Mister Cerobie cut him off: "Your information is correct, Swenson. A
Senator has shipped with us. However, I would prefer to discuss the
matter in my private office."
Swenson crossed the room to the astrographer in the calculating booth
and said: "Plot the free-falling curve for Number 5 to Mars." Then he
followed Mister Cerobie into the Chairman's office.
Half an hour later, they came out and Swenson went back to his desk.
First he glanced at the free-falling plot. Then he snorted, called the
astrographer and fired him. Next he said to Mister Cerobie: "Is that
half load of snuff...."
"Yes, it is. You know Martians as well as I do. With their type of
nose, they must get quite a sensation. I understand they go a bit
berserk. That's why their government outlaws snuff as an Earth vice.
However, our cargo release states that it is being sent for 'medicinal
purposes.' It's no consequence to us what they use the snuff for. We're
just hauling it. And I don't have to tell you how fantastic a rate
we're getting."
"To hell with the canned goods part of the load," Swenson said. "Can
you get a full haul of snuff?"
"Possibly. But it would cost."
"Even this outfit can afford to grease palms."
"I'll see what I can do."
"What's the Senator on the Moon for?"
"He's supposed to make a speech on Conquest Day." Mister Cerobie lit a
cigar. "That's day after tomorrow," he added.
"Exactly where is this eloquence to be expounded?"
* * * * *
"The Senator is speaking at the dedication of the new underground
recreation dome. It's just outside Luna City. They've bored a tunnel
from the main dome cluster. This dedication is considered very
important. Everybody in Luna will be there. It's been declared an
official holiday, with all crews released. Even the maintenance and
public service personnel have been cut to skeleton staffs."
"With that fiesta scheduled on our beloved satellite," said Swenson,
"we won't have to worry about getting the Senator off for some time.
His name's Higby, isn't it?" Mister Cerobie nodded. "Then he'll whoop
it up long enough for you to get that demurrage mess straightened out."
"Unfortunately, it isn't that simple. The Senator is due for another
speech on Mars. The timing is close--he only has a minimum of leeway.
As you mentioned, Number 7 is grounded for demurrage. And we can't ship
the Senator out on Number 4 because of the bad jet."
Swenson was silent for a long time. The beer gurgled pleasantly as he
drank it. Then a bright smile--which could have been due either to
inspiration or beer--spread across his face.
"If that idiot Dovorkin can be trusted," he said, "the Senator is
speaking in the early afternoon, our time. Do you happen to know just
when he starts yapping? And the scheduled length of the spiel?"
"I'll check it." Mister Cerobie turned to one of his assistants.
Swenson took down the _Luna Data Handbook_ and thumbed through it.
A moment later, the assistant handed a slip of paper to the Board
Chairman.
"The Senator," Mister Cerobie said, "will speak from 1300 hours to 1500
hours."
Swenson smiled and stuck a marker in the _Luna Data Handbook_.
"Now," he said, "about this snuff. Can you have it loaded by tomorrow
night?"
"I don't see how."
"Remember our agreement in the office. If we don't do something, we're
through, so all we can do is lose. Leave me be and don't ask questions.
I want to blast Number 2 into low Earth-orbital tomorrow night."
Mister Cerobie looked off into that nowhere which was the daily destiny
of Acme. "All right," he said, "I was born a damn fool. I'll do my best
to have a full load of snuff aboard--somehow--tomorrow night."
Swenson went back to his Dispatch Sheet. During the next five hours,
he looked up only long enough to order another case of beer and a new
astrographer.
Finally, he called Heilberg, the assistant dispatcher who was on the
night shift, gave him a lecture concerning dispatching in general and
the present situation in particular, promoted a date with one of the
stenographers, and departed.
* * * * *
When Swenson came back the next morning, he was sober, ornery and
disinclined to do any work. He cornered O'Toole, the labor relations
man, and began talking women. O'Toole was intrigued but evasive.
"Your trouble," Swenson said, "is not with women. It's with evolution.
I don't blame evolution for creating women. I blame it for abandoning
the egg. Just when it had invented a reasonable method of reproduction
which didn't make the female silly-looking and tie her down needlessly
for nine months...."
"I don't think they're silly-looking."
"Maybe you don't, O'Toole, but I do. And you must admit that nine
months is a hell of a long time to fool around with something that
could be hatched in an incubator under automatic controls. Look at the
time saving. If evolution hadn't abandoned the egg idea, half the human
race wouldn't waste time being damned incubators."
O'Toole backed away. He had never heard the legend of Swenson's egg
speech.
"Don't tell me," Swenson went on, "that evolution is efficient. Are you
married, O'Toole?"
"Yes, I--"
"Wouldn't you rather your wife laid an egg than--"
"I don't know," O'Toole interrupted, "but I do know that I'd like to
find out what the dispatch situation is at the moment."
Swenson grabbed a piece of paper and drew a diagram.
While O'Toole was studying the diagram, someone laid a Special Message
on Swenson's desk. Swenson glanced at it:
_Acme Interplanetary Express_
_147 Z Street_
_New York_
_Your ship Number 4 is hereby grounded at Luna City, pending an
investigation of a riot involving your men, and for non-payment of
bill for atomic slug purification. Your Number 4 is also charged
with unpaid demurrage bill._
_Planetary Commerce Commission_
* * * * *
Swenson muttered: "Good!" and threw the Special Message in the
wastebasket. Mister Cerobie, who had just entered the office, fished
the form out and read it.
"It never rains, but it pours," he said.
"You can't stand long on one foot," Swenson answered without looking
up. "Put all your troubles in one basket and then lose the basket.
_Morituri te salutamus._ Have you heard my theory about the advantage
of reproduction via the egg? And get me a beer."
"I will get you a beer, but if you say a word about that egg theory, I
will fire you. I heard you talking to O'Toole."
"Okay. We'll forget the egg for the nonce. Did you pilfer that snuff?"
"It's being loaded. And it cost Acme--"
"Did you expect it would fall like manna from heaven?" Swenson flipped
the switch of the intercom to Acme's launching area. "Give me Number 2.
Captain Wilkins."
"What are you going to do?" Mister Cerobie asked.
"Don't you remember what I told you yesterday? Where's that beer?"
Mister Cerobie smiled, a weary, dogged smile, the smile of a man who
had bet on drawing to a belly straight.
"Captain Wilkins," came over the intercom, "calling Swenson,
dispatcher, for orders."
"Blast as soon as loaded for low altitude Earth-orbital." Swenson was
silent a moment, then: "Hell, don't you know the plot? All right, I'll
give it to you. Full jets, two minutes, azimuth...."
Mister Cerobie interrupted quietly: "Swenson, don't you think you'd
better check with the astrographer?"
Turning off the intercom, Swenson spun in his chair. "Any decent
dispatcher knows that one by heart. So maybe I'm wrong. Then Number
2 will pile up on either the Moon or the Earth. If that happens, you
can collect the insurance and get out of this mess." He flipped on the
intercom switch. "Sorry, Captain Wilkins, brass interference. As I was
saying, azimuth...."
* * * * *
Mister Cerobie made no effort to continue the conversation. He was
reading an astrogram, which had just been handed to him.
ACME INTERPLANETARY EXPRESS
147 Z STREET
NEW YORK
EARTH
HEAR PERSISTENT RUMOR YOUR SHIP ON WHICH I AM A PASSENGER HELD HERE
FOR NON-PAYMENT OF DEMURRAGE. MUST MAKE WORLD CRISIS SPEECH ON MARS
AS SCHEDULED. ASTROGRAM TRUTH OF SITUATION AT ONCE. INVESTIGATION
OF SUCH MATTERS NOW PENDING BEFORE SUBCOMMITTEE. DO NOT ASTROGRAM
COLLECT.