Swenson, Dispatcher By R. DeWITT MILLER Illustrated by FRANCIS [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?"