Tight Squeeze

He knew the theory of repairing the gizmo all right. He had that nicely

taped. But there was the little matter of threading a wire through a toosmall hole while under zero-g, and working in a spacesuit!

MacNamara ambled across the loading ramp, savoring the dry, dusty air

that smelled unmistakable of spaceship. He half-consciously separated the

odors; the sweet, volatile scent of fuel, the sharp aroma of lingering

exhaust gases from early morning test-firing, the delicate odor of silicon

plastic which was being stowed as payload. He shielded his eyes against

the sun, watching as men struggled with the last plastic girders to be

strapped down, high above the dazzling ground of White Sands. The

slender cargo doors stood open around Valier's girth, awaiting his own

personal O.K.

This flight would be the fourth for Major Edward MacNamara; as he

neared the great, squatting shock absorbers he could feel the tension

begin to knot his stomach. He had, of course, been overwhelmed by the

opportunity to participate in Operation Doughnut. The fact that he had

been one of the best mechanical engineers in the Air Force never occurred

to him at the time. He was a pilot, and a good one, but he had languished

as C.O. of a maintenance squadron for nearly two years before he was

given another crack at glory. Now, he wasn't at all sure he was happy

with the transition. They needed master mechanics for Operation

Doughnut, but he felt they should be left on the ground when the

towering supply rockets lifted.

He stopped, leaning against scaffolding as he saw a familiar figure turn

toward him. He cupped his hands before his face.

"Hey, douse that butt! Can't you ... oh, Mac!" The commanding voice

trailed off in a chuckle. Better to clown his way through the inspection,

MacNamara thought, than to let Ruiz notice his nervousness. The co-pilot,

Ruiz, walked toward him, still smiling. "One of these days, boy, you gonna

go too far. Thought you were a real, eighteen carat saboteur." He clapped

MacNamara on the shoulder and gazed aloft. "Good day for it. No

weather, no hangover, no nothing."

"Yeah. You know, Johnny, I've been thinking about a modification for our

breathing oxy." He sniffed appreciatively.

"What's that?"

"Put a little dust in it, a few smells. That stuff we breathe is just too

sanitary!"

"I know what you mean. I sure begin to crave this filthy, germ-filled air

after a few hours out there." They both smiled at the thought, then

turned to the business at hand.

"By the way, Johnny, what're you doing out so early? Didn't expect to see

you cabbies before ten."

"I donno," the bronzed Ruiz replied. "Went to bed early, woke up at six

and couldn't drop off again. And here I am. Carl ought to be along around

nine-thirty. Thought I'd help you preflight, if you want me to."

"Sure." He wanted nothing of the sort, but had the tact not to say so.

Edward MacNamara was as familiar with the Valier as he was with the tip

of his nose. He had been on the scene when Dan Burke test-hopped the

third stage, had made improvements and re-routing jobs, and had

memorized every serial number of every bearing that went into Valier. As

Flight Engineer, he was supposed to.

With Johnny Ruiz helping a little and hindering a little, he finished his tour

of the cargo sections and grinned his approval to a muscular loading

technician. "They can button her up, sergeant. I couldn't do a better job

myself." It was a compliment of the highest order, and they both knew it. Riding the tiny lift down to ground level, MacNamara stopped them every

ten feet or so to circle the catwalks. He noticed Ruiz's impatience about

halfway down. "No hurry, Johnny. I don't want another Wyld on our

hands." He knew he shouldn't have said it, but it slipped out anyway.

Everyone 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."