Tight Squeeze-5

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.

The gloves were systematically foiling his attempts to withdraw the coil of

wire at his side. The tool kit was the ultimate in maintenance work,

compact and complete with extension handles for the cutters and

wrenches. Everything was there, but practically impossible to use. His

fingers finally closed over the wire; he jerked it out and with it the splice

tool. The little pliers caromed from the brace above him and sailed out

toward the motor, beyond the ship. He watched, horrified, as the tool

slowly cartwheeled away into space.

"All right," he muttered, "scratch one splice tool. It was also my only pair

of pliers, but I'll manage." He knew he could use the wire cutters in a

pinch. "In a pinch," he repeated. "Oh, that's a hot one. That's about all

that's happened this trip, so far. Pinch me, pinch the wiring--What a

pinch!"

* * * * *

Holding the roll of wire tightly in one hand, he grasped the cutters and

pulled them from the kit with utmost care. He unrolled a foot-long section

of wire and clipped it off, laying his flashlight in the tool kit so that it

would shine out in front of him. He managed to attach the tiny splice lugs

by pinching them with the cutters, then moved cautiously to the wire

which still drooped from the jumble of machinery. "Drooped" wasn't

precisely the word; actually the wire had been bent into its position and

stayed that way.

As the harried major reached for the brace on which the wire had been

bracketed, his tool kit vomited flashlight, wrenches and screwdrivers,

leaving him in total darkness. His cursing was regular, now, monotonous

and uninspired. There was another pencil light in the kit, snapped tightly

to the case, and Mac reached for the whole business. The spare light was

a maintenance problem in itself. Question: How to retrieve a fountain pen

sized object, when it's held by a small snap and the retriever is

encumbered by three pairs of arctic mittens?

Mac saw his errant flashlight out of the corner of his eye, its beam

fastened on a collapsed screw driver while both swam sluggishly toward

the inspection ladder. He located the pencil light and jerked it loose,

holding the short wire and cutters in his other hand.

This, Mac knew, was the crucial point. If he could splice the wire hanging

in front of him, Valier would once more be in perfect shape. He would

have welcomed an extra hand or two, as he straddled a brace and shoved

the tiny flash between his headpiece and shoulder fabric. The wire should

be stripped, he knew, but he hadn't the tools. They were scarcely ten feet

from him, but could have rested atop the Kremlin for all the good they did

him. He got most of the strands of one end of wire shoved into a splice

lug, and called it good enough. It was like trying to thread a needle whose

eye was deeper than it was wide, while in a diving suit, using the business

end of a paintbrush to start the thread.

He withdrew one hand and searched the kit for friction tape. It might be

mentioned that an insulating tape which would be adhesive at minus two

hundred degrees centigrade yet keep its properties at plus one thousand,

was the near culmination of chemical science. Silicon plastic research

provided the adhesive, an inert gum which changed almost none through

a fantastic range of temperatures and pressures. The tape Mac used to

insure his connection had an asbestos base, with adhesive gum insinuated

into the tape. He wrapped the wire tightly, then bound it to the brace. He

noticed his visor fogging up and felt a faint, giddy sensation. Anoxemia!

He let the tape drift as he reached for his regulator dial. What a fool he

was, he thought, to starve his lungs. He turned the dial to emergency

maximum and gulped precious liters of oxygen-helium mixture. The

gauge showed a store of the gas which might possibly be enough to last

him, if nothing else went wrong; perhaps ten minutes.

The pencil flash, mercifully, still rested in a fold of his shoulder joint

fabric. The insulation tape floated near his waist; he grabbed it and

stowed it between his knee and the brace, then reached once again for

the wiring.

This time the splice went on without a hitch. He pinched the splice lug and

taped the whole works feverishly. It was done; he had won. The trip back

should take only a couple of minutes. Replacing the wire cutters in his kit,

he held the pencil flash before him and started retracing his route.

He passed the twelve o'clock brace, pinned it in place again and saw one

of his tools floating to the right of his head. He gathered it in and swept

his tiny flash around in search of other jetsam from his tool kit. He

collected a wrench and the skittish flashlight, started toward the last

brace between him and the ladder, and felt his legs go limp. He wasn't

particularly alarmed about it; his arms and vision failed him too, but his

brain hadn't enough incoming oxygen to care much, one way or the

other. The few remaining feet seemed to lengthen into a sewerlike

passageway, then vanished as did all else as his perceptions died.

* * * * *

MacNamara was not the sort to wonder about heaven or hell when he first

awoke. He saw a faintly rounded ceiling, a soft yellow tint accentuating its

featurelessness. "How the devil--", he began. His voice failed him.

"Hi, Mac." Logan's beaming face loomed over him. "You rugged character,

you. Cold as a pickle an hour ago, and already you're askin' silly

questions." He held up his hand as Mac started to speak. "I hear you

thinkin'. 'How the devil did I get here, and where is here?' In reverse

order, this is the most comfortable berth in the doughnut's facilities, and

you got here courtesy of one Johnny Ruiz. Myself, I wouldn't have taken

the trouble."

Mac grinned back at his pilot and cleared his throat. "Well, where is he? I

wanta shake his hand, or give him half my kingdom, or something."

"You know Johnny; the shy type. He'll be along after a while. You know, I

think he kinda likes you; when you quit transmitting out there, Johnny

was like a cat on a hot skillet. Finally decided to go back and have a look

for himself, but I told him you probably had a hot game of solitaire going.

Anyway, he went back and found you asleep on the job, and lost a good

ten pounds getting your fat carcass through the air lock." That was a job

that must have taxed both Ruiz and Logan, but Mac held his silence. "And

that was about the size of it. Valier's parked outside with some of the

boys, good as ever. Come on, we'll sop up some coffee."

Mac swung himself up to a sitting position and realized dizzily that he was

mother-naked. His ribs felt pulverized. "You guys sure mauled me up," he

said accusingly.

"Unavoidable, my dear grease-monkey. You needed a little artificial

respiration; I never was too good at that."

"Well, whoever did the job rates a prize of some sort," Mac answered,

"but my ribs tell me he had more enthusiasm than practice."

Logan smiled his old familiar smile, relieved to find his engineer in joking

spirits. "The credit again goes to Johnny. But," he added, "try not to be

too hard on him. Try giving artificial respiration to a big lump like yourself

sometime, without any gravity."

Mac digested this tidbit as he pulled on a fresh pair of coveralls. "O.K.,"

he said, standing on the foamex "floor." "How did he do it?"

"Strapped you into your couch face down and locked his legs around it. I

didn't dare apply any g's. Come on," he finished, "you've managed to

upset every timetable in the project. Johnny's shaking like a leaf, or was

when I left him. A bulb of coffee will do us both a world of good."

"I'm sold," Mac grunted, zipping up a flight boot. "But there's something

I'd like to do, first chance I get."

"Which is?"

"Which is jettison every last strip of tape I have in Valier. I tell you,

Logan," he went on as they entered the recreation bar, "you'll never know

how degrading it is to hear useless, insipid information offered to you

when you're in a tight spot, knowing full well the voice is your own!"