The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [38]
At this point, there was a rather welcome interruption, as two young acolytes filed into the office, one carrying a tray loaded with small dishes of rice, fruits, and what appeared to be thin pancakes, while the other followed with the inevitable pot of tea. There was nothing that looked like meat. After his long night, Morgan would have welcomed a couple of eggs, but he assumed that they, too, were forbidden. No—that was too strong a word. Sarath had told him that the Order prohibited nothing, believing in no absolutes. But it had a nicely calibrated scale of toleration, and the taking of life—even potential life—was very low on the list.
As he started to sample the various items, most of them quite unknown to him, Morgan looked inquiringly at the Mahanayake Thero, who shook his head.
“We do not eat before noon. The mind functions more clearly in the morning hours, and so should not be distracted by material things.”
As he nibbled at some quite delicious papaya, Morgan considered the philosophical guilt represented by that simple statement. To him, an empty stomach could be most distracting, completely inhibiting the higher mental functions. Having always been blessed with good health, he had never tried to dissociate mind and body, and saw no reason why one should make the attempt.
While Morgan was eating his exotic breakfast, the Mahanayake Thero excused himself, and for a few minutes his fingers danced, with dazzling speed, over the keyboard of his console. Since the read-out was in full view, politeness compelled Morgan to look elsewhere. Inevitably, his eyes fell upon the head of the Buddha.
It was probably real, for the plinth cast a faint shadow on the wall behind. Yet even that was not conclusive. The plinth might be solid enough, and the head a projection carefully positioned on top of it. The trick was a common one.
Here was a work of art that, like the Mona Lisa, both mirrored the emotions of the observer and imposed its own authority upon them. La Gioconda’s eyes were open, however, though what they were looking at no one would ever know. The eyes of the Buddha were completely blank—empty pools in which a man might lose his soul, or discover a universe.
Upon the lips there lingered a smile even more ambiguous than the Mona Lisa’s. Yet was it really a smile, or merely a trick of the lighting? Already, it was gone, replaced by an expression of superhuman tranquillity. Morgan could not tear his eyes away from that hypnotic countenance, and only the familiar rustling whirr of a hard-copy read-out from the console brought him back to reality—if this was reality. . . .
“I thought you might like a souvenir of your visit,” said the Mahanayake Thero.
As Morgan accepted the proffered sheet, he was surprised to see that it was archival-quality parchment, not the usual flimsy paper destined to be thrown away after a few hours of use. He could not read a single word. Except for an unobtrusive alphanumeric reference in the bottom left-hand corner, it was all in the flowery curlicues that he could now recognize as Taprobani script.
“Thank you,” he said, with as much irony as he could muster. “What is it?” He had a good idea; legal documents had a close family resemblance, whatever their languages, or eras.
“A copy of the agreement between King Ravindra and the Mahanayake Sangha, dated Vesak, A.D. 854 of your calendar. It defines the ownership of the temple land—in perpetuity. The rights set out in this document were even recognized by the invaders.”
“By the Caledonians and the Hollanders, I believe. But not by the Iberians.”
If the Mahanayake Thero was surprised by the thoroughness of Morgan’s briefing, not even the twitch of an eyebrow betrayed the fact.
“They were hardly respecters of law and order, particularly where other religions were concerned. I trust that their philosophy of might equals right does not appeal to you.”
Morgan gave a somewhat forced smile.
“It certainly does not,” he answered. But where did one draw the line? he asked himself silently.