The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [18]
Almost forgetting time, Morgan roamed among the foundations of the palace that had once crowned the Rock. He tried to enter the mind of the architect, from what he could see of his surviving handiwork. Why was there a pathway here? Did this truncated flight of steps lead to an upper floor? If this coffin-shaped recess in the stone was a bath, how was the water supplied and how did it drain away? His research was so fascinating that he was quite oblivious of the increasing heat of the sun, striking down from a cloudless sky.
Far below, the emerald-green landscape was waking into life. Like brightly colored beetles, a swarm of robot tractors was heading toward the rice fields. Improbable though it seemed, a helpful elephant was pushing an overturned bus back onto the road, which it had obviously left while taking a bend at too high a speed. Morgan could even hear the shrill voice of the rider, perched just behind the enormous ears. And a stream of tourists was pouring like army ants through the pleasure gardens from the general direction of the Hotel Yakkagala. He would not enjoy his solitude much longer.
However, he had virtually completed his exploration of the ruins—though one could, of course, spend a lifetime investigating them in detail. He was happy to rest for a while, on a beautifully carved granite bench at the very edge of the two-hundred-meter drop, overlooking the entire southern sky.
Morgan let his eyes scan the distant line of mountains, partly concealed by a blue haze which the morning sun had not yet dispersed. As he examined it idly, he realized that what he had assumed to be a part of the cloudscape was nothing of the sort. That misty cone was no ephemeral construct of wind and vapor. There was no mistaking its perfect symmetry, as it towered above its lesser brethen.
For a moment, the shock of recognition emptied his mind of everything except wonder, and an almost superstitious awe. He had not known that one could see the Sacred Mountain so clearly from Yakkagala. But there it was, slowly emerging from the shadow of night, preparing to face a new day; and, if he succeeded, a new future.
He knew all its dimensions, all its geology. He had mapped it through stereophotographs and had scanned it from satellites. But to see it for the first time with his own eyes made it real; until now, everything had been theory. And sometimes not even that. More than once, in the small gray hours before dawn, Morgan had awakened from nightmares in which his whole project had appeared as some preposterous fantasy, which, far from bringing him fame, would make him the laughing stock of the world. Morgan’s Folly, some of his peers had once dubbed the bridge. What would they call his latest dream?
But man-made obstacles had never stopped him before. Nature was his real antagonist—the friendly enemy who never cheated, always played fair, but never failed to take advantage of the tiniest oversight or omission. And all the forces of Nature were epitomized for him now in that distant blue cone, which he knew so well but had yet to feel beneath his feet.
As Kalidasa had done so often from this very spot, Morgan stared across the fertile green plain, measuring the challenge and considering his strategy. To Kalidasa, Sri Kanda represented both the power of the priesthood and the power of the gods, conspiring together against him. Now the gods were gone; but the priests remained. They represented something that Morgan did not understand, and would therefore treat with wary respect.
It was time to descend. He must not be late again, especially through his own miscalculation. As he rose from the stone slab on which he had been sitting, a thought that had been worrying him for several minutes finally rose