“For years,” he said with indignation, “we have been protesting about the disturbance caused by re-entering spacecraft. Now you want to generate shock waves in… in our back garden.”

“Our operations will not be transonic, at this altitude,” Morgan replied firmly. “And the tower structure will absorb most of the sound energy. In fact,” he added, trying to press what he had suddenly seen as an advantage, “in the long run, we'll help to eliminate re-entry booms. The mountain will actually be a quieter place.”

“I understand. Instead of occasional concussions, we shall have a steady roar.”

I'm not getting anywhere with this character, thought Morgan; and I'd expected the Mahanayake Thero to be the biggest obstacle.

Sometimes, it was best to change the subject entirely. He decided to dip one cautious toe into the quaking quagmire of theology.

“Isn't there something appropriate,” he said earnestly, “in what we are trying to do? Our purposes may be different, but the net results have much in common. What we hope to build is only an extension of your stairway. If I may say so, we're continuing it – all the way to Heaven.”

For a moment, the Venerable Parakarma seemed taken aback at such effrontery. Before he could recover, his superior answered smoothly: “An interesting concept– but our philosophy does not believe in Heaven. Such salvation as may exist can be found only in this world, and I sometimes wonder at your anxiety to leave it. Do you know the story of the Tower of Babel?”

“Vaguely.”

“I suggest you look it up in the old Christian Bible – Genesis II. That, too, was an engineering project to scale the heavens. It failed, owing to difficulties in communication.”

“Though we shall 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 which seemed in some ways greater than that between Homo sapiens and Starglider. They spoke the same language, but there were gulfs of incomprehension which might never be spanned.

“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.

18. The Golden Butterflies

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.

19. By the Shores of Lake Saladin

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.”