The Fountains of Paradise Page 10

  “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 to resume his interrupted nap.

  “The Golden Butterflies—they’re the souls of Kalidasa’s warriors, the army he lost at Yakkagala.”

  Morgan gave an unenthusiastic grunt, hoping that the driver would get the message; but he continued remorselessly.

  “Every year, around this time, they head for the mountain, and they all die on its lower slopes. Sometimes you’ll meet them halfway up the cable ride, but that’s the highest they get. Which is lucky for the vihara.”

  “The vihara?” asked Morgan sleepily.

  “The temple. If they ever reach it, Kalidasa will have conquered, and the bhikkus—the monks—will have to leave. That’s the prophecy—it’s carved on a stone slab in the Ranapura Museum. I can show it to you.”

  “Some other time,” said Morgan hastily as he settled back into the padded seat. But it was many kilometers before he could doze off again, because there was something haunting about the image that the driver had conjured up.

  He would remember it often in the months ahead—when waking, and in moments of stress or crisis. Once again he would be immersed in that golden snowstorm, as the doomed millions spent their energies in a vain assault upon the mountain and all that it symbolized.

  Even now, at the very beginning of his campaign, the image was too close for comfort.

  19

  By the Shores of

  Lake Saladin

  “Almost all the Alternative History computer simulations suggested that the Battle of Tours (A.D. 732) was one of the crucial disasters of mankind. Had Charles Martel been defeated, Islam might have resolved the internal differences that were tearing it apart and gone on to conquer Europe. Thus centuries of Christian barbarism would have been avoided, the Industrial Revolution would have started almost a thousand years earlier, and by now we would have reached the nearer stars instead of merely the farther planets.

  . . .“But fate ruled otherwise, and the armies of the Prophet turned back into Africa. Islam lingered on, a fascinating fossil, until the end of the twentieth century. Then, abruptly, it was dissolved in oil . . .”

  Chairman’s Address

  Toynbee Bicentennial Symposium

  London, 2089

  “Did you know,” said Sheik Farouk Abdullah, “that I have now appointed myself Grand Admiral of the Sahara Fleet?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, Mr. President,” Morgan answered as he gazed out across the sparkling blue expanse of Lake Saladin. “If it’s not a naval secret, how many ships do you have?”

  “Ten at the moment. The largest is a thirty-meter hydro-skimmer run by the Red Crescent. It spends every weekend rescuing incompetent sailors. My people still aren’t much good on the water—look at that idiot trying to tack! After all, two hundred years really isn’t long enough to switch from camels to boats.”

  “You had Cadillacs and Rolls-Royces in between. Surely that should have eased the transition.”

  “And we still have them. My great-great-great-grandfather’s Silver Ghost is just as good as new. But I must be fair—it’s the visitors who get into trouble, trying to cope with our local winds. We stick to powerboats. And next year I’m getting a submarine guaranteed to reach the lake’s maximum depth of seventy-eight meters.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Now they tell us that the Erg was full of archaeological treasures. Of course, no one bothered about them before it was flooded.”

  It was no use trying to hurry the President of ANAR—the Autonomous North African Republic—and Morgan knew better than to attempt it. Whatever the constitution might say, Sheik Abdullah controlled more power and wealth than almost any single individual on earth. More to the point, he understood the uses of both.

  He came of a family that was not afraid to take risks, and seldom had cause to regret them. Its first and most famous gamble—which had incurred the hatred of the whole Arab world for almost half a century—was the investment of its abundant petro-dollars in the science and technology of Israel. That farsighted act had led directly to the mining of the Red Sea, the defeat of the deserts, and, very much later, to the Gibraltar Bridge. . . .

  “I don’t have to tell you, Van,” said the Sheik at last, “how much your new project fascinates me. And after all that we went through together while the Bridge was being built, I know that you could do it—given the resources.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I have a few questions. I’m not clear why there’s Midway Station—and why it’s at a height of twenty-five thousand kilometers.”

  “Several reasons. We need a major power plant at about that level, which would involve fairly massive construction there in any case. Then it occurred to us that seven hours was too long to stay cooped up in a rather cramped cabin, and splitting the journey would give a number of advantages. We wouldn’t have to feed the passengers in transit; they could eat and stretch their legs at the station. We could also optimize the vehicle design. Only the capsules on the lower section would have to be streamlined. Th
ose on the upper run could be much simpler and lighter. Midway Station would serve not only as a transfer point, but also as an operations and control center—and ultimately, we believe, as a major tourist attraction and resort in its own right.”

  “But it’s not midway! It’s almost—ah—two thirds of the distance up to stationary orbit.”

  “True. The mid-point would be at eighteen thousand, not twenty-five. But there’s another factor: safety. If the section above is severed, Midway Station won’t crash back to earth.”

  “Why not?”

  “It will have enough momentum to maintain a stable orbit. Of course, it will fall earthward, but it will always remain clear of the atmosphere. So it will be perfectly safe. It will simply become a space station, moving in a ten-hour elliptical orbit. Twice a day, it will be right back where it started from, and eventually it could be reconnected. In theory, at least . . .”

  “And in practice?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it could be done. Certainly the people and equipment on the station could be saved. But we wouldn’t have even that option if we established it at a lower altitude. Anything falling from below the twenty-five-thousand-kilometer limit hits the atmosphere and burns up in five hours, or less.”

  “Do you propose advertising this fact to passengers on the Earth-Midway run?”

  “We hope they will be too busy admiring the view to worry about it.”

  “You make it sound like a scenic elevator.”

  “Why not? Except that the tallest scenic ride on Earth goes up a mere three kilometers! We’re talking about something ten thousand times higher.”

  There was a considerable pause while Sheik Abdullah thought this over.

  “We missed an opportunity,” he said at last. “We could have had five-kilometer scenic rides up the piers of the Bridge.”

  “They were in the original design, but we dropped them for the usual reason—economy.”

  “Perhaps we made a mistake. They could have paid for themselves. And I’ve just realized something else. If this . . . hyperfilament . . . had been available at the time, I suppose the Bridge could have been built for half the cost.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Mr. President. Less than a fifth. But construction would have been delayed more than twenty years, so you haven’t lost by it.”

  “I must talk that over with my accountants. Some of them still aren’t convinced it was a good idea, even though the traffic growth rate is ahead of projection. But I keep telling them that money isn’t everything—the republic needed the Bridge psychologically and culturally, as well as economically. Did you know that eighteen percent of the people who drive across it do so just because it’s there, not for any other reason? And then they go straight back again, despite having to pay the toll both ways.”

  “I seem to recall,” said Morgan dryly, “giving you similar arguments a long time ago. You weren’t easy to convince.”

  “True. I remember that the Sydney Opera House was your favorite example. You liked to point out how many times that had paid for itself—even in hard cash, let alone prestige.”

  “And don’t forget the Pyramids.”

  The Sheik laughed.

  “What did you call them? The best investment in the history of mankind?”

  “Precisely. Still paying tourist dividends after four thousand years.”

  “Hardly a fair comparison, though. Their running costs don’t compare with those of the Bridge . . . much less your proposed Tower’s.”

  “The Tower may last longer than the Pyramids. It’s in a far more benign environment.”

  “That’s a very impressive thought. You really believe that it will operate for several thousand years?”

  “Not in its original form, of course. But in principle, yes. Whatever technical developments the future brings, I don’t believe there will ever be a more efficient, more economical way of reaching space. Think of it as another bridge. But this time, a bridge to the stars—or at least to the planets.”

  “And once again, you’d like us to help finance it. We’ll still be paying for the last bridge for another twenty years. It’s not as if your Space Elevator was on our territory, or was of direct importance to us.”

  “But I believe it is, Mr. President. Your republic is a part of the terran economy, and the cost of space transportation is now one of the factors limiting its growth. If you’ve looked at those estimates for the 50’s and 60’s . . .”

  “I have—I have. Very interesting. But though we’re not exactly poor, we couldn’t raise a fraction of the funds needed. Why, it would absorb the entire gross world product for a couple of years!”

  “And pay it back every fifteen, forever afterward.”

  “If your projections are correct.”

  “They were for the Bridge. But you’re right, of course, and I don’t expect ANAR to do more than start the ball rolling. Once you’ve shown your interest, it will be that much easier to get other support.”

  “Such as?”

  “The World Bank. The planetary banks. The federal government.”

  “And your own employers, the Terran Construction Corporation? What are you really up to, Van?”

  Here it comes, thought Morgan, almost with a sigh of relief. Now at last he could talk frankly with someone he could trust, someone who was too big to be involved in petty bureaucratic intrigues, but who could thoroughly appreciate their finer points.

  “I’ve been doing most of this work in my own time—I’m on vacation right now. And incidentally, that’s just how the Bridge started! I don’t know if I ever told you that I was once officially ordered to forget it. . . . I’ve learned a few lessons in the past fifteen years.”

  “This report must have taken a good deal of computer time. Who paid for that?”

  “Oh, I have considerable discretionary funds. And my staff is always doing studies that nobody else can understand. To tell the truth, I’ve had quite a little team playing with the idea for several months. They’re so enthusiastic that they spend most of their free time on it as well. But now we have to commit ourselves—or abandon the project.”

  “Does your esteemed chairman know about this?”

  Morgan smiled, without much humor.

  “Of course not, and I don’t want to tell him until I’ve worked out all the details.”

  “I can appreciate some of the complications,” said the President shrewdly. “One of them, I imagine, is insuring that Senator Collins doesn’t invent it first.”

  “He can’t do that—the idea is about two hundred years old. But he, and a lot of other people, could slow it down. I want to see it happen in my lifetime.”

  “And of course you intend to be in charge. . . . Well, what exactly would you like us to do?”

  “This is merely one suggestion, Mr. President—you may have a better idea. Form a consortium—perhaps including the Gibraltar Bridge Authority, the Suez and Panama corporations, the English Channel Company, the Bering Dam Corporation. . . . Then, when it’s all wrapped up, approach TCC with a request for a feasibility study. At this stage, the investment will be negligible.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Less than a million. Especially since I’ve already done ninety percent of the work.”

  “And then?”

  “Thereafter, with your backing, Mr. President, I can play it by ear. I might stay with TCC. Or I might resign and join the consortium—call it Astroengineering. It would all depend on circumstances. I would do whatever seemed best for the project.”

  “That seems a reasonable approach. I think we can work something out.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Morgan answered with heartfelt sincerity. “But there’s one annoying roadblock we have to tackle at once—perhaps even before we set up the consortium. We have to go to the World Court and establish jurisdiction over the most valuable piece of real estate on earth.”

  20

  The Bridge

  That Danced

  Even in thi
s age of instantaneous communication and swift global transport, it was convenient to have a place that one could call one’s office. Not everything could be stored in patterns of electronic charges; there were still such items as good old-fashioned books, professional certificates, awards and honors, engineering models, samples of material, artists’ renderings of projects (not as accurate as a computer’s, but very ornamental), and, of course, the wall-to-wall carpet that every senior bureaucrat needed to soften the impact of external reality.

  Morgan’s office, which he saw, on the average, ten days per month, was on the sixth or LAND floor of the sprawling Terran Construction Corporation headquarters in Nairobi. The floor below was SEA; that above it, ADMINISTRATION—meaning Chairman Collins and his empire. The architect, in a fit of naive symbolism, had devoted the top floor to SPACE. There was even a small observatory on the roof, with a thirty-centimeter telescope, which was always out of order because it was used only during office parties, and frequently for very nonastronomical purposes. The upper rooms of the Triplanetary Hotel, only a kilometer away, were a favorite target, since they often held some extremely strange forms of life—or, at any rate, of behavior.

  Since Morgan was in continuous touch with his two secretaries—one human, the other electronic—he expected no surprises when he walked into his office after the brief flight from ANAR. By the standards of an earlier age, his was an extraordinarily small organization. He had fewer than three hundred men and women under his direct control; but the computing and information-processing power at their command could not be matched by the merely human population of the entire planet.

  “Well, how did you get on with the Sheik?” asked Warren Kingsley, his deputy and long-time friend, as soon as they were alone together.

  “Very well. I think we have a deal. But I still can’t believe that we’re held up by such a stupid problem. What does the Legal Department say?”