The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [6]
What upset him most was not the mild secrecy, but his own total bewilderment. The Chief Engineer (Land) of the Terran Construction Corporation was not going to travel thousands of kilometers merely to ask for his autograph, or to express the usual tourist platitudes. He must have come here for some specific purpose—and, try as he might, Rajasinghe was unable to imagine it.
Even in his days as a public servant, Rajasinghe had never had occasion to deal with TCC. Its three divisions—Land, Sea, Space—huge though they were, made perhaps the least news of all the World Federation’s specialized bodies. Only when there was some resounding technical failure, or a head-on collision with an environmental or historical group, did TCC emerge from the shadows. The last confrontation of this kind had involved the Antarctic Pipeline, that miracle of twenty-first-century engineering, built to pump fluidized coal from the vast polar deposits to the power plants and factories of the world. In a mood of ecological euphoria, TCC had proposed demolishing the last remaining section of the pipeline and restoring the land to the penguins.
Instantly, there had been cries of protest from the industrial archaeologists, outraged at such vandalism, and from the naturalists, who pointed out that the penguins simply loved the abandoned pipeline. It had provided housing of a standard they had never before enjoyed, and thus contributed to a population explosion that the killer whales could barely handle. So TCC had surrendered without a fight.
Rajasinghe did not know if Morgan had been associated with this minor debacle. It hardly mattered, since his name was now linked with TCC’s greatest triumph. . . .
The Ultimate Bridge, it had been christened; and perhaps with justice. Rajasinghe had watched, with half the world, when the final section was lifted gently skyward by the Graf Zeppelin II—itself one of the marvels of the age. All the airship’s luxurious fittings had been removed to save weight, the famous swimming pool had been drained, and the reactors pumped their excess heat into the gasbags to give extra lift. It was the first time that a dead weight of more than a thousand tons had ever been hoisted three kilometers straight up into the sky, and everything—doubtless to the disappointment of millions—had gone without a hitch.
No ship would ever again pass the Pillars of Hercules without saluting the mightiest bridge that man had ever built—or, in all probability, would ever build. The twin towers at the junction of Mediterranean and Atlantic were themselves the tallest structures in the world, and faced each other across fifteen kilometers of space—empty except for the incredible, delicate arch of the Gibraltar Bridge. It would be a privilege to meet the man who had conceived it; even though he was an hour late. . . .
“My apologies, Ambassador,” said Morgan as he climbed out of the electrotricycle. “I hope the delay hasn’t inconvenienced you.”
“Not at all. My time is my own. You’ve eaten, I hope?”
“Yes. When they canceled my Rome connection, at least they gave me an excellent lunch.”
“Probably better than you’d get at the Hotel Yakkagala. I’ve arranged a room for the night—it’s only a kilometer from here. I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our discussion until breakfast.”
Morgan looked disappointed, but gave a shrug of acquiescence.
“Well, I’ve plenty of work to keep me busy. I assume that the hotel has full executive facilities—or at least a standard terminal.”
Rajasinghe laughed.
“I wouldn’t guarantee anything much more sophisticated than a telephone. But I have a better suggestion. In just over half an hour, I’m taking some friends to the Rock. There’s a son-et-lumière performance that I strongly recommend, and you’re welcome to join us.”
He could tell that Morgan was hesitating, as he tried to think of a polite excuse.
“That’s very kind of you, but I really must get in touch with my office.”
“You can use my console. I can promise you—you’ll find the show fascinating, and it lasts only an hour. . . . Oh, I forgot—you don