By that time I was working in a simulated spacesuit—the actual number was still being made to fit an accurate plaster cast of my body. So the boys figured out a clamp that would hold my helmet firmly to the gate, and a chin rack inside the helmet against which I could press and hold my head steady enough to keep my binoculars focused where they had to be focused. At a certain point I went back to Paul Cleary and said I thought I could make the necessary tests, dismount what I had to dismount, and replace any affected part.
"All worked out, eh?" he said, reaching for his pipe.
"Not by a county mile, Mr. Cleary. But I know what the problems are, and the shop can figure out sensible answers. Some of the hardest parts turned out to be the easiest."
"Name any three," he suggested.
"Well, the screws. As I take them out, I'll discard them into space. I have to use magnetic screws on reassembly, so there is no point saving what I take out. Doug Folley has doped out something like a motorman's change-dispenser that will dispense one screw at a time into my tweezers, and I'll carry a supply of all thirty-four kinds at my waist."
"That's one," he counted on a hairy forefinger.
"We can use something like a double-faced pressure-sensitive tape to hold other parts," I said. "We'll draw a diagram on it, stick it to some unopened part of the satellite near where I'm working, and as I pull pieces out, I'll just press them against the other sticky face, in the correct place in the diagram, and they'll be there to pull loose when I want them."
"At absolute zero?" he scoffed. "That sticky face will be hard as glass."
"We'll face the bird around to the sun," I said. "And warm it up. If we have to, we'll put wiring in the tape, connect it to Telstar's battery supply, and keep it warm."