The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [85]
Seven men and women were stranded in the sky, in a situation that was unique in the whole history of space technology.
There must be a way of getting them to safety before they were poisoned by CO2, or the pressure dropped so low that the chamber became, in literal truth, a tomb like Mahomet’s, suspended between heaven and earth.
45
The Man for the Job
“We can do it,” said Kingsley with a broad smile. “Spider can reach the Basement.”
“You’ve been able to add enough extra battery power?”
“Yes, but it’s a very close thing. It will have to be a two-stage affair, like the early rockets. As soon as the battery is exhausted, it must be jettisoned to get rid of the dead weight. That will be around four hundred kilometers. Spider’s internal battery will take it the rest of the way.”
“And how much payload will that give?”
Kingsley’s smile faded.
“Marginal. About fifty kilos, with the best batteries we have.”
“Only fifty! What use will that be?”
“It should be enough. A couple of those new thousand-atmosphere tanks, each holding five kilos of oxygen. Molecular filter masks to keep out the CO2. A little water and compressed food. Some medical supplies. We can bring it all in under forty-five kilos.”
“Phew! And you’re sure that’s sufficient?”
“Yes—it will tide them over until the transporter arrives from 10K Station. And if necessary, Spider can make a second trip.”
“What does Bartok think?”
“He approves. After all, no one has any better ideas.”
Morgan felt that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Plenty of things could still go wrong but at last there was a ray of hope; the feeling of utter helplessness had been dispelled.
“When will all this be ready?” he asked.
“If there are no holdups, within two hours. Three at the most. It’s all standard equipment, luckily. Spider’s being checked out right now. There’s only one matter to be decided. . . .”
Vannevar Morgan shook his head.
“No, Warren,” he answered slowly, in a calm, implacably determined voice that his friend had never heard before. “There’s nothing more to decide.”
* * *
“I’m not trying to pull rank on you, Bartok,” said Morgan. “It’s a simple matter of logic. True, anyone can drive Spider—but only half a dozen men know all the technical details involved. There may be some operational problems when we reach the Tower, and I’m in the best position to solve them.”
“May I remind you, Dr. Morgan,” said the Safety Officer, “that you are sixty-five. It would be wiser to send a younger man.”
“I’m not sixty-five; I’m sixty-six. And age has absolutely nothing to do with it. There’s no danger, and certainly no requirement for physical strength.”
And, he might have added, the psychological factors were far more important than the physical ones. Almost anybody could ride passively up and down in a capsule, as Maxine Duval had done and millions of others would be doing in the years ahead. It would be quite another matter to face some of the situations that could easily arise six hundred kilometers up in the empty sky.
“I still think,” said Bartok, with gentle persistence, “that it would be best to send a younger man. Dr. Kingsley, for example.”
Behind him, Morgan heard (or had he imagined?) his colleague’s suddenly indrawn breath. For years they had joked over the fact that Kingsley had such an aversion to heights that he never inspected the structures he designed. His fear fell short of genuine acrophobia, and he could overcome it when absolutely necessary. He had, after all, joined Morgan in stepping from Africa to Europe. But that was the only time that anyone had ever seen him drunk in public, and