The Fountains of Paradise

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 kilometres to the east, looked genuinely alarmed.

Only Warren Kingsley failed to share the rejoicing. “Don't cheer too soon,” he said to Maxine. “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 turn-around 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 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, still transfixed him with its pitiless light. He tried to focus his mind upon 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 – that 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 that 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.

Warren and all the skilled brains gathered around him had failed to find any solution. He was on his own, physically and intellectually. It was, after all, 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 pla

“I'm trying an experiment,” be said. “Leave me alone for a few minutes.”

He picked up the fibre dispenser that he had used for so many demonstrations – the little spi

As Morgan looked at the little box in his hand, he realised 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 spi

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 centimetres 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 metre of coated fibre, 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 then reached round 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 quite freely, and the ring eluded his grasps as it pendulumed back and forth.

After half-a-dozen attempts – tiring rather than a

He released just enough filament from the spi

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 fibre should escape from the equally invisible slot it was – he hoped – slicing through the bolt. Several times Warren 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 fibre. 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, this model was not among them.

Morgan kept his promise, breathing deeply and steadily for a full five minutes. Then he started sawing again. Back and forth, back and forth he worked the filament, as he crouched over the grille and the four-hundred-kilometre distant earth. He could feel considerable resistance, so he must be making some progress through that stubborn steel. But just how much there was no way of telling.

“Dr. Morgan,” said CORA, “you really must lie down for half-an-hour.”

Morgan swore softly to himself.

“You're making a mistake, young lady,” he retorted. “I'm feeling fine.” But he was lying; CORA knew about the ache in his chest. ..

“Who the hell are you talking to, Van?” asked Kingsley.

“Just a passing angel,” answered Morgan. “Sorry I forgot to switch off the mike. I'm going to take another rest.”