The Fountains of Paradise

Well, there were three other entrances, thought Morgan – and it was the lower pair that interested him. This had been one of those afterthoughts, incorporated at a late stage in the design. Indeed, the whole Basement was an afterthought; at one time it had been considered unnecessary to build a refuge here, in the section of the Tower that would eventually become part of Earth Terminus itself.

"Tilt the underside towards me," Morgan ordered.

The Tower toppled, in a falling arc of light, and lay floating horizontally in mid-air with its lower end towards Morgan. Now he could see all the details of the twenty-metre-square floor – or roof, if one looked at it from the point of view of its orbital builders.

Near the north and south edges, leading into the two independent airlocks, were the hatches that allowed access from below. The only problem was to reach them – six hundred kilometres up in the sky.

"Life support?"

The airlocks faded back into the structure; the visual emphasis moved to a small cabinet at the centre of the chamber.

"That's the problem, Doctor," the Duty Officer answered sombrely. "There's only a pressure maintenance system. No purifiers, and of course no power. Now that they've lost the transporter, I don't see how they can survive the night. The temperature's already falling – down ten degrees since sunset."

Morgan felt as if the chill of space had entered his own soul. The euphoria of discovering that the lost transporter's occupants were all still alive faded swiftly away. Even if there was enough oxygen in the Basement to last them for several days, that would be of no importance if they froze before dawn.

"I'd like to speak to Professor Sessui."

"We can't call him direct – the Basement emergency phone only goes to Midway. No problem, though."

That turned out to be not completely true. When the connexion was made, Driver-Pilot Chang came on the line.

"I'm sorry," he said, "the Professor is busy."

After a moment's incredulous silence Morgan replied, pausing between each word and emphasising his name: "Tell him that Dr. Vannevar Morgan wants to speak to him."

"I will, Doctor – but it won't make the slightest difference. He's working on some equipment with his students. It was the only thing they were able to save – a spectroscope of some kind – they're aiming it through one of the observation windows…"

Morgan controlled himself with difficulty. He was about to retort: "Are they crazy?", when Chang anticipated him.

"You don't know the Prof – I've spent the last week with him. He's – well, I guess you could say single-minded. It took three of us to stop him going back into the cabin to get some more of his gear. And he's just told me that if we're all going to die anyway, he'll make damn sure that one piece of equipment is working properly."

Morgan could tell from Chang's voice that, for all his annoyance, he felt a considerable admiration for his distinguished and difficult passenger. And, indeed, the Professor had logic on his side. It made good sense to salvage what he could, out of the years of effort that had gone into this ill-fated expedition.

"Very well," said Morgan at length, co-operating with the inevitable. "Since I can't get an appointment, I'd like your summary of the situation. So far, I've only had it secondhand."

It now occurred to him that, in any event, Chang could probably give a much more useful report than the Professor. Though the driver-pilot's insistence on the second half of his title often caused derision among genuine astrologers, he was a highly skilled technician with a good training in mechanical and electrical engineering.

"There's not much to say. We had such short notice that there was no time to save anything – except that damned spectrometer. Frankly, I never thought we'd make it through the airlock. We have the clothes we're wearing – and that's about it. One of the students grabbed her travel bag. Guess what – it contained her draft thesis, written on paper, for heaven's sake! Not even flame-proofed, despite regulations. If we could afford the oxygen, we'd burn it to get some heat."

Listening to that voice from space, and looking at the transparent – yet apparently solid – hologram of the Tower, Morgan had a most curious illusion. He could imagine that there were tiny, tenth-scale human beings moving around there in the lowest compartment; it was only necessary to reach in his hand, and carry them out to safety…