He was in his own home, in his own great room. Baldur let out one more yipe. ‘Quiet!’ He looked himself over
When he had gone to sleep he had been held in place by four light guys, opposed like the axes of a tetrahedron. Two of them were still fastened to his belt; he swung loosely against the control ring. Of the other two, one had snapped off at his belt; its end floated a few feet away. The fourth had been broken in two places, near his belt and again several feet out; the severed piece was looped loosely around his neck
He looked the situation over. Study as he might, he could conceive no way in which the guys could have been broken save by his own struggles in the nightmare. The dog could not have done it; he had no way to get a purchase. He had done it himself. The lines were light, being intended merely as stays. Still- It took him a few minutes to rig a testing apparatus which would test pull instead of grip; the yoke had to be reversed. When it was done, he cut in a medium waldo pair, fastened the severed piece of line to the tester, and, using the waldo, pulled
The line parted at two hundred and twelve pounds
Hastily, but losing time because of nervous clumsiness, he re-rigged the tester for grip. He paused, whispered softly, ‘Now is the time, Gramps!’ and bore down on the grip
Twenty pounds – twenty-one. Twenty-five! Up past thirty. He was not even sweating! Thirty-five -forty, -one, -two, -three. Forty-five! And -six! And a half. Forty-seven pounds! With a great sigh he let his hand relax. He was strong. Strong
When he had somewhat regained his composure, he considered what to do next. His first impulse was to call Grimes, but he suppressed it. Soon enough when he was sure of himself
He went back to the tester and tried his left hand. Not as strong as his right, but almost – nearly forty-five pounds. Funny thing, he didn’t feel any different. Just normal, healthy. No sensation
He wanted to try all of his muscles. It would take too long to rig testers for kick, and shove, and back lift, and, oh, a dozen others. He needed a field, that was it, a one-g field. Well, there was the reception room; it could be centrifuged
But its controls were in the ring and it was long corridors away. There was a nearer one, the centrifuge for the cuckoo clock. He had rigged the wheel with a speed control as an easy way to regulate the clock. He moved back to the control ring and stopped the turning of the big wheel; the clockwork was disturbed by the sudden change; the little red bird popped out, said, ‘TIz-wu th-woo’ once, hopefully, and subsided
Carrying in his hand a small control panel radio hooked to the motor which inipelled the centrifuge wheel, he propelled himself to the wheel and placed himself inside, planting his feet on the inner surface of the rim and grasping one of the spokes, so that he would be in a standing position with respect to the centrifugal force, once it was impressed. He started the wheel slowly
Its first motion surprised him and he almost fell off. But he recovered himself and gave it a littlc more power. All right so far. He speeded it up gradually, triumph spreading through him as he felt the pull of the pseudo gravitational field, felt his legs grow heavy, but still strong! He let it out, one full g. He could take it. He could, indeed! To be sure, the force did not affect the upper part of his body so strongly as the lower, as his head was only a foot or so from the point of rotation. He could fix that; he squatted down slowly, hanging on tight to the spoke. It was all right
But the wheel swayed and the motor complained. His unbalanced weight, that far out from the centre of rotation, was putting too much of a strain on a framework intended to support a cuckoo clock and its counterweight only. He straightened up with equal caution, feeling the fine shove of his thigh muscles and calves. He stopped the wheel