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

City of Gold-the ancient capital which he had abandoned for his dream.
Once more the thunder rolled, but Kalidasa knew that its promise was
false. Even here, on the summit of Demon Rock, the air hung still and
lifeless; there were none of the sudden, random gusts that heralded the
onset of the monsoon. Before the rains came at last, famine might be added
to his troubles.
"Your Majesty," said the patient voice of the court Adigar, "the envoys
are about to leave. They wish to pay their respects."
Ah yes, those two pale ambassadors from across the western ocean! He
would be sorry to see them go, for they had brought news, in their
abominable Taprobani, of many wonders-though none, they were willing to
admit, that equalled this fortress-palace in the sky.
Kalidasa turned his back upon the white-capped mountain and the
parched, shimmering landscape, and began to descend the granite steps to the
audience chamber. Behind him, the chamberlain and his aides bore gifts of
ivory and gems for the tall, proud men who were waiting to say farewell.
Soon they would carry the treasures of Taprobane across the sea, to a city
younger by centuries than Ranapura; and perhaps, for a little while, divert
the brooding thoughts of the Emperor Hadrian.
His robes a flare of orange against the white plaster of the temple
walls, the Mahanayake Thero walked slowly to the northern parapet. Far below
lay the chequer-board of paddy-fields stretching from horizon to horizon,
the dark lines of irrigation channels, the blue gleam of the Paravana
Samudra-and, beyond that inland sea, the sacred domes of Ranapura floating
like ghostly bubbles, impossibly huge when one realised their true distance.
For thirty years he had watched that ever-changing panorama, but he knew
that he would never grasp all the details of its fleeting complexity,
colours, boundaries altered with every season - indeed, with every passing
cloud. On the day that he too passed, thought Bodhidharma, he would still
see something new.
Only one thing jarred in all this exquisitely patterned landscape. Tiny
though it appeared from this altitude, the grey boulder of Demon Rock seemed
an alien intruder. Indeed, legend had it that Yakkagala was a fragment of
the herb-bearing Himalayan peak that the monkey god Hanuman had dropped, as
he hastily carried both medicine and mountain to his injured comrades, when
the battles of the Ramayana were over.
From this distance, of course, it was impossible to see any details of
Kalidasa's folly, except for a faint line that hinted at the outer rampart
of the Pleasure Gardens. Yet once it had been experienced, such was the
impact of Demon Rock that it was impossible to forget. The Mahanayake Thero
could see in imagination, as clearly as if he stood between them, the
immense lion's claws protruding from the sheer face of the cliff - while
overhead loomed the battlements upon which, it was easy to believe, the
accursed King still walked.
Thunder crashed down from above, rising swiftly to such a crescendo of
power that it seemed to shake the mountain itself. In a continuous,
sustained concussion it raced across the sky, dwindling away into the east.
For long seconds, echoes rolled around the rim of the horizon. No-one could
mistake this as any herald of the coming rains; they were not scheduled for
another three weeks, and Monsoon Control was never in error by more than