The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [95]
Commander John Glenn
Mercury Friendship Seven,
20 Feb. 1962
With the old-style spacesuits, reaching that butterfly nut would have been completely out of the question. Even with the Flexisuit that Morgan was now wearing, it might be difficult, but at least he could make the attempt.
Very carefully, because more lives than his own depended upon it, he rehearsed the sequence of events. He must check the suit, depressurize the capsule, and open the hatch—which, luckily, was almost full-length. Then he must release the safety belt, get down on his knees—if he could!—and reach for that butterfly nut. Everything depended upon its tightness. There were no tools of any kind aboard Spider, but Morgan was prepared to match his fingers—even in space gloves—against the average small wrench.
He was just about to describe his plan of operations, in case anyone on the ground could find a flaw, when he became aware of a certain mild discomfort. He could readily tolerate it for much longer, if necessary, but there was no point in taking chances. If he used the capsule’s own plumbing, he would not have to bother with the awkward diver’s friend incorporated in the suit. . . .
When he had finished, he turned the key of the urine dump—and was startled by a tiny explosion near the base of the capsule. Almost instantly, to his astonishment, a cloud of twinkling stars winked into existence, as if a microscopic galaxy had been suddenly created. He had the illusion that, just for a fraction of a second, it hovered motionless outside the capsule before it started to fall straight down, as swiftly as any stone dropped on Earth. Within seconds, it had dwindled to a point, and was gone.
Nothing could have brought home more clearly the fact that he was still wholly a captive of the earth’s gravitational field. He remembered how, in the early days of orbital flight, the first astronauts had been puzzled and then amused by the haloes of ice crystals that accompanied them around the planet; there had been some feeble jokes about “Constellation Urion.” That could not happen here; anything he dropped, however fragile it might be, would crash straight back into the atmosphere. He must never forget that, despite his altitude, he was not an astronaut, reveling in the freedom of weightlessness.
He was a man inside a building four hundred kilometers high, preparing to open the window and go out on the ledge.
51
On the Porch
Though it was cold and uncomfortable on the summit, the crowd continued to grow. There was something hypnotic about that brilliant little star in the zenith, upon which the thoughts of the world, as well as the laser beam from Kinte, were now focused.
As they arrived, all the visitors headed for the north tape, and stroked it in a shy, half-defiant manner, as if to say, “I know this is silly, but it makes me feel I’m in contact with Morgan.” Then they would gather around the coffee dispenser and listen to the reports coming over the speaker system.
There was nothing new from the refugees in the Tower. They were all sleeping, or trying to sleep, in an attempt to conserve oxygen. Since Morgan was not yet overdue, they had not been informed of the holdup; but within the next hour they would undoubtedly be calling Midway to find out what had happened.
Maxine Duval had arrived at Sri Kanda just ten minutes too late to see Morgan. There was a time when such a near-miss would have made her very angry. Now she merely shrugged her shoulder and reassured herself with the thought that she would be the first to grab the engineer on his return. Kingsley had not allowed her to speak to him, and she had even accepted this ruling with good grace. Yes, she was growing old. . . .
For the last five minutes, the only sound that had come from the capsule was a series of “Check”s as Morgan went through the suit routine with an expert up in Midway. When that was completed, everyone waited tensely for the crucial next step.
“Valving the air,” said