glance

Tight Squeeze

Tight Squeeze

He knew the theory of repairing the gizmo all right. He had that nicely

taped. But there was the little matter of threading a wire through a too-

small hole while under zero-g, and working in a spacesuit!

MacNamara ambled across the loading ramp, savoring the dry, dusty air

that smelled unmistakable of spaceship. He half-consciously separated the

odors; the sweet, volatile scent of fuel, the sharp aroma of lingering

exhaust gases from early morning test-firing, the delicate odor of silicon

plastic which was being stowed as payload. He shielded his eyes against

the sun, watching as men struggled with the last plastic girders to be

strapped down, high above the dazzling ground of White Sands. The

slender cargo doors stood open around Valier's girth, awaiting his own

personal O.K.

This flight would be the fourth for Major Edward MacNamara; as he

neared the great, squatting shock absorbers he could feel the tension

begin to knot his stomach. He had, of course, been overwhelmed by the

opportunity to participate in Operation Doughnut. The fact that he had

been one of the best mechanical engineers in the Air Force never occurred

to him at the time. He was a pilot, and a good one, but he had languished

as C.O. of a maintenance squadron for nearly two years before he was

given another c***k at glory. Now, he wasn't at all sure he was happy

with the transition. They needed master mechanics for Operation

Doughnut, but he felt they should be left on the ground when the

towering supply rockets lifted.

He stopped, leaning against scaffolding as he saw a familiar figure turn

toward him. He cupped his hands before his face.

"Hey, douse that butt! Can't you ... oh, Mac!" The commanding voice

trailed off in a chuckle. Better to clown his way through the inspection,

MacNamara thought, than to let Ruiz notice his nervousness. The co-pilot,Ruiz, walked toward him, still smiling. "One of these days, boy, you gonna

go too far. Thought you were a real, eighteen carat saboteur." He clapped

MacNamara on the shoulder and gazed aloft. "Good day for it. No

weather, no hangover, no nothing."

"Yeah. You know, Johnny, I've been thinking about a modification for our

breathing oxy." He sniffed appreciatively.

"What's that?"

"Put a little dust in it, a few smells. That stuff we breathe is just too

sanitary!"

"I know what you mean. I sure begin to crave this filthy, germ-filled air

after a few hours out there." They both smiled at the thought, then

turned to the business at hand.

"By the way, Johnny, what're you doing out so early? Didn't expect to see

you cabbies before ten."

"I donno," the bronzed Ruiz replied. "Went to bed early, woke up at six

and couldn't drop off again. And here I am. Carl ought to be along around

nine-thirty. Thought I'd help you preflight, if you want me to."

"Sure." He wanted nothing of the sort, but had the tact not to say so.

Edward MacNamara was as familiar with the Valier as he was with the tip

of his nose. He had been on the scene when Dan Burke test-hopped the

third stage, had made improvements and re-routing jobs, and had

memorized every serial number of every bearing that went into Valier. As

Flight Engineer, he was supposed to.

With Johnny Ruiz helping a little and hindering a little, he finished his tour

of the cargo sections and grinned his approval to a muscular loading

technician. "They can button her up, sergeant. I couldn't do a better job

myself." It was a compliment of the highest order, and they both knew it.Riding the tiny lift down to ground level, MacNamara stopped them every

ten feet or so to circle the catwalks. He noticed Ruiz's impatience about

halfway down. "No hurry, Johnny. I don't want another Wyld on our

hands." He knew he shouldn't have said it, but it slipped out anyway.

Everyone tried to forget the Wyld disaster, particularly the flight

personnel. The Wyld, one of the first ships to be built, had made only two

orbits before being destroyed. Observers stated that a cargo hatch had

somehow swung open when the Wyld was only a thousand feet in the air.

At any rate, the pilot reported damage to one second-stage fin and tried

to brake his way down. The Wyld settled beautifully, tilted, then fell

headlong. The resultant explosion caused such destruction that, had there

not been a number of men in orbit and waiting for supplies, the project

might have been halted, "temporarily." It was generally conceded that a

more thorough preflight could have prevented the Wyld's immolation.

Ruiz was noticeably quieter during the remainder of the inspection. The

external check completed, MacNamara strapped a small flashlight to his

wrist and began the internal inspection, jokingly called the autopsy.

* * * * *

An hour and over a hundred and fifty feet later, MacNamara wheezed as

he swung over the bulkhead at the base of Valier's third and top stage.

His aching limbs persuaded him to take a breather. After all, his complete

inspection of the day before really made a final preflight unnecessary, and

passing near the frigid oxygen tanks was a day's work in itself. He

listened to the innumerable noises around and below him. The clicks and

hums near him meant that Ruiz, having given up following him, was

checking out the flight controls, with power on only in the top stage. From

below came a vibrational rushing noise, nearly subsonic, which told him of

the fueling operation. He thought of the electrical relays governing the

fuel input and shuddered. He violently disliked the idea of having hot

wires near fuel of any kind, and rocket fuel in particular.

MacNamara swept his light over his wrist watch. Fifteen after. Logan

should be along soon, he thought, and hastened to finish checking the

conduits, servos, pumps and hydraulic actuators below the cabin level.

This done, he crawled up the final ladder to the cabin, or "dome.""Well," cried a cheerful voice, "if it isn't our grimy Irishman."

MacNamara shook the sweat from his brow and muttered, "Irishman, is

it? How about 'Logan'? That's a good Scandinavian name."

"How about Logan? He's great, as usual. Just look at me, Mac. What a

specimen!" Logan, the inevitable optimist, bounced out of his acceleration

couch and spread his arms wide as if to show the world what a superman

he, Carl Logan, was. The gesture and its intimations made MacNamara

smile. Logan wasn't much over five feet tall, and his flight suit made him

look like a bald pussycat. His small physique covered a fantastic set of

reflexes, however, and Logan's sense of humor was a quality of utmost

importance. He hadn't an enemy in the world. His enemy was out of this

world by definition; Logan wanted to conquer space and, so far, was

doing just that.

"O.K., O.K. Laugh. Just remember this, Gargantua; I may not be tall, but

I sure am skinny." MacNamara smiled again, nodding agreement. "Well,

don't everybody talk at once. How is she, Mac?"

"With luck," answered MacNamara, "we might get ten feet off the turf."

He paused for effect. "Seriously, Carl, she never looked better. You could

take her up right now. Say, where's Johnny? I thought you'd just be

checking in to the medics; looks like everybody's early today."

"He's probably over in some corner, making out his will. He was down

below a while ago with a face a mile long."

Probably, thought Mac, he's still thinking about the Wyld. Why did I have

to bring that up? Aloud, he said, "I ought to check the ground crew. Did

you bring the forms?"

"Nope. Just my magnificent self. If anything had gone astray, they'd have

told you."

"All the same, I think I'll go down and question the troops. Don't leave

without me." He clambered out onto the catwalk, leaving the air lockopen. The sun was riding higher every minute. In a little over an hour,

he'd be a thousand miles away--vertically. The knot in his stomach began

to form again. He wasn't scared, exactly; he kept telling himself "excited"

was a nicer word.

The inspection forms signed, Mac held a short interrogation with the crew

chief. The grizzled lieutenant, commissioned because of his long

experience and responsibilities, gave Valier a clean bill of health. Each

engine of the booster stage had been fired separately, before dawn. A

cubic foot of mercury seemed to roll from Mac's shoulders as he saw

Logan and Ruiz lounging at the bottom of the lift; there wasn't anything

to worry about. He recalled feeling the tension before the other three

flights, then chided himself. Ya, ya, scared-y cat. Well, why not? It's a

helluva risk every time you make a shot, in spite of all the propaganda.

Hooey; if you didn't know everything's O.K., you wouldn't be getting

ready to make the shot. Yeah, but you never can tell----He stopped his

inward battle and forced some spring into his step as he moved toward

Logan and Ruiz.

"I've tried my best to abort this big bug, but I can't find anything amiss."

"That's Granny MacNamara for you," jibed Logan. "Always trying to find

fault." He winked at Ruiz and rubbed his hands together. "Well--tennis,

anyone?"

Mac knew without asking that Logan, for all his apparent indifference, had

painstakingly gone over every phase of the flight, checking distribution,

radar, final instructions from Operations, weather, et al. Ruiz, as usual,

watched and took notes as Logan gathered data.

* * * * *

At minus fifteen minutes, the trio was in the dome, checking personal

equipment, while outside, the scaffolding ponderously slid away, section

by section.

There was little time for soliloquies of to go, or not to go; within the

quarter-hour, Captain Ruiz and Majors MacNamara and Logan would be ireadiness for the final count-down. With the emergency bail-out

equipment checked, the men busied themselves on another continuity

test of the myriad circuits spread like a human neural system throughout

the ship. All relays, servo systems and instrument leads were in perfect

condition as expected, and the trio was settled comfortably in acceleration

couches with minutes to spare.

Logan contacted Ground Control a few seconds after the minus-three

minute signal, informing all and sundry that Gridley could fire when

ready. MacNamara sighed, thinking that if Logan's humor wasn't exactly

original, it was surely tenacious.

The ship was brought to dim half-life at minus one minute by Logan's

agile fingers, and as the final countdown rasped in his headset, Mac felt

his innards wrestle among themselves.

Valier bellowed her enthusiasm suddenly, lifting her eight thousand-odd

tons from the ground almost instantly. Inside, her occupants grimaced

helplessly as they watched various instruments guide tiny pointers across

calibrated faces. Mac's throat mike threatened to crush his Adam's apple,

weighing five times its usual few ounces. Of his senses, sound was the

one that dominated him; an intolerable, continuous explosion from the

motors racked his mind like tidal waves of formic acid. He forced himself

to overcome the numbness which his brain cast up to defend itself. Then,

as quickly as it had begun, Valier fell deafeningly silent; that meant Mach

1 was passed.

It was an eternity before stage one separated. The loss of the empty hulk

was hardly felt as Valier streaked high over the Texas border. Ruiz,

watching the radarscope, saw Lubbock slide into focus miles below. Next

stop, Fort Worth, he thought. I used to drive that in five hours. The

jagged line of the caprock told him they were well on their way to Fort

Worth already.

The altimeter showed slightly over forty-two miles when stage two

detached itself. Logan, in constant contact with White Sands, was

informed that they were tracking perfectly as Valier arrowed over central

Texas toward rendezvous at the doughnut. The exhausted lower stageswere forgotten now; only the second stage was of any concern anyway.

The radar boys tracked it all the way down, ready to detonate it high in

the air if its huge 'chutes wafted it near any inhabited community.

The motors of stage three blasted for a carefully calculated few seconds,

then cut out automatically. With the destitution of his weight, Mac felt his

spirits soar also. They were almost in orbit, now, climbing at a slight

angle with a velocity sufficient to carry them around Earth forever, a

streamlined, tiny satellite.

After the first few moments of disorientation, rocket crews found that a

weightless condition gave them, ambiguously, a buoyant feeling. Only the

doughnut crew had really adapted to this condition, living as they did

without the effects of gravity for hours at a time every day. The

temporary "housing" was rotated for comfort of the crews during rest

periods, but while moving the plates and girders of the giant doughnut

into place, they had no such luxuries. For these men, weightlessness

became an integral part of their activities, but the rocket crews were

subjected to this phenomenon only during the few hours needed to

rendezvous, unload the cargo, and coast back after another initial period

of acceleration.

Hence, Mac felt a strange elation when he tapped his fingers on the arm

of his couch and saw his arm float upward, due to reaction from the tap.

Against all regulations, Logan unstrapped himself and motioned his

comrades to do the same. This unorthodox seventh-inning stretch was

prohibited because it left the pilot's arm-rest controls without an operator,

hence could prove disastrous if, through some malfunction, the ship

should veer off course.

The autopilot functioned perfectly, however, and Logan trusted it to the

point of insouciance. The three men lounged in midair, grinning foolishly

as they "swam" about the tiny cabin. No more satisfying stretch was ever

enjoyed.

A few minutes of this was enough. Ruiz was the first to gingerly pull

himself into his couch and his companions followed. Not a word had passed between them, since they were at all times in contact with

monitor stations spaced across the world below. The first time they had

enjoyed this irregular horseplay, on the second trip, Logan had made the

mistake of saying, "Race you to the air lock!", and was hard put to explain

those words. Nor could Logan switch to "intercom only," since a sudden

radio silence would create anxiety below. Only their heavy breathing

would indicate unusual activity to Earthside.

* * * * *

They were nearing the intercept point, a thousand miles above the

Atlantic, when they realized their predicament.

"I'm in a fix, Carl," said Ruiz, meaning that he had tentatively fixed a

position of intercept. "Correct our elevation; we're point-nine degrees

high."

"Right-o. Correction in five seconds from my mark--mark!"

For slight corrections in the flight path, small steering motors were

utilized. These motors were located near the rear lip of Valier's conical

cargo section on retractable booms. Extension of the motors with no

resultant air friction gave a longer pivot arm and consequently better

efficiency. Mac pressed the "Aux. Steer" stud and immediately three

amber lights winked on in their respective instrument consoles.

Carl Logan fired the twelve o'clock motor briefly--only it didn't fire. The

change in momentum wouldn't be much in any case, but it was always

perceptible by feel and by instrument. There was no change.

Logan tried the firing circuit again, and again. Still Valier streaked along,

now miles above the intended point of intercept. By this time, the embryo

space station was quite near, sailing along in the 'scope beneath them. It

slowly moved toward the top of the 'scope, passing Valier in its slightly

higher relative velocity.

"We've got troubles, Mac--find 'em!" Logan had finally lost the devil-may-

care attitude, but that fact was small consolation to MacNamara. "Keep your mitts off those firing studs, Carl," he growled, unstrapping

himself quickly. The malfunction was definitely in the auxiliary motor

setup, he thought. A common trouble? It wouldn't pay to find out. If the

other motors fired, it would only throw them farther off-course. If worst

came to worst, they could roll Valier over and use the six o'clock

auxiliary; there was a small arc through which the motors could turn on

their mounts. But the trouble was unknown, and they might end up rifling

or pinwheeling if they didn't let bad enough alone.

During his mental trouble-shooting, Mac was busily worming his bulk into

a balloonish-looking suit identical to those worn by the doughnut's

construction crew. Ruiz gave him some aid, helping him thrust his arms

past the spring-folded elbow joints. For some reason, the legs gave less

trouble. Within a fumbling few moments, he was ready for work.

He glanced at Logan through his visor, feeling a vicious pleasure over the

beads of sweat on Logan's forehead. Time he sweated a little, thought the

mechanic.

A final check of his headset followed, after which Mac oozed into the

Lilliputian air lock at the bottom, now rear, wall of the cabin. He nodded

to Ruiz, who secured the air lock, then adjusted his suit control to force a

little pressure into his suit. Gradually the suit became livable. Then he

cracked the other air-lock valve and allowed pressure to leak out around

him.

His suit puffed out with soft popping noises and Mac heard the last

vestige of air hiss out of the chamber. He found the hatchway too tight for

comfort and had a moment of fear when his tool pack caught in the

orifice, wedging him neatly. He could hear Logan and Ruiz through his

earphones, explaining their plight to Ground Control. They wanted to

know why in blue blazes Valier hadn't contacted the doughnut when it

came within range, and Logan had no defense save preoccupation with

his own plight. Belatedly, Ruiz made radio contact with the doughnut,

which was still well within range. All this time, Mac busied himself with his

inspection light, tracing the electrical leads to the small, turbine operated

auxiliary motor fuel pumps."Mac?" Logan's voice startled him. "Can you brace yourself? I'm going to

try to match velocities with the doughnut. Won't take over one 'g' for a

few seconds."

"Wait a minute." He looked wildly about him. Valier hadn't been built with

a view toward stowaways; and every cubic inch of space was crammed

with something, except for the passageway with its ladder, leading up

from the main motor section. Well, if it wasn't over a "g," he could hang

on to the ladder. Suit weighs another fifty pounds, though. My weight plus

fifty, he thought. "Give me a chance to get set," he said aloud. He hooked

one bulbous leg over a ladder rung and braced the other against a lower

rung, hugging the ladder with both arms. "Any time you say, but kill it if

you hear me holler!"

"Then five seconds from my mark--mark!" Mac tightened his grip, and

then sagged backward as the main motors fired. The vibrations shook him

slightly but deeply, and he fought to keep his hold. He felt his back creak

and pop with the sudden surge of weight. Then the motors shut off, and

Mac skidded several feet up the ladder. No matter how fast a man's

reactions were, they couldn't be applied quickly enough to keep him from

starting an involuntary leap after bracing against a suddenly removed

gravity load. "All over, Mac. You O.K.?"

"Guess so, but I feel like a ping-pong ball. How're we sittin'?"

"Just fine," Ruiz cut in. "Find anything?"

"Not yet." Mac started his search anew. Everything seemed in perfect

order up to the turbine pumps. Then, he feared, the trouble was near the

little motors. That was tough, really tough. With the motors retracted it

was next to impossible to get to them, past their hydraulically operated

booms and actuators. Extended, he'd have to go outside. He cringed from

the thought, although he knew that there was little to fear if he linked

himself to the ship.He peered along the beam of light, searching for some telltale

discoloration in wiring, or a gleaming icy patch which would indicate a fuel

leak. "Might be the firing plugs," he muttered.

"Let's hope not. Where are you, Mac? Maybe you better give us a blow-

by-blow." Logan sounded worried.

"Good idea. Right now I'm at the nine o'clock actuator. Nothing so far."

He looked around himself, forgetting for the moment how he was

supposed to get past the equipment to the other auxiliary motor stations.

"Johnny," he said slowly, "I think you'd best break out the tapes. Auxiliary

motor system; you'll find them under power plant." Months before,

MacNamara had made a complete set of tape recordings of his own voice,

recorded as he made a thorough-going rundown of every system and its

components. This was a personal innovation which his fellow flight

engineers considered folly. Extra weight, they scoffed. Undue

complication. Mac nodded and went on with his impromptu

speechmaking; a professional psychiatrist might have said, correctly, that

Mac felt an unconscious need for supervision, a forgivable deficiency

dating back to his cadet days. Mac simply claimed that the best of men

could forget or omit when alone with a few million dollars' worth of

Uncle's equipment. This way he could remind himself of each step to be

taken ahead of time, in his own way.

The co-pilot rushed to comply. Mac, waiting, suddenly remembered how

to get past his obstacle. Internal braces which helped keep the tanks

rigidly in place on Earth were of little use while in "freeloading," or

gravity-less, state. The braces were removable, and Mac had loosened a

single wing-nut to let the brace swing loose when he heard Johnny Ruiz's

answer.

"Ready with your tape, Mac. Where shall I start it?"

"Run it through 'til you get to a blank spot, then another, then stop it." He

was certain he didn't really need the tape, but it was a maintenance aid

and he was determined to use it.Mac judged the distance the booms would cover during semiretraction

and half floated, half crawled out of the way. He found himself breathing

heavily, despite the freeload conditions. His suit was simply too

cumbersome. The thought came to him that he didn't even know how

long he'd been out of the dome. His breathing oxygen gauge showed half

empty, so he must have been on the job for around a half hour. He

rationed his supply a bit, hoping he could finish the job without a refill.

"O.K., Johnny, you can run the tape again. And retract the motors while

you're at it." He heard the tape start again on its course, watching the

booms.

They leaped inward, then, and Mac felt a crushing blow across his back.

He shook his head groggily and yelled.

He tried to scramble from his place between motor and turbine fuel lines

without success; he was trapped like a wild animal by the heavy actuator

which had swung past his head. He heard himself say, "And be sure to

stay clear of the actuator. It swings through a ninety-degree arc when it's

operated."

"Oh, shut up! I know it; I just judged it wrong." The tape moved on

unperturbedly, reminding him to inspect the actuator bearings and

extension rods.

"Mac," came Logan's voice, "you might try to hurry it. If you can't get it

fixed in an hour or two, we'll have to try rolling Valier down to the

doughnut. But it's up to you, fella. Take your time."

"Well, you might help me a bit by raising this hydraulic unit offa my

shoulders. Lucky it didn't squash me." The actuator stayed where it was.

"Johnny! Carl! Do you read me?" No answer. Obviously, the actuator had

smashed his transmitter, but left the receiver section intact. Then all he

could hope for would be a suspicion from one of the others that all was

not well. If they asked him any questions and he failed to reply, they'd

figure something was wrong. Well, he couldn't count on that. He struggled with his vulcanized suit, trying to squeeze from under the

actuator. If I'd had them retract it completely, he thought, I'd be a dead

man. It was a tight squeeze, but he inched his way out of the trap by

using every ounce of strength at his command. If his suit tore, he'd know

it in a hurry.

Gasping for breath, Mac drew himself into a crouch and regarded the

offending wire. His flashlight still operated, and he could see the heavy

insulation which had been scraped away. No charring; then it must have

been the extension rods that had scissored through the insulation. The

wire hung together by a thread, the strands of metal severed completely.

He groped for his tool kit, trying to ignore the voice in his headset.

"Well, that takes care of the actuators. Now for these dinky motors. The

swivel mounts have to work without any lubricant, so look for indications

of wear and--"

Mac cursed under his breath. He sounded so cocksure, so all-knowing. He

felt like beating himself. His earlier self, who had blithely toured Valier

trailing the microphone wires without any real premonition of trouble. It

always happens to the other guy--Not this time, chum, he reminded

himself.