The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [35]
The combination was fascinating, and disconcerting. Morgan found it virtually impossible to guess the Mahanayake Thero’s age. It could be anything from a mature forty to a well-preserved eighty. And those lenses, transparent though they were, somehow concealed the thoughts and emotions behind them.
“Ayu bowan, Dr. Morgan,” said the High Priest, gesturing to the only empty chair. “This is my secretary, the Venerable Parakarma. I trust you won’t mind if he makes notes.”
“Of course not,” said Morgan, inclining his head toward the remaining occupant of the small room. He noticed that the younger monk had flowing hair and an impressive beard. Presumably, shaven pates were optional.
“So, Dr. Morgan,” the Mahanayake Thero continued, “you want our mountain.”
“I’m afraid so, Your—er—Reverence. Part of it, at any rate.”
“Out of all the world—these few hectares?”
“The choice is not ours, but Nature’s. The earth terminus has to be on the equator, and at the greatest possible altitude, where the low air density minimizes wind forces.”
“There are higher equatorial mountains in Africa and South America.”
Here we go again, Morgan thought, groaning silently. Bitter experience had taught him that it was almost impossible to make laymen, however intelligent and interested, appreciate this problem, and he anticipated even less success with these monks. If only the earth were a nice, symmetrical body, with no dents and bumps in its gravitational field . . .
“Believe me,” he said fervently, “we’ve looked at all the alternatives. Cotopaxi and Mount Kenya—and even Kilimanjaro, though that’s three degrees south—would be fine except for one fatal flaw. When a satellite is established in the stationary orbit, it won’t stay exactly over the same spot. Because of gravitational irregularities, which I won’t go into, it will slowly drift along the equator. So all our synchronous satellites and space stations have to burn propellant to keep them on station. Luckily, the amount involved is quite small.
“But you can’t keep nudging millions of tons—especially when they’re in the form of slender rods tens of thousands of kilometers long—back into position. And there’s no need to. Fortunately for us—”
“Not for us,” interjected the Mahanayake Thero, almost throwing Morgan off his stride.
“—there are two stable points on the synchronous orbit. A satellite placed at them will stay there. It won’t drift away. Just as if it’s stuck at the bottom of an invisible valley . . .
“One of those points is out over the Pacific, so it’s no use to us. The other is directly above our heads.”
“Surely a few kilometers one way or the other would make no difference. There are other mountains in Taprobane.”
“None more than half the height of Sri Kanda—which brings us down to the level of critical wind forces. True, there are not many hurricanes exactly on the equator. But there are enough to endanger the structure, at its very weakest point.”
“We can control the winds.”
It was the first contribution the young secretary had made to the discussion, and Morgan looked at him with heightened interest.
“To some extent, yes. Naturally, I have discussed this point with Monsoon Control. They say that absolute certainty is out of the question—especially with hurricanes. The best odds they will give me are fifty to one. That’s not good enough for a trillion-dollar project.”
The Venerable Parakarma seemed inclined to argue.
“There is an almost forgotten branch of mathematics, called catastrophe theory, which could make meteorology a really precise science. I am confident that—”
“I should explain,” the Mahanayake Thero interjected blandly, “that my colleague was once rather celebrated for his astronomical work. I imagine you have heard of Dr. Choam Goldberg.”
Morgan felt that a trap door had been opened beneath him. He should have been warned! Then he recalled that Professor Sarath had indeed told him, with a twinkle in his eye, that he should “watch out for Buddy’s private secretary—he’s a very smart character.”
Morgan wondered