Tight Squeeze | Page 2

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 lock
open. 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,