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                           TOLLIVER'S ORBIT

                  was slow--but it wasn't boring. And
                  it would get you there--as long as
                  you weren't going anywhere anyhow!

                             By H. B. FYFE

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
             Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black
thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.

"I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?" he demanded.
"Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating
something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me."

The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch of
Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened
the office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seen
through the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dim
and rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half a
million miles distant.

"Try not to be simple--for once!" growled Jeffers. "A little percentage
here and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get back
to Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it on
the estimates."

"You asked any of them lately?" Tolliver prodded.

"Now, _listen_! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the mines
and the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in the
beginning, most of them. _They_ know what it's like. D'ya think they
don't expect us to make what we can on the side?"

Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blue
uniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.

"You just don't listen to _me_," he complained. "You know I took this
piloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degree
back on Earth. I only want to finish my year--not get into something I
can't quit."

Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk of
his body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.

"Aw, it's not like that," the manager muttered. "You can ease out
whenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on your
account?"

Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meeting
his eye.

"All right, then!" Jeffers snapped after a long moment. "If you want it
that way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!"

"You can't fire me," retorted the pilot pityingly. "I came out here
on a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred for
hazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?"

"Okay I can't fire you legally--as long as you report for work,"
grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. "We'll see how long you
keep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit in
your quarters and see if the company calls _that_ hazardous duty!"

"Doesn't matter," answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. "The hazardous
part is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months."

He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind him
so as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.

_Looks like a little vacation_, he thought, unperturbed. _He'll come
around. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffers
and his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It's
their risk._

       *       *       *       *       *

Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was "Tuesday"
by the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-long
journey around Jupiter.

His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected to
specify the type of craft to be piloted.

On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the number
of one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and the
spaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.

He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around the
garage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domes
seemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.

The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He swore
when he found the assignment unchanged by "Friday." Even the reflection
that it was payday was small consolation.

"Hey, Johnny!" said a voice at his shoulder. "The word is that they're
finally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside."

Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.

"What do you mean?"

"They say some home-office relative is coming in on the _Javelin_."

"What's wrong with that?" asked Tolliver. "Outside of the way they keep
handing out soft jobs to nephews, I mean."

"Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can go
back to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reason
but them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economy
orbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!"

Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under a
portable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship's
airlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bags
into the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage at
the waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.

She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly even
in stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade too
blonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the cap
apparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavy
sweater, like a spacer.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said, sliding into the seat beside
Tolliver. "By the way, just call me Betty."

"Sure," agreed Tolliver thinking, _Ohmigod! Trying already to be just
one of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,
or does he just know where bodies are buried?_

"They were making dates," said the girl. "Were they ribbing me, or is
it true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?"

"It's true enough," Tolliver assured her. "We need people out here, and
it costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loaded
ships by 'automatic' flight--that is, a long, slow, economical orbit
and automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approaching
Earth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their time
making the entire trip."

       *       *       *       *       *

He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff and
maneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across the
frozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city.

"How is it here?" asked the girl. "They told me it's pretty rough."

"What did you expect?" asked Tolliver. "Square dances with champagne?"

"Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing and
the business management of a local branch. They probably won't let me
see much else."

"You never can tell," said the pilot, yielding to temptation. "Any
square inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous."

_I'll be sorry later_, he reflected, _but if Jeffers keeps me jockeying
this creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girl
is trying too hard to sound like one of the gang._

"Yeah," he went on, "right now, I don't do a thing but drive missions
from the city to the spaceport."

"Missions! You call driving a mile or so a _mission_?"

Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.

"Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey!" he warned portentously. "Many a
man who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive this
mission!"

"You can call me Betty. What happened to him?"

"I'll tell you some day," Tolliver promised darkly. "This moon can
strike like a vicious animal."

"Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede!"

"I was thinking of the mountain slides," said the pilot. "Not to
mention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust where
you'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving an
unarmored tractor."

"You use armored vehicles?" gasped the girl.

She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliver
deliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,
the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch.

"Those slides," he continued. "Ganymede's only about the size of
Mercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped up
at steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they come
at you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and it
barrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. If
you're in the way--well, it's just too bad!"

_Say, that's pretty good!_ he told himself. _What a liar you are,
Tolliver!_

He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,
taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of John
Tolliver, driver of "missions" across the menacing wastes between dome
and port.

In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weekly
paycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicate
he was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.

"I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive," he said bravely,
edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. "Made my
pile. No use pushing your luck too far."

His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to request
that Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed along
as if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscience
prickled.

_I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight_,
he resolved. _It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant to
know better._

       *       *       *       *       *

Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walking
in without knocking.

"Jeffers," he announced, "this is ... just call her Betty."

The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome as
jovial as that of a hungry crocodile.

"Miss Koslow!" he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.
"It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,
Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow--the president, that is:
your father--sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor to
show you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?"

"Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers," snapped the girl, in a tone new to
Tolliver. "We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already had
enough rope."

Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His loose
lips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. The
pilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of the
elder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he had
told en route from the spaceport.

"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow?" Jeffers stammered.

He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.

"Mr. Jeffers," said the girl, "I may look like just another spoiled
little blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.
I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something about
holding on to it."

Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.
Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.

"Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, when
he told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.
I have _some_ authority, though. And you look like the source of the
trouble to me."

"You can't prove anything," declared Jeffers hoarsely.

"Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won't
be hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good as
fired!"

The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly at
Betty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about "just landed."
After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab an
intercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other end
to come in without a countdown.

Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to be
a secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'
headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,
and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were large
enough.

"No stupid questions!" Jeffers ordered. "Lock these two up while I
think!"

Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.

"Where should we lock--?" the fellow paused to ask.

Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling that
it was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.

In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much as
he was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.

"I _told_ you no questions!" bawled Jeffers.

The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbing
Betty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around his
desk to assist.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in the
adjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time had
been spent in carrying him there.

He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitched
in with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp of
departing footsteps and then by silence.

After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.

He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind his
left ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.

"I'm sorry about that," murmured Betty.

Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was he
in a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like him
anyway.

"I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner," remarked the girl.

"Thanks for letting me know in time," said Tolliver.

The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could see
well enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.

"What can we use to get out of here?" he mused.

"Why should we try?" asked the girl. "What can he do?"

"You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?"

"Your paycheck," said Betty. "As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,
it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to be
Jeffers."

Tolliver groaned.

"Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. You
didn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, and
seemed to blame you for it."

"Sure!" grumbled the pilot. "He thinks I told you he was grafting or
smuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want to
get out of here--before I find myself involved in some kind of fatal
accident!"

"What do you know about the crooked goings-on here?" asked Betty after
a startled pause.

"Nothing," retorted Tolliver. "Except that there are some. There are
rumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sells
things to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself by
claiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared him
that bad over a little slack managing?"

The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquarters
building, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.

There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half a
dozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess of
discarded records.

"Better than nothing at all," he muttered.

He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pile
at the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.

"What do you think you're up to?" asked Betty with some concern.

"This plastic is tough," said Tolliver, "but it will bend with enough
heat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!"

He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.

"You know," he reflected, "it might be better for you to stay here.
He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just by
yourself."

"I'll come along with you, Tolliver," said the girl.

"No, I don't think you'd better."

"Why not?"

"Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident to
the daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without a
lot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it."

"Let's not argue about it," said Betty, a trifle pale but looking
determined. "I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?"

Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed to
give slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove his
heel hard at the corner below the hinge.

The plastic yielded.

"That's enough already, Tolliver," whispered the girl. "We can crawl
through!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked crates
in the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,
for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemispherical
emergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end.

"I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here," muttered
Tolliver.

"Why do you want them?"

"Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on a
tractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlocks
with some good lie that will keep me from getting through."

After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidently
intended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were a
dozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showed
Betty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves after
donning a suit himself.

"That switch under your chin," he said, touching helmets so she could
hear him. "Leave it turned off. _Anybody_ might be listening!"

He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knife
that was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-foot
square section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,
then trailed along with the plastic under his arm.

He caught up and touched helmets again.

"Just act as if you're on business," he told her. "For all anyone can
see, we might be inspecting the dome."

"Where are you going?" asked Betty.

"Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jeffers
can't be running _everything_!"

"Is there any way to get to a TV?" asked the girl. "I ... uh ... Daddy
gave me a good number to call if I needed help."

"How good?"

"Pretty official, as a matter of fact."

"All right," Tolliver decided. "We'll try the ship you just came in on.
They might have finished refueling and left her empty."

They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver was
very conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed to
look their way.

Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glanced
furtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startled
gesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than the
interior dome.

Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they could
squeeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, so
he moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about where
they had gone through. He touched helmets once more.

"This time," he said, "the air will really start to blow, so get
through as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic over
the rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quite
a lead before the alarms go off."

Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed.

As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could see
dusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede's
surface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty through
the small opening.

Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread the
plastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped it
against the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediately
showed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot.

_They'll find it, all right_, Tolliver reminded himself. _Don't be here
when they do!_

He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for the
nearest outcropping of rock.

It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running on
ice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sight
from the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her.

Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell her
how to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through the
face-plate made him think better of it.

_By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned_, he consoled
himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve on
Ganymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forced
to explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. He
admitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached the
spaceship.

There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsed
and stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.

"That's all right," Tolliver told the girl. "We can get in with no
trouble."

It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved that
he caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at the
spot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognized
the outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tilting
downward again.

"In fact, we _have_ to get in to stay out of trouble," he said to Betty.

He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated the
mechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.

It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder and
inside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting at
the time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and then
Tolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was a
clumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.

In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,
glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.

"Leave the suit on," he ordered, getting in the first word while she
was still shaking her head. "It will help a little on the takeoff."

"Takeoff!" shrilled Betty. "What do you think you're going to do? I
just want to use the radio or TV!"

"That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut your
conversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over these
dials!"

He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of the
ship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into an
economy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,
doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. He
warned her the trip might be long.

"I told you not to come," he said at last. "Now sit back!"

He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.

In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,
and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.

"That wasn't so bad," Betty admitted some time later. "Did you go in
the right direction?"

"Who knows?" retorted Tolliver. "There wasn't time to check
_everything_. We'll worry about that after we make your call."

"Oh!" Betty looked helpless. "It's in my pocket."

Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pry
her out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed any
further help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.
When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set about
making contact.

It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitored
expectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore a
uniform.

"Space Patrol?" whispered Tolliver incredulously.

"That's right," said Betty. "Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me."

Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float out
of range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he stared
exasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man who
could arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede and
wondering what was behind it all.

When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers and
reporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began to
suspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of the
Patrolman.

       *       *       *       *       *

For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, he
never addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted the
request as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who to
go down after.

_They really sent her out to nail someone_, Tolliver realized. _Of
course, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had an
idea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She might
have got me killed!_

"We do have one trouble," he heard Betty saying. "This tractor driver,
Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but he
says it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever they
call it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed."

Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of her
sweater.

"Actually, I have a fine idea," he informed the officer coldly. "I
happen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.
If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us later
on this channel."

"Miss Koslow?" repeated the spacer. "Did she tell you--well, no matter!
If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately."

He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offended
than reassured at discovering his status.

"This 'Miss Koslow' business," he said suspiciously. "He sounded funny
about that."

The girl grinned.

"Relax, Tolliver," she told him. "Did you really believe Daddy would
send his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoever
was gypping him?"

"You ... you...?"

"Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigating
firm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate--"

"I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,"
Tolliver finished for her. "I guess it's better this way," he said
meditatively a moment later.

"Oh, come _on_! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we're
going?"

"I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, so
we'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to be
picked up."

He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuel
necessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Even
though the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringing
along enough fuel to head back would be something else again.

"We'll just have to ride it out," he said sympathetically. "The ship is
provisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow."

"I didn't expect to so soon."

"Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crack
the case in about three hours on Ganymede."

"Great!" muttered Betty. "What a lucky girl I am!"

"Yes," admitted Tolliver, "there _are_ problems. If you like, we might
get the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV."

"I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet," she commented
sourly.

"The main problem is whether you can cook."

Betty frowned at him.

"I'm pretty good with a pistol," she offered, "or going over crooked
books. But cook? Sorry."

"Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do."

"I'll think about it," promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at the
deck.

Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about it
too.

_After a while_, he promised himself, _I'll explain how I cut the fuel
flow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're just
orbiting Ganymede!_