46. Spider
How the mountain had changed, thought Morgan, since he had first seen it! The summit had been entirely sheared away, leaving a perfectly level plateau; at its centre was the giant “saucepan lid”, sealing the shaft which would soon carry the traffic of many worlds. Strange to think that the greatest spaceport in the solar system would be deep inside the heart of a mountain.
No one could have guessed that an ancient monastery had once stood here, focusing the hopes and fears of billions for at least three thousand years. The only token that still remained was the ambiguous bequest of the Maha Thero, now crated and waiting to be moved. But, so far, neither the authorities at Yakkagala nor the director of the Ranapura Museum had shown much enthusiasm for Kalidasa's ill-omened bell. The last time it had tolled the peak had been swept by that brief but eventful gale – a wind of change indeed. Now the air was almost motionless, as Morgan and his aides walked slowly to the waiting capsule, glittering beneath the inspection lights. Someone had stencilled the name SPIDER MARK II on the lower part of the housing; and beneath that had been scrawled the promise: WE DELIVER THE GOODS. I hope so, thought Morgan.
Every time he came here he found it more difficult to breathe, and he looked forward to the flood of oxygen that would soon gush into his starved lungs. But CORA, to his surprised relief, had never issued even a preliminary admonition when he visited the summit; the regime that Dr. Sen had prescribed seemed to be working admirably.
Everything had been loaded aboard Spider, which had been jacked up so that the extra battery could be hung beneath it. Mechanics were still making hasty last-minute adjustments and disconnecting power leads; the tangle of cabling underfoot was a mild hazard to a man unused to walking in a spacesuit.
Morgan's Flexisuit had arrived from Gagarin only thirty minutes ago, and for a while he had seriously considered leaving without one. Spider Mark II was a far more sophisticated vehicle than the simple prototype that Maxine Duval had once ridden; indeed, it was a tiny spaceship with its own life-support system. If all went well, Morgan should be able to mate it with the airlock on the bottom of the Tower, designed years ago for this very purpose. But a suit would provide not only insurance in case of docking problems; it would give him enormously greater freedom of action. Almost form-fitting, the Flexisuit bore very little resemblance to the clumsy armour of the early astronauts, and, even when pressurised, would scarcely restrict his movements. He had once seen a demonstration by its manufacturers of some spacesuited acrobatics, culminating in a sword-fight and a ballet. The last was hilarious – but it had proved the designer's claims.
Morgan climbed the short flight of steps, stood for a moment on the capsule's tiny metal porch, then cautiously backed inside. As he settled down and fastened the safety belt, he was agreeably surprised at the amount of room. Although the Mark II was certainly a one-man vehicle, it was not as claustrophobic as he had feared – even with the extra equipment that had been packed into it.
The two oxygen cylinders had been stowed under the seat, and the CO2 masks were in a small box behind the ladder that led up to the overhead airlock. It seemed astonishing that such a small amount of equipment could mean the difference between life and death for so many people.
Morgan had taken one personal item – a memento of that first day long ago at Yakkagala, where in a sense all this had started. The spinnerette took up little room, and weighed only a kilo. Over the years it had become something of a talisman; it was still one of the most effective ways of demonstrating the properties of hyperfilament, and whenever he left it behind he almost invariably found that he needed it. On this, of all trips, it might well prove useful.
He plugged in the quick-release umbilical of his spacesuit, and tested the air-flow both on the internal and external supply. Outside, the power cables were disconnected; Spider was on its own.
Brilliant speeches were seldom forthcoming at such moments – and this, after all, was going to be a perfectly straightforward operation. Morgan grinned rather stiffly at Kingsley and said: “Mind the store, Warren, until I get back.” Then he noticed the small, lonely figure in the crowd around the capsule. My God, he thought to himself – I'd almost forgotten the poor kid. . . “Dev,” he called. “Sorry I haven't been able to look after you. I'll make up for it when I get back.”
And I will, he told himself. When the Tower was finished there would be time for everything – even the human relations he had so badly neglected. Dev would be worth watching; a boy who knew when to keep out of the way showed unusual promise.
The curving door of the capsule – the upper half of it transparent plastic – thudded softly shut against its gaskets. Morgan pressed the CHECK-OUT button, and Spider's vital statistics appeared on the screen one by one. All were green; there was no need to note the actual figures. If any of the values had been outside nominal, they would have flashed red twice a second. Nevertheless, with his usual engineer's caution, Morgan observed that oxygen stood at 102 percent, main battery power at 101 percent, booster battery at 105 percent. ..
The quiet, calm voice of the controller – the same unflappable expert who had watched over all operations since that first abortive lowering years ago – sounded in his ear. “All systems nominal. You have control.”
“I have control. I'll wait until the next minute comes up.”
It was hard to think of a greater contrast to an old-time rocket launch, with its elaborate countdown, its split-second timing, its sound and fury. Morgan merely waited until the last two digits on the clock became zeroes, then switched on power at the lowest setting.
Smoothly – si1ently -– the flood-lit mountain top fell away beneath him. Not even a balloon ascent could have been quieter. If he listened carefully he could just hear the whirring of the twin motors as they drove the big friction drive-wheels that gripped the tape, both above and below the capsule.
Rate of ascent, five metres a second, said the velocity indicator; in slow, regular steps Morgan increased the power until it read fifty – just under two hundred kilometres an hour. That gave maximum efficiency at Spider's present loading; when the auxiliary battery was dropped off speed could be increased by twenty-five percent to almost 250 klicks.
“Say something, Van!” said Warren Kingsley's amused voice from the world below.
“Leave me alone,” Morgan replied equably. “I intend to relax and enjoy the view for the next couple of hours. If you wanted a running commentary, you should have sent Maxine Duval.”
“She's been calling you for the last hour.”
“Give her my love, and say I'm busy. Maybe when I reach the Tower. . . . What's the latest from there?”
“Temperature's stabilised at twenty – Monsoon Control zaps them with a modest megawattage every ten minutes. But Professor Sessui is furious – complains that it upsets his instruments.”
“What about the air?”
“Not so good. The pressure has definitely dropped, and of course the CO2's building up. But they should be O.K. if you arrive on schedule. They're avoiding all unnecessary movement, to conserve oxygen.”
All except Professor Sessui, I'll bet, thought Morgan. It would be interesting to meet the man whose life he was trying to save. He had read several of the scientist's widely-praised popular books, and considered them florid and overblown. Morgan suspected that the man matched the style.
“And the status at 10K?”
“Another two hours before the transporter can leave; they're installing some special circuits to make quite sure that nothing catches fire on this trip.”