Tight Squeeze | Page 7

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.