I think I'd like to stretch these long legs. I feel like I've been sitting for a dog's age."

He cast a wink and a smile to the serving girl — a young woman in a vivid blue sari, carrying an ornate silver tea service — which earned him an infatuated giggle and then he was gone. Molly wasn't fooled by his manner. She knew he was about to go on a reconnaissance patrol, familiarizing himself with their surroundings, as if surveying a potential battlefield.

Hobbs moved right to the business at hand, seemingly unaware of the refreshments set out for them. "Are you an expert on the Pillar, Dr. Pradesh?"

Their host gave a wry smile. "You tempt me to be immodest, sir. But yes, I am fairly well versed in the history of our namesake relic."

"Namesake?" Molly mumbled through a mouthful of cucumber sandwich.

"Many believe our city owes its name to the Pillar. We say 'Dhilli,' which is a Hindi word that means 'loose.' The story goes that the Iron Pillar originally had a loose foundation and had to be replaced." Pradesh spread his hands equivocally. "That story is from the fourth century, in the time of the Tuar Rajput and is but one of many. People have lived here for more than two thousand years, but the name Dhilli first came to be used around the same period that the Iron Pillar is first mentioned."

Hobbs asked, "What of the Pillar's origins?"

"Ah, that also is the subject of many stories, but it is generally accepted that the Pillar was fashioned as a tribute to King Chandragupta II — there's an inscription to that effect on the Pillar itself. But it may be that it was already in existence prior to that and that the inscription merely represented a re-dedication.

"We know that the Pillar stood in a Jain temple — one of twenty-seven that occupied this site for many centuries prior to the Islamic conquest."

"Jain?"

Hobbs answered Molly's question. "An ancient ascetic faith, similar to Hinduism in many respects."

"The Jainists so abhor any sort of violence," Winterbourne intoned, "that their monks will sweep the way ahead of them so as not to crush an insect."

Pradesh nodded. "Although their numbers are few today, Jain beliefs have certainly shaped the culture of India. In ancient times, Jain practitioners were the intellectuals and keepers of knowledge."

Hobbs tried to steer the discussion back to the matter at hand. "Did the Jains venerate the Pillar?"

Pradesh smiled, with just a hint of condescension. "Not in the way that Christians venerate icons. Rather, it stands as an enduring testimony to their advancement of knowledge. You are aware, I am sure of its remarkable properties; it is cast iron, yet it has not a spot of rust. It is an unparalleled achievement for its time and even more remarkable if, as some have suggested, it is older than the time of Chandragupta II.

"It may also have served another purpose," the archaeologist continued. "The Pillar originally stood on a hill called Vishnupadagiri, 'the hill with the footprint of Vishnu.' Vishnupadagiri is located exactly on the Tropic of Capricorn, near present day Bhilsa. The original purpose of the Pillar was to serve as a sort of solar calendar and on the summer solstice, the morning shadow cast by the Pillar would have touched the foot of one of the aspects of Vishnu. That site dates back to the first century BC. So, not only is the Pillar a metallurgical marvel, but also an astronomical one."

No coincidences, Molly thought. "The Pillar was moved?"

Her father shot her a warning look and she realized that she had almost tipped their hand. She glanced over at Savile, who was following the conversation with rapt attention. He noticed her look and chuckled. "I suppose I should be writing some of this down."

Pradesh nodded sagely. "There are a great many such wonders here."

The journalist took the cue to join the conversation. "So this Iron Pillar is one of a kind?"

"There are many pillars throughout India, dating back to the reign of the Mauryan Emperor Ashoka in the third century BC. Ashoka embraced Buddhism and commissioned the carving of pillars bearing his edicts throughout the realm. The style and proportions are similar, but they are all carved of sandstone, not metal. It seems evident that the artisans who crafted the Iron Pillar were imitating the style of the Ashoka pillars, if not their purpose."

"But it could be the other way around, right?" Savile asked. "For all we know, that Pillar has been around since the dawn of time and all the others were modeled after it."

Pradesh scowled, his enthusiasm for the topic wilting in an instant. "That is a rather sensational assertion, Mr. Savile. I doubt your readers would appreciate such a liberal interpretation of history."

The journalist smiled innocently. "It's just a theory."

"Not really." Pradesh's tone indicated that he would entertain no further fanciful discussion. "Well, I suppose you'd like to see it now."

They followed the archaeologist out of the building and at his direction boarded rickshaws. It seemed an unnecessary indulgence given the proximity of their destination, but Molly forced herself to relax. Savile accompanied them, his shiny bald head protected by a white Panama hat that matched his suit. He rode with Pradesh, but said little. As the little wheeled carts rolled them along a fairly well-kept path, Pradesh played the dutiful tour guide.

"To your right is the Tomb of Imam Muhammad Ali and further down you can see the base of the Alia Minar. It was to have been a tower to surpass even the Qutab Minar, but it never got beyond the foundation."

Molly glanced at the larger monument on their left, just on the other side of a courtyard wall. Up close, it was more beautiful than she could have imagined; the walls of cut red sandstone were delicately fluted, looking almost like several independent cords lashed together, with ornate balconies and decorative Arabic texts that looked almost like bas relief images at a distance. The courtyard wall was similarly beautiful, though in several places it had fallen into ruin and Pradesh led them through an arched gate into the courtyard.

"When he commissioned the building of the mosque, Qutab-ud-din Aybak used the debris from the Jain temples he ransacked. You can see the evidence in the pillars lining the courtyard. No two are alike and you will see many carved figures still preserved in some places, which is in direct violation of the laws set forth in the Koran."

Molly was studying those pillars when she noticed her father moving quickly toward what appeared to be a freestanding lamppost near the center of the open area. It took her a moment to realize that this rather ordinary looking column was the object of their quest.

"It's not the same, is it?" Hurricane spoke in a low voice, but Molly was close enough to hear. Indeed, although the Pillar was the exact size and shape of the column they had seen in London, save only for the different figure occupying the capital, there were several differences, most notably the color. The London pillar had been a dull silver color, while this was a slightly reddish hue of dark gray — the color of wrought iron.

"It doesn't appear so." Hobbs cautiously reached out a hand and touched it. Nothing happened.

Pradesh did not seem to notice their disappointment. "There is a translation of the inscription set into the base. And there is a tradition that if you stand with your back to the pillar and reach around it so that your hands meet, whatever you wish for will be granted. You should try it, miss."

"I wouldn't know what to wish for," Molly started, but then just as quickly realized that there was one thing she wanted. Without further prompting, the backed up to the column and extended her arms out behind her. The Pillar was only about a foot and a half in diameter, but the task proved more difficult than she had imagined. The width of the column was such that she couldn't bend her elbows enough to touch her fingers together.

Hurricane watched her struggle for a moment, then with a grin said, "Hang on, Moll. I'll help you."

Despite his warning, she gave a little yelp when he grasped her waist in his massive hands and thrust her straight up in the air. She reflexively clutched at the column and was pleasantly surprised when she felt her fingers brush together. Hurley had lifted her to where the column tapered enough for her to reach completely around.

"Now, that's cheating," Savile observed, with a good-natured smile.

Molly didn't care; she made her wish anyway.

Hobbs however seemed oblivious to the fanciful distraction. As Hurricane lowered Molly gently back down, the Padre knelt to inspect the translation of the inscription, which he read aloud:

"'He, the remnant of the great zeal of whose energy, which utterly destroyed his enemies, like the remnant of the great glowing heat of a burned-out fire in a great forest, even now leaves not the earth; though he, the king, as if wearied, has quit this earth and has gone to the other world, moving in bodily from the land of paradise won by the merit of his actions, but remaining on this earth by the memory of his fame.' "

He turned to Pradesh. "You said this inscription pertains to King Chandragupta II; is it possibly that it refers to someone else?"

Pradesh shrugged. "Anything is possible. But if you continue reading the translation, you'll see a reference to King Chandra; a very good clue when taken with the knowledge of when the Pillar was erected."

"Not what you were expecting?" muttered Winterbourne.

"No. This pillar is, I'm afraid, exactly what it appears to be. A column of wrought iron. It is the product of a very advanced knowledge of metal working, but nothing more."

"A dead end then."

Perhaps because she had successfully made her wish, Molly refused to admit defeat. "You said there are no coincidences. What if Mr. Savile is right?" She glanced at the journalist and then chose her words carefully. "What if there are other pillars and this one is a copy?"

Hobbs glanced at Hurley in a silent consult and upon receiving a nod of assent, turned to Dr. Pradesh. "Where again, did you say the Pillar originally stood?"

Savile whistled cheerily as he strolled toward his car, a luxurious black 1930 Rolls Royce Phantom I that he had purchased outright from a dealer in Delhi only the day before. As he drew near, his driver started to get out, but Savile forestalled him with a raised hand. He opened the rear door himself and slid into the seat.

"They're going to be going to a place called Bhilsa. It's about four hundred miles to the South. I'd like to get there ahead of them."

The driver raised his crucifix in a respectful salute. "Mine is to serve, Chevalier."