Arthur Clarke - The Fountains of Paradise

“May I ask,” continued the Mahanayake 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 under-budgeted, 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 venerable 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.

Despite the brilliant sunlight and the magnificent views that assailed him on 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 suddenly 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 snow-storm.

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 windscreen. 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 kilometres before he could doze off again, for 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 symbolised.

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

Almost all the Alternative History computer simulations suggest that the Battle of Tours (AD 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 further 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 Bi-centennial 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-metre hydroskimmer 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 power-boats. And next year I'm getting a submarine guaranteed to reach the lake's maximum depth of 78 metres.”

“Whatever for?”

“For 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. Even more to the point, he understood the uses of both.

He came from a family that was not afraid to take risks, and very 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 still not clear why there's Midway Station – and why it's at a height of twenty-five thousand kilometres.”

“Several reasons. We needed 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 gave a number of advantages. We shouldn't have to feed the passengers in transit-they could eat and stretch their legs at the Station. We could also optimise the vehicle design; only the capsules on the lower section would have to be streamlined. Those on the upper run could be much simpler and lighter. The Midway Station would not only serve as a transfer point, but as an operations and control center and ultimately, we believe, as a major tourist attraction and resort in its own right.”