The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [97]
“I’m trying an experiment,” he said. “Leave me alone for a few minutes.”
He picked up the fiber dispenser that he had used for so many demonstrations—the little spinnerette that, years ago, had allowed him to descend the face of Yakkagala. One change had been made for reasons of safety: the first meter of filament had been coated with a layer of plastic, so that it was no longer quite invisible, and could be handled cautiously, even with bare fingers.
As Morgan looked at the little box in his hand, he realized how much he had come to regard it as a talisman, almost a good-luck charm. Of course, he did not really believe in such things; he always had a perfectly logical reason for carrying the spinnerette around with him. On this ascent, it had occurred to him that it might be useful because of its strength and unique lifting power. He had almost forgotten that it had other abilities as well. . . .
Once more he clambered out of the seat, and knelt down on the metal grille of Spider’s tiny porch to examine the cause of all the trouble. The offending bolt was only ten centimeters on the other side of the grid, and although its bars were too close together for him to put his hand through them, he had already proved that he could reach around it without too much difficulty.
He released the first meter of coated fiber, and using the ring at the end as a plumb bob, lowered it down through the grille. Tucking the dispenser itself firmly in a corner of the capsule, so that he could not accidentally knock it overboard, he reached around the grille until he could grab the swinging weight. This was not as easy as he had expected, because even this remarkable spacesuit would not allow his arm to bend quite freely, and the ring eluded his grasp as it pendulumed back and forth.
After half a dozen attempts—tiring, rather than annoying, because he knew that he would succeed sooner or later—he had looped the fiber around the shank of the bolt, just behind the strap it was holding in place. Now for the really tricky part . . .
He released just enough filament from the spinnerette for the naked fiber to reach the bolt, and to pass around it. Then he drew both ends tight—until he felt the loop catch in the thread.
Morgan had never attempted this trick with a rod of tempered steel more than a centimeter thick, and had no idea how long it would take. Bracing himself against the porch, he began to operate his invisible saw.
After five minutes, he was sweating badly, and could not tell if he had made any progress at all. He was afraid to slacken the tension, lest the fiber escape from the equally invisible slot it was, he hoped, slicing through the bolt. Several times Kingsley had called him, sounding more and more alarmed, and he had given a brief reassurance. Soon he would rest for a while, recover his breath—and explain what he was trying to do. This was the least that he owed to his anxious friends.
“Van,” said Kingsley, “just what are you up to? The people in the Tower have been calling. What shall I say to them?”
“Give me another few minutes. I’m trying to cut the bolt—”
The calm but authoritative woman’s voice that interrupted Morgan gave him such a shock that he almost let go of the precious fiber. The words were muffled by his suit, but that did not matter. He knew them all too well, though it had been months since he had last heard them.
“Dr. Morgan,” said CORA, “please lie down and relax for the next ten minutes.”
“Would you settle for five?” he pleaded. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”
CORA did not deign to reply. Although there were units that could conduct simple conversations, his model was not among them.
Morgan kept his promise, breathing deeply and steadily for a full five minutes. Then he started sawing again.
Back and forth, back and forth, he worked the filament as he crouched over the grille and the four-hundred-kilometer-distant Earth. He could feel considerable resistance, so he must be making some progress