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diff --git a/29990-h/29990-h.htm b/29990-h/29990-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3fb7a52 --- /dev/null +++ b/29990-h/29990-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1157 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Satellite, by H. B. Fyfe + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 30%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Satellite System, by Horace Brown Fyfe + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Satellite System + +Author: Horace Brown Fyfe + +Illustrator: Summers + +Release Date: September 14, 2009 [EBook #29990] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SATELLITE SYSTEM *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/image_001.jpg" width="500" height="443" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + + +<h1>SATELLITE<br /> + +SYSTEM</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2>By H. B. FYFE</h2> +<p> </p> +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Fyfe's quite right ... there's nothing like a satellite system for a +cold storage arrangement. Keeps things handy, but out of the way....</i></p></div> +<p> </p> +<h3>Illustrated by Summers</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="51" height="50" /></div> +<p>aving released the netting of his bunk, George Tremont floated +himself out. He ran his tongue around his mouth and grimaced.</p> + +<p>"Wonder how long I slept ... feels like too long," he muttered. "Well, +they would have called me."</p> + +<p>The "cabin" was a ninety-degree wedge of a cylinder hardly eight feet +high. From one end of its outer arc across to the other was just over +ten feet, so that it had been necessary to bevel two corners of the +hinged, three-by-seven bunk to clear the sides of the wedge. Lockers +flattened the arc behind the bunk.</p> + +<p>Tremont maneuvered himself into a vertical position in the eighteen +inches between the bunk and a flat surface that cut off the point of +the wedge. He stretched out an arm to remove towel and razor from one +of the lockers, then carefully folded the bunk upward and hooked it +securely in place.</p> + +<p>With room to turn now, he swung around and slid open a double door in +the flat surface, revealing a shaft three feet square whose center was +also the theoretical intersection of his cabin walls. Tremont pulled +himself into the shaft. From "up" forward, light leaked through a +partly open hatch, and he could hear a murmur of voices as he +jackknifed in the opposite direction.</p> + +<p>"At least two of them are up there," he grunted.</p> + +<p>He wondered which of the other three cabins was occupied, meanwhile +pulling himself along by the ladder rungs welded to one corner of the +shaft. He reached a slightly wider section aft, which boasted +entrances to two air locks, a spacesuit locker, a galley, and a head. +He entered the last, noting the murmur of air-conditioning machinery +on the other side of the bulkhead.</p> + +<p>Tremont hooked a foot under a toehold to maintain his position facing +a mirror. He plugged in his razor, turned on the exhauster in the slot +below the mirror to keep the clippings out of his eyes, and began to +shave. As the beard disappeared, he considered the deals he had come +to Centauri to put through.</p> + +<p>"A funny business!" he told his image. "Dealing in ideas! Can you +really sell a man's thoughts?"</p> + +<p>Beginning to work around his chin, he decided that it actually was +practical. Ideas, in fact, were almost the only kind of import worth +bringing from Sol to Alpha Centauri. Large-scale shipments of +necessities were handled by the Federated Governments. To carry even +precious or power metals to Earth or to return with any type of +manufactured luxury was simply too expensive in money, fuel, effort, +and time.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, traveling back every five years to buy up plans and +licenses for the latest inventions or processes—<i>that</i> was profitable +enough to provide a good living for many a man in Tremont's business. +All he needed were a number of reliable contacts and a good knowledge +of the needs of the three planets and four satellites colonized in +the Centaurian system.</p> + +<p>Only three days earlier, Tremont had returned from his most recent +trip to the old star, landing from the great interstellar ship on the +outer moon of Centauri VII. There he leased this small rocket—the +<i>Annabel</i>, registered more officially as the AC7-4-525—for his local +traveling. It would be another five days before he reached the +inhabited moons of Centauri VI.</p> + +<p>He stopped next in the galley for a quick breakfast out of tubes, +regretting the greater convenience of the starship, then returned the +towel and razor to his cabin. He decided that his slightly rumpled +shirt and slacks of utilitarian gray would do for another day. About +thirty-eight, an inch or two less than six feet and muscularly slim, +Tremont had an air of habitual neatness. His dark hair, thinning at +the temples, was clipped short and brushed straight back. There were +smile wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and grooving his lean +cheeks.</p> + +<p>He closed the cabin doors and pulled himself forward to enter the +control room through the partly open hatch. The forward bulkhead +offered no more head room than did his own cabin, but there seemed to +be more breathing space because this chamber was not quartered. Deck +space, however, was at such a premium because of the controls, +acceleration couches, and astrogating equipment that the hatch was the +largest clear area.</p> + +<p>Two men and a girl turned startled eyes upon Tremont as he rose into +their view. One of the men, about forty-five but sporting a youngish +manner to match his blond crewcut and tanned features, glanced quickly +at his wrist watch.</p> + +<p>"Am I too early?" demanded Tremont with sudden coldness. "What are you +doing with my case there?"</p> + +<p>The girl, in her early twenties and carefully pretty with her long +black hair neatly netted for space, snatched back a small hand from +the steel strongbox that was shaped to fit into an attaché case. The +second man, under thirty but thick-waisted in a gray tee-shirt, said +in the next breath, "Take him!"</p> + +<p>Too late, Tremont saw that the speaker had already braced a foot +against the far bulkhead. Then the broad face with its crooked blob of +a nose above a ridiculous little mustache shot across the chamber at +him. Desperately, Tremont groped for a hold that would help him either +to avoid the charge or to pull himself back into the shaft, but he was +caught half in and half out.</p> + +<p>He met the rush with a fist, but the tangle of bodies immediately +became confusing beyond belief as the other pair joined in.</p> + +<p>Something cracked across the back of his head, much too hard to have +been accidental.</p> + +<p>When Tremont began to function again, it took him only a few seconds +to realize that life had been going on without him for some little +time.</p> + +<p>For one thing, the heavy man's nosebleed had stopped, and he was +tenderly combing blood from his mustache with a fingertip.</p> + +<p>For another, they had managed to stuff Tremont into a spacesuit and +haul him down the shaft to the air lock. Someone had noosed the thumbs +of the gauntlets together and tied the cord to the harness supporting +the air tanks.</p> + +<p>Tremont twisted his head around to eye the three of them without +speaking. He was trying to decide where he had made his mistake.</p> + +<p>Bill Braigh, the elderly youth with the crewcut? Ralph Peters, the +pilot who had come with the ship? Dorothy Stauber, the trim brunette +who had made the trip from Earth on the same starship as Tremont? He +could not make up his mind without more to go on.</p> + +<p>Then he remembered with a sinking sensation that <i>all</i> of them had +been clustered about his case of papers and microfilms when he had +interrupted them.</p> + +<p>"I trust you aren't thinking of making us any trouble, Tremont," +drawled Braigh. "Give up the idea; you've been no trouble at all."</p> + +<p>"Where do you think this is getting you?" demanded Tremont.</p> + +<p>Braigh chuckled.</p> + +<p>"Wherever it would have gotten you," he said. "Only at less expense."</p> + +<p>"Ask him for the combination," growled Peters.</p> + +<p>Braigh scrutinized Tremont's expression.</p> + +<p>"It would probably take us a while, Ralph," he decided regretfully. +"It's simpler to put him outside now and be free to use tools on the +box."</p> + +<p>Tremont opened his mouth to protest, but Braigh clapped the helmet +over his head and screwed it fast.</p> + +<p>"You'll never read the code!" yelled Tremont, struggling to break +free. "Those papers are no good to you without me!"</p> + +<p>Someone slammed him against the bulkhead and held him there with his +face to it. He could do nothing with his hands, joined as they were, +and very little with his feet. It dawned upon him that they could not +hear a word, and he fell silent. Twisting his head to peer out the +side curve of his vision band, he caught a glimpse of Peters suiting +up.</p> + +<p>A few minutes later, they opened the inner hatch of the air lock and +shoved Tremont inside. Peters followed, gripping him firmly about the +knees from behind.</p> + +<p>"Here we go!" grunted Peters, and Tremont realized that he could +communicate again, over their suit radios.</p> + +<p>"You won't get far, trying to read the code I have those papers +written in," he warned. "You'd better talk this over before you make a +mistake."</p> + +<p>"Ain't no mistake about it," said Peters, pressing toward the outer +hatch. "So you chartered the rocket. You felt you oughta go out to see +about a heavy dust particle hitting the hull. You fell off an' we +never found you."</p> + +<p>"How will you explain not going yourself? Or not finding me by +instruments?"</p> + +<p>Peters clubbed Tremont's foot from the tank rack he had hooked with +the toe.</p> + +<p>"How could I go? Leave the ship without a pilot? An' the screens are +for pickin' up meteorites far enough out to mean somethin' at the +speeds they travel. So you were too close to register, leastways till +it was way too late. You must have suffocated when your air ran out."</p> + +<p>Tremont scrabbled about with his feet for some kind of hold. The outer +hatch began to open. He could see stars out there.</p> + +<p>"Wait!" shouted Tremont.</p> + +<p>It was too late. He felt himself shoot forward as if Peters had thrust +a foot into the small of his back and shoved. Tremont tried to grab at +the edge of the air lock, but it was gone. A puff of air frosted about +him, its human bullet.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The stars spun slowly before his eyes. After a moment, the gleaming +hull of the <i>Annabel</i> swam into his field of view. It was already +thirty feet away and the air lock was closing. He caught a glimpse of +a spacesuited figure with the light behind it.</p> + +<p>Then he was looking at the stars again.</p> + +<p>The small, distant brilliance of Alpha Centauri made him squint in the +split second before the suit's photoelectric cells caused filters to +flip down before his eyes. Then it was stars again, and the filters +retracted.</p> + +<p>"They can't do this!" said Tremont. "<i>Peters!</i> Do you hear me? You +can't get away with this!"</p> + +<p>There was no answer.</p> + +<p>The rocket came into view again, farther away. He had to get back +somehow. Forgetting the bound position of his hands, he attempted to +check his belt equipment. Holding his arms as far as possible from his +body was not enough to let him get a look at the harness from within +his helmet.</p> + +<p>He tugged violently at the cord holding the thumbs of his gauntlets, +and thought it gave slightly.</p> + +<p><i>Maybe it just tightened</i>, he thought.</p> + +<p>To free his hands, he drew his arms in through the wide armpits of the +suit sleeves, built that way to enable the wearer to feed himself, +wipe his brow, or adjust clothing or heating units within the suit. He +felt more comfortable but that got him nowhere except for the chance +to consult his wrist watch.</p> + +<p>Set at the lunar time of Centauri VII-4, it told him that when he had +gone out of the airlock five minutes before the time had been 17:36. +It did not strike Tremont as being a very promising bit of +data—warning him merely that when he began to feel the want of air, +it would be about 21:30. He longed for a pen-knife.</p> + +<p>"<i>There's</i> one thing I'm going to ask about on my next trip to Sol—if +I make one!" he muttered. "Has anyone developed a reliable, small +<i>suit</i> air lock, so you can pass things out from your pockets?"</p> + +<p>He thrust his hands once more into the arms of the suit, and felt as +far along his belt as he could. He did manage to reach the usual +position of the standard rocket pistol. The hook was empty.</p> + +<p>"Well, that's that!" he groaned. "They didn't forget. I have nothing +to maneuver with."</p> + +<p>He pondered worriedly. Perhaps the air—if he dared to waste any, it +would make a small jet. Slow, but he had all the rest of his life!</p> + +<p>He settled down to picking at the cord about his thumbs with the tips +of the other fingers in his gauntlets. It seemed possible that he +might in time chew it up to the point where it could be snapped.</p> + +<p>The stars streamed slowly past his line of vision as he spun through +the emptiness. Two or three little bits of the cord chipped off and +drifted away. Tremont realized that it was frozen and brittle. He +redoubled his efforts. After a few minutes of clumsy clicking of +fingertips against thumbs, he strained to pull his hands apart.</p> + +<p>The cord parted and his arms jerked out to their full spread with such +suddenness that he felt his backbone creak. For a moment, he hung +motionless inside his suit, wondering if he had hurt himself.</p> + +<p>Recovering, he groped about, checking for his equipment. He discovered +that nothing had been left. No knife, no rocket pistol, no line with +magnet for securing oneself to a hull.</p> + +<p><i>Well, at least I can reach the valves of the air tanks</i>, he reassured +himself.</p> + +<p>He watched for the ship, so as to judge his direction. Several minutes +passed before he allowed himself to recognize the truth of his +situation: he could no longer see the gleam of Alpha Centauri on the +hull!</p> + +<p>He was already too far out to dare to waste air. He might give away +his last four hours of life just to send himself in the wrong +direction.</p> + +<p>"How did I get myself into this?" he groaned.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He set himself to thinking back to his meetings with the others. +Dorothy Stauber had landed from the same starship after passage from +Sol, but he had not become acquainted with her during the trip except +to pass the time of day. He seemed to remember that she had turned up +in the Customs dome to ask his advice on travel....</p> + +<p>"Ye-ah!" he growled to himself. "<i>After</i> I phoned to lease a rocket. +She must have known, but how?"</p> + +<p>Someone in the shipping office? Well, why not Peters, the pilot? And +then Braigh had come along, pretending to have been on his way back to +Centauri VI and hoping to buy a fast passage on a small vessel for +business reasons. He had been free and ready with his money, leading +Tremont to consider cutting his own expenses on the charter.</p> + +<p>It seemed, on the face of it, that the three of them had never met +until the <i>Annabel</i> lifted.</p> + +<p>"But they had, all right!" Tremont told himself. "That was no chance, +anywhere along the line. I've been very neatly highjacked!"</p> + +<p>The girl must have trailed him to make sure they picked up the right +man. Braigh had never explained exactly what he was doing on the +satellite; he could have arranged for the assignment of the rocket, or +perhaps of the pilot, when Tremont called. Then they had gathered +around to hitch rides, and had been in control ever since.</p> + +<p>Tremont looked at the slowly progressing constellations and cursed +himself. He began to have the feeling that there would be no way out +of this. They would regret pitching him into space in such an offhand +manner, he reminded himself, when they opened his case. It would be +too late as far as he was concerned.</p> + +<p><i>Come to think of it</i>, he considered, <i>that Braigh looks pretty smart, +under that idiot-kid pose. He might just break my code, given time. +And the parts made up of model photos or drawings he can sell almost +as is.</i></p> + +<p>When he came to think of it, Tremont was surprised that no one had +tried the same racket before. He had laid out a fortune for what the +three thieves were stealing from him.</p> + +<p>He drew in his left arm again and raised the wrist to the neck of his +helmet. By looking down his nose, he discovered to his surprise that +he had been out nearly an hour. He had wasted more time than he +thought in reviewing his earlier encounters with Dorothy aboard the +starship and the others at the spaceport.</p> + +<p>He raised the water tube to his mouth and sucked in a mouthful. The +taste was stale.</p> + +<p><i>I could do with a beer, if this is the way I'm going out</i>, he +thought. <i>They can joke all they want about dying in bed after +traveling to the stars; but you could order a beer even if it killed +you.</i></p> + +<p>It gradually dawned upon him that the hazy light he had accepted as +being a nebula must be something closer. He watched for it, and +discovered after a few moments that it was growing brighter. It +continued to do so for half an hour.</p> + +<p>"It might be another ship!" he breathed, then he began to shout, +"Mayday! Mayday!" over his radio.</p> + +<p>He kept it up for nearly a quarter of an hour, even after the outline +was definitely recognizable as a rocket. He found himself drifting +across its course near the bow. It was hard to estimate the distance, +but he guessed it to be something like a hundred yards.</p> + +<p><i>Drifting?</i> he asked himself. <i>It should be going past me like a +shooting star! Unless they took exactly the same curve from Centauri +VII—</i></p> + +<p>Then he could read the numbers he feared to see. AC7-4-525. His own +ship.</p> + +<p>He had gone out of the air lock mainly on a puff of air, with some +fumbling help from Peters. That had been enough to send him out of +sight of the ship—in space, not necessarily very far—and now he was +back, after two hours.</p> + +<p><i>A long, flat orbit in relation to the ship</i>, he told himself, +remembering in time to avoid speaking aloud that Braigh might be at +the ship's radio, <i>but actually weaving back and forth across the +rocket's course, just nipping it at this end</i>.</p> + +<p>He edged a hand inside the suit again and turned off his radio. If he +found an answer, it would be fatal to be overheard mumbling about it.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The ship now seemed to be rushing at him, and Tremont deduced that his +orbital speed had increased as he approached the focus represented by +the <i>Annabel</i>. He would doubtless pass near the air lock at about his +expulsion speed.</p> + +<p>"Here's the chance!" he exulted. "A little air let out to slow down +... or even just to veer close enough to lay hands on something! You +launched me, Peters, but you didn't lose me."</p> + +<p>Getting through the airlock should be easy enough. He might be well up +the shaft before the others emerged from the control room. In fact, +unless Peters were on watch, the air lock operating signal might flash +unnoticed on the board.</p> + +<p>"And I'll be cracking skulls before they know what's up!" he growled.</p> + +<p>It struck him with a flash of ironic amusement that he had not felt +half so much hate when believing himself doomed. After two hours of +sweating out his helplessness, he had discovered a lively resentment +of the vicious callousness with which he had been jettisoned.</p> + +<p>He was only about twenty-five yards away now, seemingly circling the +ship. Peering closer, he saw that actually he was sweeping in toward +it.</p> + +<p><i>Now, be ready with the air tank valve, just in case!</i> he warned +himself.</p> + +<p>The great fins loomed to his right; the hull blotted most of the sky +from his view. It looked as if he would curve down to a spot beside +the same air lock from which he had been expelled. It seemed to be +still open.</p> + +<p>Then he saw the shape of a helmet rise around the curve of the ship. +Someone was out on the hull.</p> + +<p>Tremont switched on his radio and listened.</p> + +<p>The spacesuited figure climbed completely into view. There appeared to +be a line running from the belt into the air lock, and the figure +carried a long pole of some sort.</p> + +<p>"Oh, there you are, Tremont!" came Braigh's voice over the receiver. +"I've been waiting for you."</p> + +<p>The chuckle that followed made Tremont curse, which in turn provoked a +hearty laugh from the other.</p> + +<p>"You didn't think I'd forget you?" asked Braigh. "We figured out what +happened as soon as we heard you putting out those distress calls. +After that, it was just a matter of timing. Have you had an amusing +trip?"</p> + +<p>"Have you found out you can't make anything of those papers yet?" +countered Tremont.</p> + +<p>"Oh, the coding? It might take a little time, but we have plenty ... +now, now, Tremont! That kind of abusive language will get you +nowhere."</p> + +<p>Tremont had drifted to a point above the other's head, almost within +reach. He was kicking out in little motions that betrayed his +eagerness to come to grips with Braigh or <i>something</i> solid.</p> + +<p>"Why, Tremont! I do believe that you thought I came out to bargain +with you," chuckled the blond man. "Not at all! I told you that you'd +be no trouble. I just came out to finish the job Peters bungled."</p> + +<p>Tremont saw the pole jabbing upward at his stomach. Instinctively, he +grabbed at the end. Braigh was not disturbed.</p> + +<p>"Take it with you, then!" he laughed, letting go his end with a +powerful push. "Let me know if you're alive the next time you come +around, so I can come out again."</p> + +<p>Tremont began to swear at him, then got a grip on himself long enough +to snap his radio off.</p> + +<p>He had begun pulling himself down the pole when Braigh had shoved. +That sapped some of the force, but it was still enough to send him +spinning out into the void once more.</p> + +<p>The ship receded slowly. He saw Braigh return to the air lock and +enter. A moment later, that light was cut off, and Tremont began to +back off into space as he had the first time.</p> + +<p><i>They know all about it</i>, he realized. <i>They could leave me any time +just by burning a little fuel. Peters wouldn't care about wasting +it—I paid for it. Maybe he's just too lazy to calculate the course +correction.</i></p> + +<p>If so, he decided, the pilot was right. Tremont might drift back, but +two more hours from now, when he would be at his closest, would be too +late. He would be too near the end of his air to use it to make sure +of the last few feet.</p> + +<p>He looked at the pole in his grip. It was an eight-foot section of +aluminum from the cargo racks.</p> + +<p>"Maybe ..." he muttered.</p> + +<p>Whirling the pole around by the end, he managed after considerable +trial and error, to slow his wild spin enough to keep the ship in +view.</p> + +<p>The only question then was whether he dared to take the chance; and he +really had but one choice. The full orbit would be too long a period.</p> + +<p>He estimated as well as he could the direction of his progress, +allowed a few degrees which he fondly hoped would curve him in to a +closer approach at the meeting point, and hurled the pole into space +with all his strength.</p> + +<p>After that, there was nothing to do but wait and hope that he had cut +his speed enough to bring him to the ship ahead of schedule by a +shorter orbit.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Tremont finally gave up looking at his watch when he found himself +peeping every three minutes, on the average. The immensity of space +was by now instilling in him a psychological chill, and he drew both +arms in from their sleeves to hug an illusion of warmth to him. The +air pressure in the sleeves gradually overpowered the springs of the +joints, and extended them to make a cross.</p> + +<p>As far as he could tell from the gauges lined in a miniature row +along the neckpiece of the suit, his heating system was functioning as +designed. The batteries had an excellent chance of lasting longer than +he would.</p> + +<p>He began to dwell upon thoughts of squeezing Peters in the steel grip +of his gauntlets until the pilot's fat face turned purple and his eyes +popped. Another promising activity would be to bang Braigh's head +against a bulkhead with one hand and Dorothy's with the other.</p> + +<p><i>Wonder if they found the gun in my locker?</i> he mused.</p> + +<p>Finally, only a lifetime or two after he hoped to see it, he sighted +the ship again. His watch claimed the trip had lasted less than ninety +minutes.</p> + +<p>He encountered unexpected trouble approaching the hull. Realizing that +he was lucky to come close at all by such a guess, he tried to steer +himself with brief jets from his air tank, and wound up on the verge +of bashing directly into a fin. He avoided that, but had to use more +air to spin back for a more gentle contact.</p> + +<p>The metal felt like solid Earth to him as he seized the edge of a fin +and planted the magnets of his boots firmly on the hull.</p> + +<p>It was perhaps twenty minutes later, when Tremont was beginning to +worry again about his air supply, that the hatch of the air lock began +to open.</p> + +<p>Crystals of frost puffed out as the water vapor left the air. Braigh's +helmet appeared, then the whole spacesuited figure floated up before +the spot where Tremont was watching. The highjacker dropped the +magnet of his life line against the hull and started to turn around.</p> + +<p>Tremont grabbed the edge of the hatch with one hand, yanked the magnet +loose with the other, and kicked Braigh in the right area.</p> + +<p>The spacesuited figure shot off, tumbling end over end, into the void. +A startled squawk sounded over Tremont's receiver.</p> + +<p>"See how <i>you</i> like it!" he snarled.</p> + +<p>He ignored the begging of the suddenly frightened voice, and dived +into the air lock. In seconds, he had the outer hatch shut and was +nervously watching the air pressure building up on the gauge.</p> + +<p><i>If they notice at all, they'll think it's Braigh coming back!</i> he +exulted.</p> + +<p>He made it into the central shaft without meeting anyone. Pulling +himself forward in the bulky suit was an awkward task, but well worth +it for the expression on Peters' face when Tremont burst through the +control-room hatch.</p> + +<p>After dealing with the pilot in about two minutes, most of it spent in +catching him, Tremont went back along the shaft and found Dorothy in +her bunk. Before she could release the netting, he folded the bunk +upon her and secured it to the hook. Only then did he allow himself +the time to remove his helmet and make free of the ship's air.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do?" demanded the girl, rather shrilly.</p> + +<p>Tremont realized that she must have seen the unconscious Peters +floating outside in the shaft.</p> + +<p>"You won't like it!" he promised.</p> + +<p>"Tremont! I didn't know they'd do anything to you. Can't ... you and I +... make some kind of ... deal?"</p> + +<p>Tremont stared at her levelly.</p> + +<p>"But I'd have to really sleep sometime," he pointed out gently. "How +can I trust you...?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He was hardly a million miles out from the satellite system of +Centauri VI when the Space Patrol ship he had called managed to put a +pilot aboard to land the <i>Annabel</i> for him on the largest moon.</p> + +<p>Tremont returned wearily from helping the man in the air lock—which +he did with a practiced efficiency that surprised the pilot—to resume +his talk with the patrol-ship captain waiting on the screen.</p> + +<p>"We could have done it sooner, you know," said the latter curiously. +"Well, now that I see him beside you, perhaps you'll explain your +request to delay, and also what those pips trailing you are."</p> + +<p>"It's all the same story," said Tremont, and explained his +difficulties.</p> + +<p>The patrol captain frowned and expressed a wish to lay hands on the +highjackers.</p> + +<p>"Well, they're due back in"—Tremont consulted his watch—"about two +hours. I wanted them near the ends of their orbits as you approached."</p> + +<p>"You mean there are three bodies out there?"</p> + +<p>"Live ones, in spacesuits," said Tremont. "Experience is a great +teacher. As soon as I sighted Braigh coming back, I set up a regular +system."</p> + +<p>He explained how he had removed all tools from the three spacesuits, +added extra tanks, and stuffed the trio into them, either unconscious +or at gunpoint.</p> + +<p>"Then, having fastened the ankles together and wired the wrists to the +thighs so they couldn't move at all, I launched them one at a time +with enough pressure in the air lock to give four-hour orbits. That +gave me sleeping time."</p> + +<p>"And what about them?" asked the captain.</p> + +<p>"Oh, at the end of that period, they'd come drifting in at one-hour +intervals. Counting all the necessary operations, each of them got +thirty minutes actually out of the suit to eat and so on. Then out +he'd go while I fished in the next one. They didn't like it, but they +weren't so tough one at a time."</p> + +<p>"Let's see—" mused the captain. "Every four hours, you'd have to +spend ... why, only two hours processing them. As a result, you kept +complete control and came shooting in here with your own satellite +system revolving about you."</p> + +<p>"And your friends? How have they been passing the time?"</p> + +<p>"Well, either figuring out how to take me next time," guessed Tremont, +"or wishing they were moving in more honest circles!"</p> + +<h3>END</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Satellite System, by Horace Brown Fyfe + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SATELLITE SYSTEM *** + +***** This file should be named 29990-h.htm or 29990-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/9/9/29990/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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