The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [62]
He was no longer standing on a wind-swept mountainside. He was beneath the dome of the Hagia Sophia, looking up in awe and admiration at the work of men who had died sixteen centuries ago. And in his ears sounded the tolling of the mighty bell that had once summoned the faithful to prayer.
The memory of Istanbul faded. He was back on the mountain, more puzzled and confused than ever.
What was it that the monk had told him? That Kalidasa’s unwelcome gift had been silent for centuries, and was allowed to speak only in time of disaster? There had been no disaster here; as far as the monastery was concerned, precisely the opposite.
Just for a moment, the embarrassing possibility occurred to Morgan that the probe might have crashed into the temple precincts. No, that was out of the question. It had missed the peak with kilometers to spare. And, in any event, it was much too small an object to do any serious damage as it half fell, half glided out of the sky.
He stared up at the monastery, from which the voice of the great bell still challenged the gale. The orange robes had all vanished from the parapets; there was not a monk in sight.
Something brushed delicately against Morgan’s cheek, and he automatically flicked it aside. It was hard even to think while that dolorous throbbing filled the air, and hammered at his brain. He supposed he had better walk up to the temple and politely ask the Mahanayake Thero what had happened. . . .
Once more, that soft, silken contact against his face, and this time he caught a glimpse of yellow out of the corner of his eye. His reactions had always been swift; he grabbed, and did not miss.
The insect lay crumpled in the palm of his hand, yielding up the last seconds of its ephemeral life even as Morgan watched—and the universe he had always known seemed to tremble and dissolve around him. His miraculous defeat had been converted into an even more inexplicable victory. Yet he felt no sense of triumph—only confusion and astonishment.
For he remembered now the legend of the golden butterflies. Driven by the gale, in their hundreds and thousands, they were being swept up the face of the mountain, to die upon its summit. Kalidasa’s legions had at last achieved their goal—and their revenge.
31
Exodus
“What happened?” asked Sheik Abdullah.
That’s a question I’ll never be able to answer, Morgan said to himself. But he replied: “The mountain is ours, Mr. President. The monks have already started to leave. It’s incredible. How could a two-thousand-year-old legend. . .?” He shook his head in baffled wonder.
“If enough men believe in a legend, it becomes true.”
“I suppose so. But there’s much more to it than that. The whole chain of events seems impossible.”
“That’s always a risky word to use. Let me tell you a little story. A dear friend, a great scientist, now dead, used to tease me by saying that because politics is the art of the possible, it appeals only to second-rate minds. The first-raters, he claimed, were only interested in the impossible. And do you know what I answered?”
“No,” said Morgan, politely and predictably.
“It’s lucky there are so many of us—because someone has to run the world. . . . Anyway, if the impossible has happened, you should accept it thankfully.”
I accept it, thought Morgan—reluctantly. There is something very strange about a universe where a few dead butterflies can balance a billion-ton tower.
And there was the ironic role of the Venerable Parakarma, who must surely now feel that he was the pawn of some malicious gods. The Monsoon Control Administrator had been most contrite, and Morgan had accepted his apologies with unusual graciousness. He could well believe that the brilliant Dr. Choam Goldberg had revolutionized micrometeorology, that no one had really understood all that he was doing, and that he had finally had some kind of nervous breakdown while conducting his experiments. It would never happen again. . . . Morgan had expressed his, quite sincere, hopes for