* * * * *
"And that, Mister Cerobie," said Swenson, "is how you slide out of a
jam. You'll get enough cash for that snuff haul to Mars to pay the crew
of Number 5 when she lands there. And you'll have enough left over to
pay the demurrage and repair charges at Luna. Now open me a beer."
Mister Cerobie opened the beer wearily.
"You're fired, Swenson," he said. "I'll be damned if I'll write another
speech or be your bartender."
Swenson drank and smiled.
The ship-calling light flashed red. "Number 3 to dispatcher. This
is Captain Marwovan. Compartment holed by meteorite. Cannot land on
Ganymede until we make repairs. Send me the orbital curve so we can
circle until the hole is patched. And tell Mister Cerobie that the crew
is complaining about back pay."
Transferring the beer to his other hand, Swenson grabbed the
microphone. "Dispatcher to Number 3...."