Satellite System - H B Fyfe

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Satellite system by Horace Brown Fife. Fife's quite right. There's
nothing like a satellite system for a cold storage arrangement.
Keeps things handy but out of the way. Having released
the netting of his bunk, George Tremont floated himself out.
He ran his tongue around his mouth and grimaced. Wonder

(00:23):
how long I slept? Feels lack? Too long, he muttered, Well,
they would have called me. 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

(00:44):
seven hunk To clear the sides of the wedge. Lockers
flattened the arc behind the bunk. Tremont maneuvered himself into
a vertical position in the eighteen inches between the bunk
and a flat surface that cut off the the wedge.
He stretched out an arm to remove towel and razor

(01:04):
from one of the lockers, then carefully folded the bunk
upward and hooked it securely in place. 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.

(01:24):
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.
At least two of them are up there, he grunted.
He wondered which of the other three cabins was occupied. Meanwhile,

(01:46):
pulling himself along by the ladder rung welded to one
corner of the shaft, he reached a slightly wider section aft,
which boasted entrances to two airlocks, a spacesuit locker, a
galley at a head. He entered the last, noting the
murmur of air conditioning machinery on the other side of
the bulkhead. Tremont hooked a foot under a toll hold

(02:10):
to maintain his position. Facing a mirror, He plugged in
his razor, turned on the exhaustor 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 Centaury to put through
a funny business, he told his image, dealing in ideas,

(02:32):
can you really sell a man's thoughts? 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 Saul to Alpha Centauri. Large scale shipments of
necessities were handled by the federated governments. To carry even

(02:53):
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. On the other hand, traveling back every five
years to buy up plans and licenses for the latest
inventions or processes that was profitable enough to provide a

(03:15):
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. Only three days earlier,
Tremont had returned from his most recent trip to the
Old Star, landing from the Great Interstellar Ship on the

(03:37):
outer moon of Centauri seven. There he leased the small rocket,
the Annabelle, registered more officially as the A. C. Seven
dash four dash five twenty five for his local traveling.
It would be another five days before he reached the
inhabited moons of Centauri six. He stopped next in the

(04:01):
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 utilitary in gray would do for
another day. About thirty eight an inch or two less
than six feet and muscularly slim, Tremont had an air

(04:24):
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. 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

(04:47):
than did his own cabin, but there seemed to be
more breathing space because the 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.
Two men and a girl startled eyes upon Tremont as

(05:09):
he rose into their view. One of the men, about
forty five, but sporting a youngish manner to match his blond,
crew cut and tanned features, glanced quickly at his wrist watch.
Am I too early? Demanded Tremont with sudden coldness, What
are you doing with my case? There? The girl, in
her early twenties and carefully pretty, with her long black

(05:30):
hair neatly netted for space, snatched back a small hen
from the still strong box that was shaped to fit
into an attache case. The second man, under thirty, but
thick waisted and a gray T shirt, said, in the
next breath, take him too late. Tremont saw that the
speaker had already braced a foot against the far bulkhead.

(05:54):
Then the broad face, with its crooked blob of a
nose above a ridiculous little musts stash, shot across the
chamber at him. Desperately, Tremont grew uped 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. He met the rush

(06:15):
with a fist, but the tangle of bodies immediately became
confusing beyond belief. As the other pair joined in, something
cracked across the back of his head, much too hard
to have been accidental. 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.

(06:37):
For one thing, the heavy man's nosebleed had stopped, and
he was tenderly combing blood from his mustache with a
finger tip. For another, they had managed to stuff Tremont
into a spacesuit and haul him down the shaft to
the airlock. Someone had noose the thumbs of the gauntlets
together and tied the cord to the harness supporting the

(06:58):
air tanks. Tremont twisted his head around to eye the
three of them without speaking. He was trying to decide
where he had made his mistake. Bilbras, the elderly youth
with the crew cut, 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

(07:19):
as Tremont. He could not make up his mind without
more to go on. Then he remembered, with a sinking sensation,
that all of them had been clustered about his case
of papers and microfilms when he had interrupted them. A
trust you on thinking of making us any trouble, Tremont drawled,
Braun give up the idea. You've been no trouble at all.

(07:44):
Where do you think this is getting you, demanded Tremont.
Bra truckled. Wherever it would have gotten you, he said,
only at less expense. Ask him for the combination, growled
Peters Bras scrutinized tremont expression. It would probably take us
awhile Ralph, he decided, regretfully, it's simply to put him

(08:06):
outside now and be free to use tools on the box.
Tremont opened his mouth to protest, but Bra clapped the
helmet over his head and screwed it fast. You'll never
read the code, yelled Tremont, struggling to brick free. Those
papers are no good to you without me. Someone slammed
him against the bulkhead and held him there with his

(08:26):
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 Peter's suiting up. A few minutes later, they
opened the inner hatch of the airlock and shoved Tramont inside.

(08:50):
Peters followed, gripping him firmly about the knees from behind.
Here we go, grunted Peters, and Tremont realized that he
could communicate again over their suit radios. You won't get
far trying to read the code. I have those papers
written in, he warned. You better talk this over before

(09:10):
you make a mistake. Ain't no mistake about it, said Peters,
pressing toward the outer hatch. So you chartered the rocket,
you felt you ought to go out to see about
a heavy dust particle hitting the hull. You fell off
and we never found you. How will you explain not
going yourself? Oh, not finding me by instruments? Peters club

(09:33):
Fremont's foot from the tank rock he had hooked with
a toe. How could I go leave the ship without
a pilot? And the screens are for picking up meteorites
far enough out to mean something 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. Tremont scrabbled about with his feet for

(09:54):
some kind of hold. The outer hatch began to open.
He could see stars out there. Wait, shouted Tremont. 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 airlock, but it was gone. A puff of

(10:15):
air frosted about him, its human bullet. The stars spun
slowly before his eyes. After a moment, the gleaming hull
of the Annabelle swam into his field of view. It
was already thirty feet away, and the airlock was closing.
He caught a glimpse of a space suited figure with
the light behind it. Then he was looking at the
stars again. The small, distant brilliance of alpha centaury made

(10:40):
him squint in the split second before the suit's photo
electric cells caused filters to flip down before his eyes.
Then it was stars again, and the filters retracted. They
can't do this, said Tremont, Peters, do you hear me?
You can't get away with this? There was no answer.
The rocket came into view again, farther away. He had

(11:04):
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. He tugged violently at the cord holding
the thumbs of his gauntlets and thought it gave slightly.

(11:25):
Maybe it just tightened, he thought. To free his hands,
he drew his arms in through the wide armpits of
the 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

(11:46):
wrist watch, set at the lunar time of Centaury seven four.
It told him that when he had gone out of
the airlock five minutes before the time had been seventeen
thirty six. It did not strike Tremont as being a
very promising bed of data, warning him merely that when

(12:06):
he began to fill the want of air. It would
be about twenty one thirty. He longed for a penknife.
There's one thing I'm going to ask about on my
next trip to Saul if I make one, he muttered.
Has anyone developed a reliable small suit airlock so you
could pass things out from your pockets? He thrust his

(12:27):
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. Well that's that, he groaned.
They didn't forget. I have nothing to maneuver with, he pondered, weariedly.
Perhaps the air if he dared to waste any it

(12:50):
would make a small jut slow, but he had all
the rest of his life. He settled down to picking
at the cord about his thumbs with the tips of
the other things in his gauntlets. It seemed possible that
he might, in time chew it up to the point
where it could be snapped. The stars streamed slowly passed
his line of vision. As he spun through the emptiness,

(13:13):
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 finger tips against thumbs, he strained to pull
his hands apart. The cord parted and his arms jerked
out to their full spread with such suddenness that he

(13:35):
felt his backbone creak. For a moment, he hung motionless
inside his suit, wondering if he had hurt himself. 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. Well.
At least I can reach the valves of the air tanks,

(13:57):
he reassured himself. He watched for the shop 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.
He was already too far out to dare to waste air.
He might give away his last four hours of life

(14:17):
just to send himself in the wrong direction. How did
I get myself into this? He groaned. He set himself
to thinking back to his meetings with the others. Dorothy
Stauber had landed from the same starship after passage from Seoul,
but he had not become acquainted with her during the trip,

(14:37):
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. Yeah, he growled to himself,
after I've phoned at least a rocket. She must have known.
But how someone in the shipping office, well why not?
Peters the pilot and then Bras had come along, pretending

(14:59):
to have been on his way back to Centaury eight
six 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. It seemed on the face
of it that the three of them had never met
until the Annabelle lifted, But they had all right. Tremont

(15:23):
told himself that was no chance anyway along the line.
I've been very neatly hijacked. The girl must have trailed
him to make sure they picked up the right man.
Bras 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.

(15:44):
Then they had gathered around hitch rides and had been
in control ever since. 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 in space in such an off
hand manner, he reminded himself. When they opened his case,

(16:05):
it would be too late as far as he was concerned.
Come to think of it, he considered that Bras looks
pretty smart under that idiot kid pose. He might just
break my coat. Given time and the parts made up
of model photos or drawings, he can sell almost as is.
When he came to think of it, Tremont was surprised

(16:27):
that no one had tried the same racket before. He
had laid out a fortune for what the three thieves
were stealing from him. He drew in his left arm
again and raised the wrist to the neck of his helmet.
But 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

(16:50):
encounters with Dorothy aboard the starship and the others at
the spaceport, he raised the water tube to his mouth
and sucked in a mouthful. The taste was I could
do with a bier. If this is the way I'm
going out, he thought. 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.

(17:11):
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. It might be another ship, he breathed.
Then he began to shout may day, May Day over

(17:33):
his radio. 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 drift in. He asked himself, it should be going

(17:54):
past me like a shooting star, unless they took exactly
the same curve from Centauri seven. Then he could read
the numbers he feared to see a seven dash four
dash five twenty five his own ship. He had gone
out of the airlock mainly on a puff of air
with some fumbling help from Peter's That had been enough

(18:17):
to send him out of sight of the ship in
space not necessarily very far, and now he was back
after two hours a long flat orbit in relation to
the ship. He told himself, remembering in time to avoid
speaking aloud, that Bras might be at the ship's radio,
but actually weaving back and forth across the rocket's course,

(18:38):
just nipping it. At this end, 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. 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 annomb.

(19:00):
He would doubtless pass near the airlock at about his
expulsion speed. He has a chance, he exulted, a little
air let out to slow down. Oh even just viend
close enough to lay hands on something. You launched me, Peters,
but you didn't lose me. Getting through the airlock should
be easy enough. He might be well up the shaft

(19:22):
before the others emerged from the control room. In fact,
unless Peters were on watch, the airlock operating signal might
flash unnoticed on the board, and I'll be cracking skulls
before they know what's up, he growled. It struck him
with a flash of ironic amusement that he had not
felt half so much hate when believing himself doomed. After

(19:46):
two hours of sweating out his helplessness, he had discovered
a lively resentment of the vicious callousness with which he
had been jettisoned. He was only about twenty five yards now,
seemingly circling the peering closer he saw that actually he
was sweeping in toward it. Now be ready with the

(20:07):
air tank valve, just in case, he warned himself. The
great fence 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
airlock from which he had been expelled. It seemed to
be still open. Then he saw the shape of a

(20:27):
helmet rise around the curve of the ship. Someone was
out on the hull. Tremont switched on his radio and listened.
The spacesuited figure climbed completely into view. There appeared to
be a line running from the belt into the airlock,
and the figure carried a long pole of some sort. Oh,
there you are, Tremont, came Brau's voice over the receiver.

(20:49):
I've been waiting for you. The chuckle that followed made
Tremont curse, which in turn provoked a hearty laugh from
the other. You didn't think i'd forgot you, said Bras.
We figured out what happened as soon as we heard
you were putting out those distress calls. After that, it
was just a matter of time. And have you had
an amusing trip? Have you found out you can't make

(21:12):
anything of those papers yet, counted Tremont. 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. 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

(21:34):
with Bras or something solid. 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. Peter's bungled. Tremont saw the pole jobbing
upward at his stomach. Instinctively, he grabbed at the end.

(21:56):
Bras was not disturbed. 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. Tremont began to swear
at him, then got a grip on himself long enough
to snap his radio off. He had begun pulling himself
down the pole when Bras had shoved. That stopped some

(22:19):
of the force, but it was still enough to send
him spinning out into the void once more. The ship
receded slowly. He saw Bras return to the airlock and enter.
A moment later, that light was cut off, and Tremont
began to back off into space as he had the
first time. They know all about it. He realized they

(22:40):
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 coarse correction.
If so, he decided the pilot was right. Tremont might
drift back, But two more hours from now, when he
would be at his closes, it would be too late.

(23:01):
He would be too near the end of his air
to use it to make sure of the last few feet.
He looked at the pole in his grip. It was
an eight foot section of aluminum from the cargo racks. Maybe,
he muttered, whirling the pole around. By the end, he managed,
after considerable trial and error, to slow his wild spin

(23:24):
enough to keep the ship in view. 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. He estimated as well as
he could. The direction of his progress allowed a few degrees,
which he fondly hoped would curve him into a closer

(23:46):
approach at the meeting point, and hurled the pole into
space with all his strength. 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 Skale by a shorter orbit. Tremont finally gave up
looking at his watch when he found himself peeping every

(24:07):
three minutes on the average. The immensity of space was
by now instilling 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. As far as he could tell

(24:29):
from the gages lined in a miniature row along the
neck piece of the suit, his heating system was functioning
as designed. The batteries had an excellent chance of lasting
longer than he would. He began to dwell upon thoughts
of squeezing Peter's in the steel grip of his gauntlets
until the pilot's fat face turned purple and his eyes popped.

(24:52):
Another promising activity would be to bang Bros's head against
a bulkhead with one hand and Dorothy's with the other.
Wonder if they found the gun in mylocca, he mused. 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. He encountered unexpected trouble

(25:16):
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 fen.
He avoided that, but had to use more air to
spin back for a more gentle contact. The metal felt

(25:37):
like solid earth to him as he seized the edge
of a fen and planted the magnets of his boots
firmly on the hull. It was perhaps twenty minutes later,
when Tremont was beginning to worry again about his air supply,
that the hatch of the airlock began to open. Crystals
of frost puffed out as the water vapor left the air.

(25:58):
Bras'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 round. Tremont grabbed the edge of the
hatch with one hand yanked the magnet loose with the
other and kicked Bras in the right area. The space

(26:20):
suited figure shot off, tumbling end over end into the void.
A startled squawk sounded over Tremont's receiver. See how you
lack it, he snarled. He ignored the begging of the
suddenly frightened voice and dived into the airlock. In seconds,
he had the outer hatch shut and was nervously watching

(26:41):
the air pressure building up on the gage. If they
notice it all, they'll think it's Bras coming back, he exulted.
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 Peter's face
when Tremont burst through the control room hatch. After dealing

(27:03):
with the pilot in about two minutes, most of it
spent in catching him, Tremont went back along the shaft
and found Dorothy on 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 heir. What are you going to do? Demanded

(27:24):
the girl rather shrilly. Tremont realized that she must have
seen the unconscious Peters floating outside in the shaft. You
won't lack it, he promised Tremont. I didn't know they'd
do anything to you. Can't you and I make some
kind of deal. Tremont stared at her lovely. But I'd

(27:44):
have to really sleep sometime, he pointed out gently, How
can I trust you? He was hardly a million miles
out from the satellite system of Centaury six when the
space patrol ship he had called managed to put a
pilot aboard to land the Annabel for him on the
largest moon. Tremont returned wearily from helping the man in

(28:06):
the airlock, which he did with a practice efficiency that
surprised the pilot to resume his talk with a patrol
ship captain waiting on the screen. 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 PEPs trailing you are.

(28:30):
It's all the same story, said Tremont, and explained his difficulties.
The patrol captain frowned and expressed a wish to lay
hands on the hijackers. Well, the dow back in Tremont
consulted his watch. About two hours. AH wanted them near
the ends of their oh bits. As you approached, you

(28:51):
mean there are three bodies out there, love ones in spacesuits,
said Tremont. Experience is a great teacher. Soon as I
sighted bra coming back, I set up a regular system.
He explained how he had removed all tools from the
three spacesuits, added extra tanks, and stuffed the trio into them,

(29:11):
either unconscious or at gunpoint. 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 airlock to give four
hour orbits. That gave me sleep in time. And what
about them, asked the captain. Oh. At the end of

(29:33):
that period, they'd come drifting in at one hour at 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 let's see, mused the captain. Every four

(29:56):
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
and your friends. How have they been passing the time well,
either figuring out how to take me next time, guessed tremaut,

(30:16):
or wishing they were moving in more honest circles. End
of Satellite System by Horace Brown Fife