The Fountains of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,90

silence before Kingsley spoke again, in the sort of tone one used to address a small child or a difficult invalid.

“It makes all the difference in the world. Did you say twenty meters?”

“Yes—that’s about it.”

Incredibly, unmistakably, Kingsley gave a clearly audible sigh of relief. There was even joy in his voice when he answered:

“And all these years, Van, I thought that you were the Chief Engineer on this project. Suppose it is twenty meters exactly—”

Morgan’s explosive shout prevented him from finishing the sentence.

“What an idiot! Tell Sessui I’ll dock in—oh—fifteen minutes.”

“Fourteen point five, if you’ve guessed the distance right. And nothing on Earth can stop you now.”

That was a risky statement, and Morgan wished that Kingsley hadn’t made it. Docking adapters sometimes failed to latch together properly, because of minute errors in manufacturing tolerances. And, of course, there had never been a chance of testing this particular system.

He felt only a slight embarrassment at his mental blackout. After all, under extreme stress a man could forget his own telephone number, even his own date of birth. And until this very moment, the now dominant factor in the situation had been so unimportant that it could be completely ignored.

It was all a matter of relativity. He could not reach the Tower; but the Tower would reach him—at its inexorable two kilometers a day.

55. Hard Dock

The record for one day’s construction had been thirty kilometers, when the slimmest and lightest section of the Tower was being assembled. Now that the most massive portion—the very root of the structure—was nearing completion in orbit, the rate was down to two kilometers. That was quite fast enough. It would give Morgan time to check the adapter line-up, and to rehearse mentally the rather tricky few seconds between confirming hard dock and releasing Spider’s brakes. If he left them on for too long, there would be a very unequal trial of strength between the capsule and the moving megatons of the Tower.

It was a long but relaxed fifteen minutes—time enough, Morgan hoped, to pacify CORA. Toward the end, everything seemed to happen quickly, and at the last moment he felt like an ant about to be crushed in a stamping press, as the solid roof of the sky descended upon him. One second, the base of the Tower was meters away; an instant later, he felt and heard the impact of the docking mechanism.

Many lives depended now upon the skill and care with which the engineers and mechanics, years ago, had done their work. If the couplings did not line up within the allowed tolerances; if the latching mechanism did not operate correctly; if the seal was not airtight…Morgan tried to interpret the medley of sounds reaching his ears, but he was not skilled enough to read the messages.

Then, like a signal of victory, the DOCKING COMPLETED sign flashed on the indicator board. There would be ten seconds while the telescopic elements absorbed the movement of the advancing Tower. Morgan waited half of them before he cautiously released the brakes.

He was prepared to jam them on again instantly if Spider started to drop, but the sensors were telling the truth. Tower and capsule were now firmly mated together. Morgan had only to climb a few rungs of ladder, and he would have reached his goal.

After he had reported to the jubilant listeners on Earth and Midway, he sat for a moment recovering his breath. Strange to think that this was his second visit, but he could remember little of that first one, years ago and thirty-six thousand kilometers higher. During what had, for want of a better term, been called the foundation-laying, there had been a small party in the Basement, and numerous zero-gee toasts had been squirted. This was not only the first section of the Tower to be built; it would also be the first to make contact with Earth, at the end of its long descent from orbit. Some kind of ceremony had therefore seemed in order, and Morgan now recalled that even his old enemy Senator Collins had been gracious enough to attend and to wish him luck with a barbed but good-humored speech. There was even better cause for celebration now….

Already, Morgan could hear a faint tattoo of welcoming raps from the far side of the air lock. He undid his safety belt, climbed awkwardly onto the seat, and started to ascend the ladder. The overhead hatch gave a token resistance, as if the powers marshaled against him were making one