Flying through the air, crossing the sky like a bird is something that Jiriki has never done before. It is one of the more outlandish and visible abilities that technology bestows upon its subjects. Up until now, if it was altitude that Jiriki wanted, he would have had to climb up the mountain. That in itself can be exhilarating, of course, but not as astonishing as cutting through the air, supported on borrowed wings instead of sandalled feet. So as he approached the airfield, he was rather looking forward to being carried in such an exciting manner into the Metropolis.

The monks are warned time and time again of the unreliability of looking forward to things which are only expected, not experienced. And Jiriki’s experience of flight, that most fantastic of human dreams, turns out to be somewhat different from that which he had expected.

Not because of the enforced loitering that he and other passengers were obliged to indulge in before they were allowed to board the aircraft. Having to endure a period of inactivity is not as demanding for a monk who is used to quiet and still meditation as it seems to be for modern people, who accurately while away each minute, and every single second, with frustration.

No. It is because when it comes to flying, all the tell-tale symptoms have been designed away. There is no rush of air, no giddying feeling of acceleration, no freedom. Jiriki sits in a crowded room, long and narrow, has drinks and light refreshments, gets entertained: all sorts of things, none of them admitting to the activity of flight. And while he and the others sit diligently in their comfortable seats, waiting to be allowed to leave, outside — somehow or other — the airfield is changed into a huge concrete airport in the midst of the great Metropolis. A mammoth task, and one which not surprisingly takes several hours to complete.

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