The Fountains of Paradise

The unwinking glare of the Kinte laser, coming from almost immediately above, still transfixed him with its pitiless light. He tried to focus his mind upon the problem, as sharply as that beam was focused upon him.

All that he needed was a metal cutter – a hacksaw, or a pair of shears – that could sever the retaining strap. Once again he cursed the fact that there was no tool-kit aboard Spider; even so, it would hardly have contained what he needed.

There were megawatt-hours of energy stored in Spider's own battery; could he use that in any way? He had a brief fantasy of establishing an arc and burning through the strap; but even if suitable heavy conductors were available – and of course they weren't – the main power supply was inaccessible from the control cab.

Warren and all the skilled brains gathered around him had failed to find any solution. He was on his own, physically and intellectually. It was, after all, the situation he had always preferred.

And then, just as he was about to reach out and close the capsule door, Morgan knew what he had to do. All the time the answer had been right by his finger-tips.

52. The Other Passenger

To Morgan, it seemed that a huge weight had lifted from his shoulders. He felt completely, irrationally confident. This time, surely, it had to work.

Nevertheless, he did not move from his seat until he had planned his actions in minute detail. And when Kingsley, sounding a little anxious, once again urged him to hurry back, he gave an evasive answer. He did not wish to raise any false hopes-on earth, or in the Tower.

"I'm trying an experiment," be said. "Leave me alone for a few minutes."

He picked up the fibre 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 metre 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 realised 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 centimetres 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 metre of coated fibre, 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 then reached round 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 grasps 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 fibre around the shank of the bolt, just behind the strap it was still holding in place. Now for the really tricky part.

He released just enough filament from the spinnerette for the naked fibre 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 centimetre 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 fibre should escape from the equally invisible slot it was – he hoped – slicing through the bolt. Several times Warren 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 fibre. 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.