what did Sven Olsen build alike
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With a name like that, you will picture Sven at once as a six-foot-six Nordic giant, built like a bull and with a voice to match. Had this been so, his chances of getting a job in space would have been very slim; actually he was a wiry little fellow, like most of the early spacers, and managed to quality easily for the 150-pound bonus that kept so many of us on a reducing diet.
Sven was one of our best construction men; and excelled at the tricky and specialized work of collecting assorted girders as they floated around in free fall, making them do the slow-motion, three-dimensional ballet that would get them into their right positions, and fusing the pieces together when they were precisely dovetailed into the intended pat tern. I never tired of watching him and his gang as the station grew under their hands like a giant jigsaw puzzle; it was a skilled and difficult job, for a space suit is not the most convenient of garbs in which to work. How ever, Sven's team had one great advantage over the construction gangs you see putting up skyscrapers down on Earth. They could step back and admire their handiwork without being abruptly parted from it by gravity.
I first became aware that Claribel was aboard when I was sitting in the little cubbyhole laughingly called my office, checking through my lists of technical stores to decide what items we'd be running out of next. When I heard the musical whistle beside my ear, I assumed that it had come over the station intercom, and waited for an announcement to follow. It didn't: instead, there was a long and involved pattern of melody that made me look up with such a start that 1 forgot all about the angle beam just behind my head. When the stars had ceased to explode before my eyes. I had my first view of Claribel.
She was a small yellow canary. hanging in the air as motionless as a hummingbird and with much less effort. for her wings were quietly folded along her sides. We stared at each other for a minute; then, before I had quite recovered my wits. She did a curious kind of backward loop I'm sure no earthbound canary had ever managed, and departed with a few leisurely flicks. It was quite obvious that she'd already learned how to operate in the absence of gravity, and did not believe in doing unnecessary work.
We were now on twelve-hour watches, which was not as bad as it sounds, since you need little sleep in space. Though of course there is no "day" and "night" when you are floating in permanent sunlight. it was still convenient to stick to the terms. Certainly when I woke up that "morning" it felt like 6:00A.M. on Earth. I had a nagging headache. and vague memories of fitful, disturbed dreams.
It took me ages to undo my bunk straps, and I was still only half awake when I joined the remainder of the duty crew in the mess. Breakfast was unusually quiet, and there was one seat vacant
Before I could retort that she usually woke me up, too. Sven came in through the doorway. and we could see at once that something was wrong. He slowly opened his hand, and there lay a tiny bundle of yellow feathers, with two clenched claws sticking pathetically up into the air.
"Let's have a look at her," said Jock Duncan. our cook-doctor-dietitian. We all waited in hushed silence while he held Claribel against his ear in an attempt to detect any heartbeat. Presently he shook his head. "I can't hear anything, but that doesn't prove she's dead. I've never listened to a canary's heart," he added rather apologetically.
To our delighted surprise. she revived at once. Beaming broadly. Sven removed the mask. and she hopped onto his finger. She gave her series of "Come to the cookhouse, boys" trills then promptly keeled over again.
For the last flew minutes. something had been tugging at my memory. My mind seemed to be be sluggish that morning, as if I was still unable to cast off the burden of sleep. I felt that I could do with some of that oxygen but before I could reach the mask, under standing exploded in my brain. I whirled on the duty engineer and said urgently: "Jim! There's something wrong with the air! That's why Claribel's passed out. I've just remembered that miners used to carry canaries down to warn them of gas."
That shook Jim: he left without a word, while we stood arguing and passing the oxygen bottle around like a pipe of peace. He came back ten minutes later with a sheepish expression. It was one of those accidents that couldn't possibly happen: we'd had one of our rare eclipses by Earth's shadow that night; part of the air purifier had frozen up, and the single alarm in the circuit had failed to go off.