Such things happened with monotonous regularity. Sometimes they were merely annoying; sometimes they were disastrous, and the man responsible had to carry the guilt for the rest of his days. In any event, recrimination was pointless. The only thing that mattered now was what to do next.
Morgan adjusted the external viewing mirror to its maximum downward tilt, but it was impossible to see the cause of the trouble. Now that the auroral display had faded, the lower part of the capsule was in total darkness, and he had no means of illuminating it. But that problem, at least, could be readily solved. If Monsoon Control could dump kilowatts of infrared into the Basement of the Tower, it could easily spare him a few visible photons.
“We can use our own searchlights,” said Kingsley, when Morgan passed on his request.
“No good. They’ll shine straight into my eyes, and I won’t be able to see a thing. I want a light behind and above me—there must be somebody in the right position.”
“I’ll check,” Kingsley answered, obviously glad to make some useful gesture. It seemed a long time before he called again, but looking at his timer, Morgan was surprised to see that only three minutes had elapsed.
“Monsoon Control could manage it, but they’d have to retune and defocus—I think they’re scared of frying you. But Kinte can light up immediately. They have a pseudo-white laser—and they’re in the right position. Shall I tell them to go ahead?”
Morgan checked his bearings. Let’s see, Kinte would be very high in the west—that would be fine.
“I’m ready,” he answered, and closed his eyes. Almost instantly, the capsule exploded with light.
Cautiously, Morgan opened his eyes again. The beam was coming from high in the west, dazzlingly brilliant despite its journey of almost forty thousand kilometers. It appeared to be pure white, but he knew that it was actually a blend of three sharply tuned lines in the red, green, and blue parts of the spectrum.
After a few seconds’ adjustment of the mirror, he managed to get a clear view of the offending strap, half a meter beneath his feet. The end that he could see was secured to the base of Spider by a large butterfly nut. All that he had to do was to unscrew that, and the battery would drop off. . . .
Morgan sat silently analyzing the situation for so many minutes that Kingsley called him again. For the first time, there was a trace of hope in his deputy’s voice.
“We’ve been doing some calculations, Van. . . . What do you think of this idea?”
Morgan heard him out, then whistled softly.
“You’re certain of the safety margin?” he asked.
“Of course,” answered Kingsley, sounding somewhat aggrieved. Morgan hardly blamed him, but he was not the one who would be risking his neck.
“Well—I’ll give it a try. But only for one second, the first time.”
“That won’t be enough. Still, it’s a good idea—you’ll get the feel of it.”
Gently, Morgan released the friction brakes that were holding Spider motionless on the tape. Instantly, he seemed to rise out of the seat, as weight vanished. He counted, “One, TWO!” and engaged the brakes again.
Spider gave a jerk, and for a fraction of a second Morgan was pressed uncomfortably down into the seat. There was an ominous squeal from the braking mechanism, then the capsule was at rest again, apart from a slight torsional vibration that quickly died away.
“That was a bumpy ride,” said Morgan. “But I’m still here—and so is that infernal battery.”
“So I warned you. You’ll have to try harder. Two seconds at least.”
Morgan knew that he could not outguess Kingsley, with all the figures and computing power at his command, but he felt the need for some reassuring mental arithmetic. Two seconds of free fall—say half a second to put on the brakes—allowing one ton for the mass of Spider . . .
The question was: which would go first—the strap retaining the battery, or the tape that was holding him here four hundred kilometers up in the sky? In the usual way, it would be no contest in a trial between hyperfilament and ordinary steel. But if he applied the brakes too suddenly—or they seized owing to this maltreatment—both might snap. And then he and the battery would reach the Earth at very nearly the same time.
“Two seconds it is,” he told Kingsley. “Here we go.”
This time, the jerk was nerve-racking in its violence, and the torsional oscillations took much longer to die out. Morgan was certain that he would have felt—or heard—the breaking of the strap. He was not surprised when a glance in the mirror confirmed that the battery was still there.
Kingsley did not seem too worried.
“It may take three or four times,” he said.
Morgan was tempted to retort, “Are you after my job?” but thought better of it. Kingsley would be amused; unknown listeners might not.
After the third fall—he felt he had dropped kilometers, but it was only about a hundred meters—even Kingsley’s optimism started to fade. It was obvious that the trick was not going to work.
“I’d like to send my compliments to the people who made that safety strap,” said Morgan wryly. “Now what do you suggest? A three-second drop before I slam on the brakes?”
He could almost see Kingsley shake his head.
“Too big a risk. I’m not so much worried about the tape as the braking mechanism. It wasn’t designed for this sort of thing.”
“Well, it was a good try,” Morgan answered. “But I’m not giving up yet. I’m damned if I’ll be beaten by a simple butterfly nut, fifty centimeters in front of my nose. I’m going outside to get at it.”
50
The Falling
Fireflies
“01 15 24 This is Friendship Seven. I’ll try to describe what I’m in here. I am in a big mass of some very small particles that are brilliantly lit up like they’re luminescent. . . . They’re coming by the capsule, and they look like little stars. A whole shower of them coming by . . .
“01 16 10 They’re very slow; they’re not going away from me more than maybe three or four miles an hour. . . .
“01 19 38 Sunrise has just come up behind in the periscope . . . as I looked back out of the window, I had literally thousands of small, luminous particles swirling round the capsule. . . .”
Commander John Glenn
Mercury Friendship Seven,
20 Feb. 1962
With the old-style spacesuits, reaching that butterfly nut would have been completely out of the question. Even with the Flexisuit that Morgan was now wearing, it might be difficult, but at least he could make the attempt.
Very carefully, because more lives than his own depended upon it, he rehearsed the sequence of events. He must check the suit, depressurize the capsule, and open the hatch—which, luckily, was almost full-length. Then he must release the safety belt, get down on his knees—if he could!—and reach for that butterfly nut. Everything depended upon its tightness. There were no tools of any kind aboard Spider, but Morgan was prepared to match his fingers—even in space gloves—against the average small wrench.
He was just about to describe his plan of operations, in case anyone on the ground could find a flaw, when he became aware of a certain mild discomfort. He could readily tolerate it for much longer, if necessary, but there was no point in taking chances. If he used the capsule’s own plumbing, he would not have to bother with the awkward diver’s friend incorporated in the suit. . . .
When he had finished, he turned the key of the urine dump—and was startled by a tiny explosion near the base of the capsule. Almost instantly, to his astonishment, a cloud of twinkling stars winked into existence, as if a microscopic galaxy had been suddenly created. He had the illusion that, just for a fraction of a second, it hovered motionless outside the capsule before it started to fall straight down, as swiftly as any stone dropped on Earth. Within seconds, it had dwindled to a point, and was gone.
Nothing could have brought home more clearly the fact that he was still wholly a captive of the earth
’s gravitational field. He remembered how, in the early days of orbital flight, the first astronauts had been puzzled and then amused by the haloes of ice crystals that accompanied them around the planet; there had been some feeble jokes about “Constellation Urion.” That could not happen here; anything he dropped, however fragile it might be, would crash straight back into the atmosphere. He must never forget that, despite his altitude, he was not an astronaut, reveling in the freedom of weightlessness.
He was a man inside a building four hundred kilometers high, preparing to open the window and go out on the ledge.
51
On the Porch
Though it was cold and uncomfortable on the summit, the crowd continued to grow. There was something hypnotic about that brilliant little star in the zenith, upon which the thoughts of the world, as well as the laser beam from Kinte, were now focused.
As they arrived, all the visitors headed for the north tape, and stroked it in a shy, half-defiant manner, as if to say, “I know this is silly, but it makes me feel I’m in contact with Morgan.” Then they would gather around the coffee dispenser and listen to the reports coming over the speaker system.
There was nothing new from the refugees in the Tower. They were all sleeping, or trying to sleep, in an attempt to conserve oxygen. Since Morgan was not yet overdue, they had not been informed of the holdup; but within the next hour they would undoubtedly be calling Midway to find out what had happened.
Maxine Duval had arrived at Sri Kanda just ten minutes too late to see Morgan. There was a time when such a near-miss would have made her very angry. Now she merely shrugged her shoulder and reassured herself with the thought that she would be the first to grab the engineer on his return. Kingsley had not allowed her to speak to him, and she had even accepted this ruling with good grace. Yes, she was growing old. . . .
For the last five minutes, the only sound that had come from the capsule was a series of “Check”s as Morgan went through the suit routine with an expert up in Midway. When that was completed, everyone waited tensely for the crucial next step.
“Valving the air,” said Morgan, his voice overlaid with a slight echo now that he had closed the visor of his helmet. “Capsule pressure zero. No problem with breathing.”
A thirty-second pause.
“Opening the front door—there it goes. Now releasing the seat belt.”
There was an unconscious stirring and murmuring among the watchers. In imagination, every one of them was up there in the capsule, aware of the void that had opened before Morgan.
“Quick-release buckle operated. I’m stretching my legs. Not much headroom . . .
“Just getting the feel of the suit. Quite flexible. Now I’m going out on the porch. Don’t worry! I’ve got the seat belt wrapped around my left arm. . . .
“Phew. Hard work, bending as much as this. But I can see that butterfly nut, underneath the porch grille. I’m working out how to reach it. . . .
“On my knees now—not very comfortable . . .
“I’ve got it! Now to see if it will turn . . .”
The listeners became rigid, silent—then, in unison, relaxed with virtually simultaneous sighs of relief.
“No problem! I can turn it easily. Two revs already. Any moment now. Just a bit more. I can feel it coming off—LOOK OUT DOWN BELOW!”
There was a burst of clapping and cheering. Some people put their hands over their heads and cowered in mock terror. One or two, not fully understanding that the falling nut would not arrive for five minutes and would descend ten kilometers to the east, looked genuinely alarmed.
Only Kingsley failed to share the rejoicing.
“Don’t cheer too soon,” he said to Duval. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”
The seconds dragged by. One minute . . . two minutes . . .
“It’s no use,” said Morgan at last, his voice thick with rage and frustration. “I can’t budge the strap. The weight of the battery is holding it jammed in the threads. Those jolts we gave must have welded it to the bolt.”
“Come back as quickly as you can,” said Kingsley. “There’s a new power cell on the way, and we can manage a turnaround in less than an hour. So we can still get up to the Tower in . . . oh, say, six hours. Barring any further accidents, of course.”
Precisely, thought Morgan; and he would not care to take Spider up again without a thorough check of the much-abused braking mechanism. Nor would he trust himself to make a second trip. He was already feeling the strain of the last few hours, and fatigue would soon be slowing down his mind and his body, just when he needed maximum efficiency from both.
He was back in the seat now, but the capsule was still open to space and he had not yet refastened the safety belt. To do so would be to admit defeat, and that had never been easy for Morgan.
The unwinking glare of the Kinte laser, coming from almost immediately above, transfixed him with its pitiless light. He tried to focus his mind on the problem as sharply as that beam was focused upon him.
All that he needed was a metal cutter—a hacksaw or a pair of shears—he could sever the retaining strap. Once again he cursed the fact that there was no tool kit aboard Spider. Even so, it would hardly have contained what he needed.
There were megawatt-hours of energy stored in Spider’s own battery. Could he use them in any way? He had a brief fantasy of establishing an arc and burning through the strap. But even if suitable heavy conductors were available—and of course they weren’t—the main power supply was inaccessible from the control cab.
Kingsley and all the skilled brains gathered around him had failed to find any solution. He was on his own, physically and intellectually. It was, actually, the situation he had always preferred. . . .
And then, just as he was about to reach out and close the capsule door, Morgan knew what he had to do. All the time, the answer had been right by his finger tips.
52
The other
Passenger
To Morgan, it seemed that a huge weight had lifted from his shoulders. He felt completely, irrationally confident. This time, surely, it had to work.
Nevertheless, he did not move from his seat until he had planned his actions in minute detail. And when Kingsley, sounding a little anxious, once again urged him to hurry back, he gave an evasive answer. He did not wish to raise any false hopes—on Earth or in the Tower.
“I’m trying an experiment,” he said. “Leave me alone for a few minutes.”
He picked up the fiber dispenser that he had used for so many demonstrations—the little spinnerette that, years ago, had allowed him to descend the face of Yakkagala. One change had been made for reasons of safety: the first meter of filament had been coated with a layer of plastic, so that it was no longer quite invisible, and could be handled cautiously, even with bare fingers.
As Morgan looked at the little box in his hand, he realized how much he had come to regard it as a talisman, almost a good-luck charm. Of course, he did not really believe in such things; he always had a perfectly logical reason for carrying the spinnerette around with him. On this ascent, it had occurred to him that it might be useful because of its strength and unique lifting power. He had almost forgotten that it had other abilities as well. . . .
Once more he clambered out of the seat, and knelt down on the metal grille of Spider’s tiny porch to examine the cause of all the trouble. The offending bolt was only ten centimeters on the other side of the grid, and although its bars were too close together for him to put his hand through them, he had already proved that he could reach around it without too much difficulty.
He released the first meter of coated fiber, and using the ring at the end as a plumb bob, lowered it down through the grille. Tucking the dispenser itself firmly in a corner of the capsule, so that he could not accidentally knock it overboard, he reached around the grille until he could grab the swinging weight. This was not as easy as he had expected, because even this remarkable spacesuit would not allow his arm to bend q
uite freely, and the ring eluded his grasp as it pendulumed back and forth.
After half a dozen attempts—tiring, rather than annoying, because he knew that he would succeed sooner or later—he had looped the fiber around the shank of the bolt, just behind the strap it was holding in place. Now for the really tricky part . . .
He released just enough filament from the spinnerette for the naked fiber to reach the bolt, and to pass around it. Then he drew both ends tight—until he felt the loop catch in the thread.
Morgan had never attempted this trick with a rod of tempered steel more than a centimeter thick, and had no idea how long it would take. Bracing himself against the porch, he began to operate his invisible saw.
After five minutes, he was sweating badly, and could not tell if he had made any progress at all. He was afraid to slacken the tension, lest the fiber escape from the equally invisible slot it was, he hoped, slicing through the bolt. Several times Kingsley had called him, sounding more and more alarmed, and he had given a brief reassurance. Soon he would rest for a while, recover his breath—and explain what he was trying to do. This was the least that he owed to his anxious friends.
“Van,” said Kingsley, “just what are you up to? The people in the Tower have been calling. What shall I say to them?”
“Give me another few minutes. I’m trying to cut the bolt—”
The calm but authoritative woman’s voice that interrupted Morgan gave him such a shock that he almost let go of the precious fiber. The words were muffled by his suit, but that did not matter. He knew them all too well, though it had been months since he had last heard them.
“Dr. Morgan,” said CORA, “please lie down and relax for the next ten minutes.”
“Would you settle for five?” he pleaded. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”
CORA did not deign to reply. Although there were units that could conduct simple conversations, his model was not among them.
Morgan kept his promise, breathing deeply and steadily for a full five minutes. Then he started sawing again.