The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [104]
He started his circumnavigation of the Tower, shielding his eyes against the glare blasting up from underfoot. The oblique lighting showed up every least bump and imperfection in the surface that stretched above him like a roadway to the stars—which, in a sense, it was.
As he had hoped and expected, the explosion on the far side of the Tower had caused no damage here. That would have required an atomic bomb, not a mere electrochemical one. The twin grooves of the track, now awaiting their first arrival, stretched endlessly upward in their pristine perfection. And fifty meters below the balcony—though it was hard to look in that direction because of the glare—he could just make out the terminal buffers, ready for a task they should never have to perform.
Taking his time, and keeping close to the sheer face of the Tower, Morgan walked slowly westward until he came to the first corner. As he turned, he looked back at the open door of the air lock, and the—relative, indeed!—safety that it represented, before continuing boldly along the blank wall of the west face.
He felt a curious mixture of elation and fear, such as he had not known since he had learned to swim and found himself, for the first time, in water out of his depth. Although he was certain that there was no real danger, there could be. He was acutely aware of CORA, biding her time. But he had always hated to leave any job undone, and his mission was not yet complete.
The west face was exactly like the north one, except for the absence of an air lock. Again, there was no sign of damage, even though it was closer to the scene of the explosion.
Checking the impulse to hurry—after all, he had been outside for only three minutes—Morgan strolled on to the next corner. Even before he turned it, he could see that he was not going to complete his planned circuit of the Tower. The catwalk had been ripped off, and was dangling out into space, a twisted tongue of metal. The safety net had vanished altogether, doubtless torn away by the falling transporter.
Don’t press your luck, Morgan told himself. But he could not resist peering around the corner, holding on to the section of the guardrail that remained.
There was a good deal of debris stuck in the track, and the face of the Tower had been discolored by the explosion. But as far as he could see, even here there was nothing that could not be put right in a couple of hours by a few men with cutting torches. He gave a careful description to Chang, who expressed relief and urged Morgan to get back into the Tower as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry,” said Morgan. “I’ve still got ten minutes and all of thirty meters to go. I could manage on the air I have in my lungs now.”
But he did not intend to put this to the test. He had already had quite enough excitement for one night. More than enough, if CORA was to be believed. From now on, he would obey her orders implicitly.
When he had walked back to the open door of the air lock, he stood for a few final moments beside the guardrail, drenched by the fountain of light leaping up from the summit of Sri Kanda far below. It threw his own immensely elongated shadow directly along the Tower, vertically upward toward the stars. That shadow must stretch for thousands of kilometers, and it occurred to Morgan that it might even reach the transporter now dropping swiftly down from 10K Station. If he waved his arms, the rescuers might be able to see his signals; he could talk to them in Morse code.
This amusing fantasy inspired a more serious thought. Would it be best for him to wait here, with the others, and not risk the return to Earth in Spider? But the journey up to Midway, where he could get good medical attention, would take a week. That was not a sensible alternative, since he could be back on Sri Kanda in less than three hours.
Time to go inside—his air must be getting low, and there was nothing more to see. That was a disappointing irony, considering the spectacular view one would normally have here,