[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction April 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There were no vacuums in Space Regulations,
so Swenson--well, you might say he knew how to
plot courses through sub-ether legality!
It was on October 15, 2177, that Swenson staggered into the offices of
Acme Interplanetary Express and demanded a job as dispatcher.
They threw him out. They forgot to lock the door. The next time they
threw him out, they remembered to lock the door but forgot the window.
The dingy office was on the ground floor and Swenson was a tall man.
When he came in the window, the distraught Acme Board of Directors
realized that they had something unusual in the way of determined
drunks to deal with.
Acme was one of the small hermaphroditic companies--hauling mainly
freight, but shipping a few passengers--which were an outgrowth of the
most recent war to create peace.
During that violent conflict, America had established bases throughout
the Solar System. These required an endless stream of items necessary
for human existence.
While the hostilities lasted, the small outfits were vital and for that
reason prospered. They hauled oxygen, food, spare parts, whisky, atomic
slugs, professional women, uniforms, paper for quadruplicate reports,
cigarettes, and all the other impedimenta of war-time life.
With the outbreak of peace, such companies faced a precarious,
devil-take-the-hindmost type of existence.
* * * * *
The day that Swenson arrived had been grim even for Acme. Dovorkin, the
regular dispatcher, had been fired that morning. He had succeeded in
leaving the schedule in a nightmarish muddle.
And on Dovorkin's vacant desk lay the last straw--a Special Message.
_Acme Interplanetary Express_
_147 Z Street_
_New York_
_Your atomic-converted ship Number 7 is hereby grounded at Luna
City, Moon, until demurrage bill paid. Your previous violations
of Space Regulations make our action mandatory._
_Planetary Commerce Commission_
The Acme Board of Directors was inured to accepting the inevitable.
They had heard rumors along Blaster's Alley of Swenson's reputation,
which ranged from brilliance, through competence, to insanity. So they
shrugged and hired him.
His first act was to order a case of beer. His second was to look at
what Dovorkin had left of a Dispatch Sheet.
"Number 5 is still blasting through the astraloids. It should be
free-falling. Why the hell isn't it?"
Old Mister Cerobie, Chairman of the Board, said quietly: "Before you
begin your work, we would like a bit of information. What is your full
name?"
"Patrick M. Swenson."
"What does the M stand for?"
"I don't know."
"Why not?"
"My mother never told me. I don't think she knows. In the name of God,
why don't you send Number 3...."
"What's your nationality?"
"I'm supposed to be a Swede."
"What do you mean, 'supposed'?"
"Will you open one of those beers?"
"I asked you...."
Swenson made a notation on the Dispatch Sheet and spun around in the
swivel chair. "I was born on a _Swallow Class_ ship in space between
the Moon and Earth. My mother said my father was a Swede. She was
Irish. I was delivered and circumcised by a rabbi who happened to
be on board. The ship was of Venutian registry, but was owned by a
Czechoslovakian company. Now you figure it out."
"How did you happen to come here?"
"I met Dovorkin in a bar. He told me that you were in trouble. You are.
Is one of the Moulton Trust's ships at Luna City?"
"Yes."
"Then that's why you're grounded. They've got an in with the Planetary
Commerce Commission. What's the demurrage?"
"Seventy-six thousand dollars."
"Can you raise it?"
"No."
* * * * *