The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [5]
Securing this history-drenched piece of land for his retirement had given Johan more satisfaction than anything in his whole career, fulfilling a dream that he had never really believed could come true. The achievement had required all his diplomatic skills, plus some delicate blackmail in the Department of Archaeology. Later, questions had been asked in the State Assembly; but fortunately not answered.
He was insulated from all but the most determined tourists and students by an extension of the moat, and screened from their gaze by a thick wall of mutated Ashoka trees, blazing with flowers throughout the year. The trees also supported several families of monkeys, who were amusing to watch but occasionally invaded the villa and made off with any portable objects that took their fancy. Then there would be a brief interspecies war, with firecrackers and recorded danger cries that distressed the humans at least as much as the simians—who would be back quickly enough, since they had long ago learned that no one would really harm them.
One of Taprobane’s more outrageous sunsets was transfiguring the western sky when a small electrotricycle came silently through the trees and drew up beside the granite columns of the portico. (Genuine Chola, from the late Ranapura period, and therefore a complete anachronism here. But only Professor Paul Sarath had ever commented on it; and of course he invariably did so.)
Through long and bitter experience, Rajasinghe had learned never to trust first impressions, but also never to ignore them. He had half expected that Vannevar Morgan would, like his achievements, be a large, imposing man. Instead, the engineer was well below average height, and at first glance might have been called frail. That slender body was all sinew, however, and the raven-black hair framed a face that looked considerably younger than its fifty-one years.
The video display from Ari’s Biog file had not done him justice. He should have been a romantic poet, or a concert pianist—or, perhaps, a great actor, holding thousands spellbound by his skill. Rajasinghe knew power when he saw it, since power had been his business; and it was power that he was facing now. Beware of small men, he had often told himself, because they are the movers and shakers of the world.
And with this thought, there came the first flicker of apprehension. Almost every week, old friends and old enemies came to this remote spot, to exchange news and to reminisce about the past. He welcomed such visits; they gave a continuing pattern to his life. Yet he always knew, to a high degree of accuracy, the purpose of the meeting, and the ground that would be covered.
But as far as Rajasinghe was aware, he and Morgan had no interests in common beyond those of any men in this day and age. They had never met or had any prior communication. Indeed, he had barely recognized Morgan’s name. Still more unusual was the fact that the engineer had asked him to keep this meeting confidential.
Though Rajasinghe had complied, he had done so with a feeling of resentment. There was no need, any more, for secrecy in his peaceful life. The very last thing he wanted now was for some important mystery to impinge upon his well-ordered existence. He had finished with Security forever. Ten years ago—or was it even longer?—his personal guards had been removed, at his own