The Fountains of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,30

to destroy something ancient and noble; and something that he would never fully understand.

The sight of the great bronze bell, hanging in a campanile that grew out of the monastery wall, stopped Morgan in his tracks. Instantly, his engineer’s mind estimated its weight at not less than five tons, and it was obviously very old. How on earth…?

The monk noticed his curiosity, and gave a smile of understanding.

“Two thousand years old,” he said. “It was a gift from Kalidasa the Accursed, which we felt it expedient not to refuse. According to legend, it took ten years to carry it up the mountain—and the lives of a hundred men.”

“When is it used?” asked Morgan, after he had digested this information.

“Because of its hateful origin, it is sounded only in time of disaster. I have never heard it, nor has any living man. It tolled once, without human aid, during the great earthquake of 2017. And the time before that was 1522, when the Iberian invaders burned the Temple of the Tooth and seized the Sacred Relic.”

“So after all that effort—it’s never been used?”

“Perhaps a dozen times in the last two thousand years. Kalidasa’s doom still lies upon it.”

That might be good religion, Morgan could not help thinking, but hardly sound economics. He wondered irreverently how many monks had succumbed to the temptation of tapping the bell, ever so gently, just to hear for themselves the unknown timbre of its forbidden voice….

They were walking now past a huge boulder, up which a short flight of steps led to a gilded pavilion. This, Morgan realized, was the very summit of the mountain. He knew what the shrine was supposed to hold, but once again the monk enlightened him.

“The footprint,” he said. “The Muslims believed it was Adam’s; he stood here after he was expelled from Paradise. The Hindus attributed it to Siva or Saman. But to the Buddhists, of course, it was the imprint of the Enlightened One.”

“I notice your use of the past tense,” Morgan said in a carefully neutral voice. “What is the belief now?”

The monk’s face showed no emotion as he replied: “The Buddha was a man, like you and me. The impression in the rock—and it is very hard rock—is two meters long.”

That seemed to settle the matter, and Morgan had no further questions while he was led along a short cloister that ended at an open door. The monk knocked, but did not wait for any response as he waved the visitor to enter.

Morgan had half expected to find the Mahanayake Thero sitting cross-legged on a mat, probably surrounded by incense and chanting acolytes. There was, indeed, just a hint of incense in the chill air, but the chief incumbent of the Sri Kanda Maha Vihara sat behind a perfectly ordinary office desk equipped with standard display and memory units. The only unusual item in the room was the head of the Buddha, slightly larger than life, on a plinth in one corner. Morgan could not tell whether it was real or merely a projection.

Despite his conventional setting, there was little likelihood that the head of the monastery would be mistaken for any other type of executive. Quite apart from the inevitable yellow robe, the Mahanayake Thero had two features that, in this age, were extremely rare: he was completely bald, and he was wearing spectacles.

Both, Morgan assumed, were by deliberate choice. Since baldness could be so easily cured, that shining ivory dome must have been shaved or depilated. And he could not remember when he had last seen spectacles, except in historical recordings or dramas.

The combination was fascinating, and disconcerting. Morgan found it virtually impossible to guess the Mahanayake Thero’s age. It could be anything from a mature forty to a well-preserved eighty. And those lenses, transparent though they were, somehow concealed the thoughts and emotions behind them.

“Ayu bowan, Dr. Morgan,” said the High Priest, gesturing to the only empty chair. “This is my secretary, the Venerable Parakarma. I trust you won’t mind if he makes notes.”

“Of course not,” said Morgan, inclining his head toward the remaining occupant of the small room. He noticed that the younger monk had flowing hair and an impressive beard. Presumably, shaven pates were optional.

“So, Dr. Morgan,” the Mahanayake Thero continued, “you want our mountain.”

“I’m afraid so, Your—er—Reverence. Part of it, at any rate.”

“Out of all the world—these few hectares?”

“The choice is not ours, but Nature’s. The earth terminus has to be on the equator, and at the greatest possible altitude, where