The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [100]
Yet this time, to Morgan’s surprise, Kingsley did not seem utterly downcast.
“You can still make it,” he said. “Give the battery ten minutes to recuperate. There’s enough energy there for that last couple of kilometers.”
It was one of the longest ten minutes that Morgan had ever known. Though he could have made it pass more swiftly by responding to Duval’s increasingly desperate pleas, he was too emotionally exhausted to talk. He was genuinely sorry about this, and hoped that Maxine would understand and forgive him.
He did have one brief exchange with Driver-Pilot Chang, who reported that the refugees in the Basement were in fairly good shape and much encouraged by his nearness. They were taking turns to peer at him through the one small porthole of the air lock’s outer door, and simply could not believe that he might never be able to bridge the trifling space between them.
Morgan gave the battery an extra minute for luck. To his relief, the motors responded strongly, with an encouraging surge of power. Spider got within half a kilometer of the Tower before stalling again.
“Next time does it,” said Kingsley, though it seemed to Morgan that his friend’s confidence sounded somewhat forced. “Sorry for all these delays . . .”
“Another ten minutes?” Morgan asked with resignation.
“I’m afraid so. And this time, use thirty-second bursts, with a minute between them. That way, you’ll get the last erg out of the battery.”
And out of me, thought Morgan. Strange that CORA had been quiet for so long. But this time he had not exerted himself physically; it only felt that way.
In this preoccupation with Spider, he had been neglecting himself. For the last hour he had quite forgotten his zero-residue glucose-based energy tablet and the little plastic bulb of fruit juice. After he had sampled both, he felt much better, and only wished that he could transfer some of the surplus calories to the dying battery.
Now for the moment of truth—the final exertion. Failure was unthinkable, when he was so close to the goal. The fates could not possibly be so malevolent now that he had only a few hundred meters to go.
He was whistling in the dark, of course. How many aircraft had crashed at the very edge of the runway after safely crossing an ocean? How many times had machines or muscles failed when there were only millimeters to go? Every possible piece of luck, bad as well as good, happened to somebody, somewhere. He had no right to expect any special treatment.
The capsule heaved itself upward in fits and starts, like a dying animal seeking its last haven. When the battery finally expired, the base of the Tower seemed to fill half the sky.
But it was still twenty meters above him.
54
Theory
of Relativity
It was to Morgan’s credit that he felt his own fate was sealed, in the desolating moment when the last dregs of power were exhausted and the lights on Spider’s display panel finally faded out. Not for several seconds did he remember that he had only to release the brakes and he would slide back to Earth. In three hours, he could be safely back to Earth. In three hours, he could be safely back in bed. No one would blame him for the failure of his mission; he had done all that was humanly possible.
For a brief while, he stared in a kind of dull fury at that inaccessible square, with the shadow of Spider projected upon it. His mind revolved a host of crazy schemes, and rejected them all. If he still had his faithful little spinnerette—but there would have been no way of getting it to the Tower. If the refugees had possessed a spacesuit, someone could lower a rope to him—but there had been no time to collect a suit from the burning transporter.
Of course, if this was a video drama, and not a real-life problem some heroic volunteer could sacrifice himself—better still, herself—by going into the lock and tossing down a rope using the fifteen seconds of vacuum consciousness to save the