Production Test

But the springs, in turn, made the ungainly contraption nicknamed the Iron Maiden necessary to hold the uninflated suit.

So far, all means of dogging the counterbalances made it impossible to get into the suit, properly inflate, and then remove the dogs. In the Maiden, the suit was held rigid and the right arm dogged so that the openings could be closed and the suit inflated. Afterwards, the left hand was used to undog the right arm.

It was cumbersome, complicated, and ungainly, a lot different from the boyhood heroes Bryan Kimberly had read about, those dashing engineers who were forever shucking on a spacesuit at the drop of a ray gun and clearing the void of all that stood in their way.

But it was an improvement over the old ground joint, iron pants outfits, with their continual blowouts and violent deaths. So far, space flight had become useful only to the degree that suit engineering had freed men from the confines of the ships to explore the surface of the Moon.

And some day a Kimberly would make the first human footprint on the surface of Mars —

Kimberly slid his legs into the suit, then hunched down and drew himself into the rest of the carcass. He stood up straight sliding his arms into place and raising his head into the dark, tight cavern of the headpiece. More than ever, he wished those writers and illustrators of thirty years ago had left proper specifications for those beautiful suits and transparent helmets they designed. A suffocating, claustrophobic sense filled him momentarily. As good as they were, the lenses gave the impression of looking between fantastic bars as his sight shifted from one to another. It was difficult to get used to the distortion of field that they presented to his eyes — but some day there'd be transparent headpieces.

With his right arm, he closed the belly opening through which he had entered. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale, he thought. The inch and a half thickness of Cordolite felt cold and clammy even through the liner. He turned up the heat control by means of the switch at the end of the left sleeve.

The swirl of air began to fill the suit as he began inflation. The fabric was a close fit in most areas except for the helmet and sleeve terminals where the controls and digital manipulators were located.

The warmth made him more comfortable, but didn't dispel the conviction that he'd rather manufacture the suits than wear them. As the air pressure rose to normal, the suit became free in the Iron Maiden and he stepped out, undogging the right sleeve. He went to the controls of the air lock and started the pumps that would evacuate the lock and reduce the temperature to that inside the icebox. While he waited, he checked the row of tiny meters just inside the lower range of vision at chin level. Temperature, pressure, tank pressure, voltage of the power pack — they were normal. Except for the tank: it wasn't up to full capacity. He wondered if he should fill it. But there was no need. He wouldn't be in the lock more than an hour at the most.

The door automatically swung open as the pumps completed the evacuation. He stepped through into the test room and closed the door behind him.

The score or more of hanging, bulging suits in their racks across the room seemed like waiting corpses for some reason. The utter silence, the knowledge of the absolute cold and vacuum beyond the thickness of the suit always depressed him. He knew he'd never have made a spaceman. They got used to it, they said. But this was the nearest he'd ever get to the thrill of space adventure, he was certain.

He reached up above his head to check the door clamp again and scowled at the peephole transmitter and mike just below it. These were for the operators setting up the chamber for a test, but they were automatically on whenever the door was closed. Safety precaution some bright lad had devised, Kimberly thought. Some safety for a guy in a spacesuit in there with no air, though.

Yet it gave him an absurd, comforting sense of connection with the world of the living, even though no one but the watchman would be out there somewhere in the building.

He walked over to the row of suit carcasses. They looked all right. Their telemeters showed pressure and temperature being maintained at normal in all of them.

Kimberly felt a surge of growing irritation. There was nothing wrong with these suits. It must have been something to do with the Queen or conditions on the Moon that broke down those others. It made no sense at all. And he'd never get to the cabin by dark, now.

But though there was nothing wrong, how could he take the week end off until he had proven positively that it was so? In a burst of anger he hauled back and punched the nearest carcass in the belly. It jolted back and sent the whole rackful reeling in their hangers like, like — dead men swinging in the wind, Kimberly thought morosely.

Then he heard it.