Part 7 (1/2)

Inside we went through the drill. My ears popped a little as Sid unchucked my spent tanks, and popped again as the new ones came on with a hiss.

”Take it easy on that steering fuel, Mike,” he said again. ”You're getting awfully low.”

”Sure,” I said and let myself drift out the hatch. I had enough sense to twist so that my back jet wouldn't hit the s.h.i.+p. Then I took a zig-zag course through the darkness to my bird, got oriented at the open gate and went back to work. Before I could get started, my earphones spoke.

”Mike, Cleary here.”

”Roger, Paul. What is it?”

”Have you gotten to that solenoid yet?”

”Yes.”

”What can you tell me?”

”That you're a fathead. Now shut up. I'm busy.”

”Roger, Mike,” Paul Cleary acknowledged quite meekly.

So I started again, reaching with my leads from point to point. After a certain number of tests, I had the area isolated, but not the part.

From here on it would have to be disa.s.sembly. Every tiny screw had to be heated, then teased out with a jeweler's screwdriver. Some took my patented ratchet extension. The big miracle was that I didn't break anything.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

When I got to it, it was ridiculous. A small length of wire connected one component to another. s.p.a.ce was lacking, and the wire was tight against the metal of the gate. Its insulation was one of these s.p.a.ce-age wonders, a form of clear plastic that would remain ductile under zero temperature and pressure. Only it didn't. It had shrunk and cracked, and there was a simple short against the metal of the gate.

There were so many forms of circuit-breakers and self-protectors in the machine that the whole gate had been switched off as long as the short was in existence. No wonder telemetry hadn't told us anything.

As I prepared to fix the trouble, I switched on my radio and had Sid connect me with the ground. ”Canaveral Control,” one of those emotionless voices said. He could afford to be. He was on the ground.

”Get me Cleary,” I ordered.

”Cleary here, Mike. What have you found, boy?” He sure was anxious about that solenoid.

”Not much, Paul. Just that Fred Stone is a fathead, too. Over and out, like they say.” I switched off and went back to my work.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The one thing I had nothing of was any kind of insulating material.

With my screwdriver I hacked a piece loose from the double-faced sticky-tape I had used to keep loose parts from flying around, and teased it under the wire with my tweezers. Perhaps I could have done as well by heating the wire and bending it straight, but there was little room, and I was afraid of melting a solder joint. So I took my time teasing the tape through and finally got it to act as an insulator without breaking the wire. How long it would stay there was anybody's guess. It was held mechanically as well as by its sticky action, but when the bird cooled off enough, the sticky effect would lessen. I hoped the pressure between the wire and the gate could be enough to keep it in place. Certainly no forces would be acting to move it.

Just as I had figured, the rea.s.sembly was the tedious part. I had to move around into about sixteen screwy positions to do all the fixing.

Finally it was back in one piece and I swung the gate closed.

When the final 4-40's were run up as tight as they were supposed to be run, I reported to Paul Cleary. ”Try her,” I suggested. ”I think I found the trouble. No point my coming back down if it doesn't work.”

They made me sweat it out for about ten minutes before Paul said, ”Runs like a watch, Mike. Put the spin back on her, boy.” At least he was quiet about his solenoid.