The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [40]
I’m not getting anywhere with this character, thought Morgan; and I’d expected the Mahanayake Thero to be the biggest obstacle. . . .
Sometimes, it was best to change the subject entirely. He decided to dip one cautious toe into the quaking quagmire of theology.
“Isn’t there something appropriate,” he said earnestly, “in what we are trying to do? Our purposes may be different, but the net results have much in common. What we hope to build is only an extension of your stairway. If I may say so, we’re continuing it—all the way to heaven.”
For a moment, the Venerable Parakarma seemed taken aback at such effrontery. Before he could recover, his superior answered smoothly:
“An interesting concept. But our philosophy does not believe in heaven. Such salvation as may exist can be found only in this world, and I sometimes wonder at your anxiety to leave it. Do you know the story of the Tower of Babel?”
“Vaguely.”
“I suggest you look it up in the old Christian Bible—Genesis 11. That, too, was an engineering project to scale the heavens. It failed, owing to difficulties in communication.”
“Though we will have our problems, I don’t think that will be one of them.”
But looking at the Venerable Parakarma, Morgan was not so sure. Here was a communications gap that seemed in some ways greater than that between Homo sapiens and Starglider. They spoke the same language, but there were gulfs of incomprehension that might never be spanned.
“May I ask,” continued the Mahanayake Thero with imperturbable politeness, “how successful you were with the Department of Parks and Forests?”
“They were extremely co-operative.”
“I am not surprised. They are chronically underbudgeted, and any new source of revenue would be welcome. The cable system was a financial windfall, and doubtless they hope your project will be an even bigger one.”
“They will be right. And they have accepted the fact that it won’t create any environmental hazards.”
“Suppose it falls down?”
Morgan looked the monk straight in the eye.
“It won’t,” he said, with all the authority of the man whose inverted rainbow now linked two continents.
But he knew, and the implacable Parakarma must also know, that absolute certainty was impossible in such matters. Two hundred and two years ago, on 7 November 1940, that lesson had been driven home in a way that no engineer could ever forget.
Morgan had few nightmares, but that was one of them. Even at this moment the computers at Terran Construction were trying to exorcise it.
But all the computing power in the universe could provide no protection against the problems he had not foreseen—the nightmares that were still unborn.
18
The Golden
Butterflies
Despite the brilliant sunlight and the magnificent views that assailed him from every side, Morgan was fast asleep before the car had descended into the lowlands. Even the innumerable hairpin bends failed to keep him awake—but he was snapped back into consciousness when the brakes were slammed on and he was pitched forward against his seat belt.
For a moment of utter confusion, he thought that he must still be dreaming. The breeze blowing gently through the half-open windows was so warm and humid that it might have escaped from a Turkish bath; yet the car had apparently come to a halt in the midst of a blinding snowstorm.
Morgan blinked, screwed up his eyes, and opened them to reality. This was the first time he had ever seen golden snow.
A dense swarm of butterflies was crossing the road, headed due east in a steady, purposeful migration. Some had been sucked into the car, and fluttered around frantically until Morgan waved them out; many more had plastered themselves on the windshield. With what were doubtless a few choice Taprobani expletives, the driver emerged and wiped the glass clear. By the time he had finished, the swarm had thinned out to a handful of isolated stragglers.
“Did they tell you about the legend?” he asked, glancing back at his passenger.
“No,” said Morgan curtly. He was not at all interested, being anxious