"I agree," Lesquallan said and sat down. "But first we must dispose
of today's damned annoyances. I suggest that we outline a plan for
immediate action."
"To begin with," Esrov reminded him, "we must deal with the restraining
order."
* * * * *
When Swenson came back from lunch, he was not as sober and thus in a
better mood. Mister Cerobie's insert to the Senator's speech was on his
desk. Swenson read the first few lines:
As a further indication of the methods, devices, malfeasances, and
corrupt practices employed, used, and sustained by those with whom
you have called upon me to negotiate in the highest tribunal in
Washington, let me cite the following information which I have just
received. Although this information is top-drawer, restricted and
highly secret, I was able to obtain it through certain channels
which, as a man of honor, I must leave undisclosed.
The right of all creatures to be free is a fundamental, an
inviolable, right and yet on Venus....
Swenson said to himself: "Mister Cerobie is in the wrong business," and
started coding the insert. He had almost finished when the ship-calling
light flashed red.
"Number 5 to Dispatcher. Captain Verbold speaking."
"Dispatcher to Number 5. This is Swenson. Go ahead."
"I'm afraid you can't help me. May I speak to Mister Cerobie?"
"He's out to lunch."
"This matter is serious. I am faced with what amounts to mutiny."
"Sorry, but I got troubles, too. Maybe I can find Mister Cerobie, maybe
I can't. Why don't you tell me your grief?"
Captain Verbold hesitated. "It's something I've been expecting. The
crew has stated that they will leave the ship at Mars." Captain
Verbold's next sentence was pronounced word by word in code. "I even
have private information that there is a plot to take over the ship and
blast directly to Earth, where the crew feel their case can be more
justly presented."
"What are they squawking about?"
"Everything. Wages have not been paid for six months. Poor radiation
shielding. Food not up to standard. You know the story."
"It's not the first time I've heard it."
"What am I to do?"
* * * * *
"First, read them section 942 in your copy of _Space Regulations_,"
said Swenson. "If they divert ship from Mars without your permission,
it's mutiny. That means the neutron death chamber or, if they are very
lucky, life sentences to the Luna Penal Colony. Get them all together
and read it to them. You're free-falling now, so even the jetters won't
have to be on duty."
"But if I could talk to Mister Cerobie--"
"I've already told you I don't know where the hell he is. He couldn't
do you any good, anyway. Didn't you ever read _Space Regulations_?
Section 19: 'The captain of a ship in flight is _solely responsible_
for the maintenance of discipline and his orders cannot be changed or
overruled'."
"Swenson, you said a moment ago that this was your first suggestion. I
presume, therefore, that you have others."
"I have two others." Swenson paused long enough for a brief study of
his Master Ship Location Chart, which he had just brought up to date.
The chart showed the position of all ships at the moment in space.
"There's a patrol cruiser loaded with gendarmes three million miles
behind you on a course paralleling yours. It's one of the new Arrow
Class and if they blast full, they can catch you in ten hours. Mention
to the crew that you could notify the police boys and have them pick
you up and escort you to Mars."
"What is the patrol ship's number and call letters?"
"Arrow--British--Earth--number 96. Call letters MMXAH."
"Thanks. If things get too bad, I might take advantage of our
valiant guarders of the spaceways. All right, you said you had three
suggestions. What's the third?"
"Some goons on a Moulton Trust ship, parked beside our number 2 on the
Moon, started a fight and beat up our boys. We're about to sue Moulton
for plenty. Tell your crew about it and suggest that if they behave,
we'll cut them in on the proceeds from the suit, in addition to paying
their wages as soon as a snuff cargo that I had to send into orbital
gets to Mars."
"On whose authority am I to make such a statement?"
"Swenson's. You don't need any other, do you? I know most of the boys
on your mobile junkyard. They trust me, so they'll trust you. You have
my word that Cerobie will go for the idea."
"You talk to Cerobie and let me know what happens. Meanwhile, I'll
think over your suggestions."
* * * * *
The ship-calling light blinked off and Swenson went back to coding the
speech insert.
As he was finishing, O'Toole came in.
Swenson looked up. "O'Toole, sure and it's one hell of a job you're
doing. You've got me in a fight with myself. My Swedish half wants to
ignore you and my Irish half wants to punch you in the nose. You're
supposed to handle labor relations. And I just received a message from
Captain Verbold of Number 5 that his crew is about to mutiny."
"Mother of God, what can I do?" cried O'Toole. "This outfit's so broke,
it doesn't have enough money to pay the filing fee for bankruptcy."
"In the face of adversity, you should spit."
"Who are you quoting?"
"Me."
"Look, Swenson, I'm supposed to supervise labor relations, sure. Labor
is something you hire. That's done by paying wages--on time."
"At least you should have brains enough to understand the advantage of
the egg."
"What?" asked O'Toole blankly.
"I've already explained it to you. Apparently it didn't get past your
hair. I shall therefore make a second attempt. Do you understand the
principle of the egg?"
"I don't--"
"Of course not. You never stopped to analyze it. You just assumed that
because human beings are born the way they are, it is the best method.
How much pain and trouble does a hen have laying an egg? Does she--"
"Getting back to number 5," O'Toole said firmly, "what did Captain
Verbold--"
"Consider the advantage of the egg from another angle, O'Toole. Let's
say your wife lays an egg and, at the moment, you don't have money
enough to support another child. All you would have to do is put the
egg in cold storage until your ship comes in. Then you can take the egg
out and incubate it. Instead of being--"
The click of the latch as O'Toole closed the door caused Swenson to
spin in his chair. Tossing his pencil on the Dispatch Sheet, he put on
his coat and went home.
* * * * *
When the dispatcher for Acme Interplanetary Express arrived at the
office the following morning, a Special Message lay in sublime
isolation on his desk. Swenson opened a beer and read the message.
_Board of Directors_
_Acme Interplanetary Express_
_Gentlemen_:
_Your restraining order concerning our ship at Luna City can only
be considered as representing a warped and intolerable concept of
justice. We will take every legal action available to us._
_Moreover, your action in refusing, without notice, a load which
we were so kind as to offer you and your immoral dealings in
contraband snuff force us to sever all commercial relations with
your organization._
_We are taking appropriate action with the Planetary Commerce
Commission._
_Yours sincerely_,
_Moulton Trust_
_Lesquallan Ltd._
Swenson was smiling cherubically and bringing his Master Chart up to
date when O'Toole came in.
"Swenson, did you have eggs for breakfast? And how goes with the
dispatch?"
Carefully noting the last change of ship position on the Master Chart,
Swenson turned to O'Toole.
"Things are like so," he said, and drew a diagram.
While O'Toole was studying the diagram, Swenson placed a call to
Moulton Trust. "Give me Esrov. Yes, Esrov himself. This is Swenson,
Acme Interplanetary. If Esrov doesn't want to talk to me, jets to him,
but I think I have some information he can use."
"Will you please hold on, Mr. Swenson? I will convey your message."
Swenson looked at O'Toole for a moment in silence. "No, I don't like
eggs for eating. My theory concerns another aspect--"
"I know," said O'Toole resignedly.
* * * * *
Esrov's urbane voice came from the desk speaker. "Mr. Swenson, you have
some information for us?"
"Yes, Esrov. I've just seen your message to our Board and I want you to
know that I can certainly understand your position. I could not prevent
the restraining order. However, I have a suggestion as to what you can
do about it."
"We are doing everything we can."
"Didn't you support Senator Higby for re-election last year? Well, he
has shipped with us on an inspection tour of planetary outposts. Right
now, he's on the Moon and will speak at 1:30 this afternoon at the
official opening of the new Recreation Center. It occurred to me that
it might be worthwhile for you to send him a message suggesting that he
incorporate in his speech something about the laxity of the Planetary
Commerce Commission that allowed you to get into this mess."
"An excellent idea, Mr. Swenson. We shall give it immediate
consideration. And, by the way, if for any reason your employment with
Acme should terminate, we should be able to find a suitable position
for you with our company."
"Thanks, Esrov." Swenson switched off the set.
"You dirty, stinking," O'Toole blared, "doublecrossing--"
"Calm down, O'Toole. Don't get off the rocket until she's on the
ground. I've got reasons."
"Reasons? You haven't even got _reason_! And you're a crook!"
"Now don't let my Irish half get on top. I want that Senator to talk as
long as possible. Let's go back to the egg."
"You've laid it."
"For the last time, let me explain. If evolution had followed my
theory, I, being a man, would not lay eggs. Women would and therefore
they would escape--"
"Swenson," Mister Cerobie called from the door of the Board Room, "you
are hired--tentatively--as a dispatcher, not an egg-evolution theorist.
Now come in here. The Board wants to talk to you."
Swenson jerked the diagram out of O'Toole's hand and followed Cerobie.
Ten minutes later, he came out of the Board Room, saying: "Gentlemen,
the Senator speaks at 1:30 this afternoon. At 6:00 either fire me,
crucify me and make me drink boiled beer alone, or give me a raise."
* * * * *
The clock on the wall over the dispatcher's desk showed 2:59 when
Swenson called Acme's Luna City Terminal. "Dispatcher to Numbers 7
and 4, have crew stand by to blast off in exactly 15 minutes. I don't
give a damn about regulations or the P.C.C. This is an order from your
company. It must be obeyed. Number 7 will follow course as originally
planned--destination Mars. Number 4 will blast for Earth, curve to be
given in space."
Fifteen minutes later, the dispatcher's office at Acme Interplanetary
Express was quieter than an abandoned and forgotten tomb. The Board
of Directors stood silently in a semi-circle behind Swenson. Every
employee, even the stenographers, were jammed into the frowsy room.
As the hand of the clock sliced off the last second of the 15 minutes,
Swenson looked over his shoulder--and laughed, a great, resounding
laugh. Then he flicked the switch and picked up the microphone.
"Swenson dispatcher to 7 and 4. Blast! Over. Swenson dispatcher to 4
and 7. Blast!"
Suddenly the silent room was filled with the roar of the jets as they
thundered in the imaginations of the men and women crowded around the
dispatcher's desk. The tension broke as almost a sob of gladness. What
if it proved a hopeless dream, a mere stalling of inevitable ruin? They
were no longer grounded. They were in space.
To those in the room, it seemed only an instant until the ship-calling
light flashed on. "Number 7 to dispatcher. In space. All clear."
"Dispatcher to Number 7, steady as she goes."
The red light was off for a moment. Then: "Number 4 to dispatcher. In
space. All clear."
"Dispatcher to Number 4. Temporary curve A 17. Will send exact curve
plot in half an hour." Swenson turned to the astrographer. "Give me a
plot for Chicago. I don't want to land her in this state. Just a matter
of prudence. She's registered in this state."
The astrographer shouldered his way through the crowd. When he reached
the calculators, his swift fingers began pushing buttons. Swenson
leaned back.
"Mischief, thou art a'space," he said. "Now take whatever course thou
wilt."
* * * * *
At 3:30, Swenson reached again for the microphone. "Dispatcher to
Number 2. You are circling Earth at low orbital. Decelerate and drop
to stratosphere. Maintain position over New York. Curve and blasting
data...."