"Arthur C. Clarke. The fountains of paradise" - читать интересную книгу автора

had often told himself - for they are the movers and shakers of the world.
And with this thought there came the first flicker of apprehension.
Almost every week, old friends and old enemies came to this remote spot, to
exchange news and to reminisce about the past. He welcomed such visits, for
they gave a continuing pattern to his life. Yet always he knew, to a high
degree of accuracy, the purpose of the meeting, and the ground that would be
covered. But as far as Rajasinghe was aware, he and Morgan had no interests
in common, beyond those of any men in this day and age. They had never met,
or had any prior communication; indeed, he had barely recognised Morgan's
name. Still more unusual was the fact that the engineer had asked him to
keep this meeting confidential.
Though Rajasinghe had complied, it was with a feeling of resentment.
There was no need, any more, for secrecy in his peaceful life; the very last
thing he wanted now was for some important mystery to impinge upon his
well-ordered existence. He had finished with Security for ever; ten years
ago - or was it even longer? - his personal guards had been removed at his
own request. Yet what upset him most was not the mild secrecy, but his own
total bewilderment. The Chief Engineer (Land) of the Terran Construction
Corporation was not going to travel thousands of kilometres merely to ask
for his autograph, or to express the usual tourist platitudes. He must have
come here for some specific purpose - and, try as he might, Rajasinghe was
unable to imagine it.
Even in his days as a public servant, Rajasinghe had never had occasion
to deal with TCC; its three divisions - Land, Sea, Space - huge though they
were, made perhaps the least news of all the World Federation's specialised
bodies. Only when there was some resounding technical failure, or a head-on
collision with an environmental or historical group, did TCC emerge from the
shadows. The last confrontation of this kind had involved the Antarctic
Pipeline - that miracle of twenty-first-century engineering, built to pump
fluidised coal from the vast polar deposits to the power plants and
factories of the world. In a mood of ecological euphoria, TCC had proposed
demolishing the last remaining section of the pipeline and restoring the
land to the penguins. Instantly there had been cries of protest from the
industrial archaeologists, outraged at such vandalism, and from the
naturalists, who pointed out that the penguins simply loved the abandoned
pipeline. It had provided housing of a standard they had never before
enjoyed, and thus contributed to a population explosion that the killer
whales could barely handle. So TCC had surrendered without a fight.
Rajasinghe did not know if Morgan had been associated with this minor d
щbacle. It hardly mattered, since his name was now linked with TCC's
greatest triumph.
The Ultimate Bridge, it had been christened; and perhaps with justice.
Rajasinghe had watched, with half the world, when the final section was
lifted gently skywards by the Graf Zeppelin - itself one of the marvels of
the age. All the airship's luxurious fittings had been removed to save
weight; the famous swimming pool had been drained, and the reactors were
pumping their excess heat into the gas-bags to give extra lift. It was the
first time that a dead-weight of more than a thousand tons had even been
hoisted three kilometres straight up into the sky, and everything -
doubtless to the disappointment of millions - had gone without a hitch.