The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [84]
Chang’s voice dropped several decibels and he began to speak in an almost conspiratorial tone, obviously to prevent being overheard.
“The Prof and his students don’t know this, but the south air lock was damaged in the explosion. There’s a leak—a steady hiss around the gaskets. How serious it is, I can’t tell.”
The speaker’s voice rose to normal level again.
“Well, that’s the situation. We’ll be waiting to hear from you. . . .”
And just what the hell can we say, Morgan thought, except “Good-by”?
* * *
Crisis management was a skill Morgan admired, but did not envy. Janos Bartok, the Tower Safety Officer up at Midway, was now in charge of the situation. Those inside the mountain twenty-five thousand kilometers below, and a mere six hundred from the scene of the accident, could only listen to the reports, give helpful advice, and satisfy the curiosity of the news media as best they could.
Needless to say, Maxine Duval had been in touch within minutes of the disaster, and as usual her questions were much to the point.
“Can Midway Station reach them in time?”
Morgan hesitated. The answer to that was undoubtedly “No.” Yet it was unwise, not to say cruel, to abandon hope as early as this. And there had been one stroke of good luck.
“I don’t want to raise false hopes, but we may not need Midway. There’s a crew working much closer, at 10K Station; that’s ten thousand kilometers above them. Their transporter can reach the Basement in twenty hours.”
“Then why isn’t it on the way down?”
“Safety Officer Bartok will be making the decision shortly—but it could be a waste of effort. We think they have air for only half that time. And the temperature problem is even more serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s night up there, and they have no source of heat. Don’t put this out yet, Maxine, but it may be a race between freezing and anoxia.”
There was a pause for several seconds. Then Duval said in an uncharacteristically diffident tone of voice: “Perhaps I’m being stupid, but surely the weather stations, with their big infrared lasers—”
“Thank you, Maxine. I’m the one who’s being stupid. Just a minute while I speak to Midway.”
Bartok was polite enough when Morgan called, but his brisk reply made his opinion of meddling amateurs abundantly clear.
“Sorry I bothered you,” apologized Morgan, and switched back to Duval.
“Sometimes the expert does know his job,” he told her with rueful pride. “Our man knows his. He called Monsoon Control ten minutes ago. They’re computing the beam power now. They don’t want to overdo it, of course, and burn everybody up.”
“So I was right,” said Duval sweetly. “You should have thought of that, Van. What else have you forgotten?”
No answer was possible, nor did Morgan attempt one. He could see Duval’s computer mind racing ahead, and guessed what her next question would be. He was right.
“Can’t you use the spiders?”
“Even the final models are altitude-limited. Their batteries can only take them up to three hundred kilometers. They were designed to inspect the Tower when it had already entered the atmosphere.”
“Well, put in bigger batteries.”
“In a couple of hours? But that’s not the problem. The only unit under test at the moment can’t carry passengers.”
“You could send it up empty.”
“Sorry—we’ve thought of that. There must be an operator aboard to manage the docking when the spider comes up to the Basement. And it would take days to get out seven people, one at a time. . . .”
“Surely you have some plan!”
“Several, but they’re all crazy. If any make sense, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, there’s something you can do for us.”
“What’s that?” Duval asked suspiciously.
“Explain to your audience just why spacecraft can dock with each other six hundred kilometers up, but not with the Tower. By the time you’ve done that, we may have some news for you.”
As Duval’s slightly indignant image faded from the screen, and Morgan turned back once more to the well-orchestrated chaos of the operations room, he tried to let his mind roam as freely as