Tight Squeeze | Page 6

voice rambled on, warning him of
obstacles and reminding him about minor points that could give trouble.
He listened carefully, discarding each suggestion.
Floating near the twelve o'clock auxiliary, Mac peered at each tubing
connection, tugging and twisting. "Wait a minute," he said. His light
flashed out at the motor, riding perched on its swivel, limned against
cold, hard points of light that were the stars. His heart gave a bound. "I
think I've found it!" His other voice droned on morbidly. "Turn that
thing off a minute, Johnny. Listen; there's a lead to the twelve o'clock
fuel valve solenoid that looks like ... yes, I'm sure of it. It's pulled away
from a bracket and looks like it might be charred." Mac twisted around
to view the wiring better.
"Can you fix it?"
"Oh, sure, if that's all there is wrong. But I'd rather do the work with the
motors retracted. Tell you what; retract them about forty-five degrees
when I give the word."
* * * * *

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.
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