"Minor aspect of policy, hell! It concerns business. Look what happened at Luna. And you let us get publicly involved in it. Such matters must never be handled openly." Esrov did not answer. "Did you send such a message, Rovance?" Rovance shook his head. Lesquallan turned to Neinfort-Whritings. "Did you?" "No, Lesquallan." Neinfort-Whritings gently pulled a Special Message form from beneath Esrov's folded hands as they lay on the gleaming conference table. Lesquallan swung back to Esrov. "Did _you_ send it?" Esrov looked down at his folded hands. At last he said quietly: "Yes, I sent a message to the Senator--in our mutual interests." "Was it your own idea? Or did someone else suggest it?" "The basic thought came from a most unexpected source. It was, we might say, one of those happy breaks of industry. The dispatcher at Acme had the sense to cooperate with us. He gave me certain otherwise unavailable information, and--" "What was his name?" "I don't--oh, yes, it was Swenson." "You ... you fool ... _idiot_!" Neinfort-Whritings handed Lesquallan the Special Message he had taken from Esrov. It was the one from Swenson, which began: "Nuts, Esrov." Lesquallan read the message. Then he said slowly: "I've dealt with that clown Swenson before--over minor matters. I never thought he had that much brains." He looked at Esrov. "Or insight. Swenson's a smart man. Therefore, he must be eliminated." "I still maintain," Rovance said, "that the basis of the matter is the strangling of free enterprise." "I agree," said Lesquallan. "What right has Acme to interfere with free enterprise? They haven't a dollar to our million." "What shall we do?" Neinfort-Whritings murmured. "Follow Swenson's suggestion. We're going to the PCC--and we're going to our top contacts. They owe us plenty." "Shall we dictate a memo?" Esrov put in. "Call the PCC," Lesquallan ordered. "We're not dictating anything. And we're not sending any messages to anybody. Let the PCC send them!" * * * * * No employee of Acme Interplanetary Express had left the smoke-dense office when the ship-calling light went on: "Number 5 to Swenson. Verbold speaking." "Dispatcher to Number 5. Go ahead." "Uproar under control. I followed your instructions. A crew that's laughing won't mutiny. The crew sends thanks and their most pious wishes for the distress of Moulton. The men expect shares of the proceeds, if any, in the lawsuit. But they insist on being paid on Mars." "They will be, Captain Verbold. Now I've got to keep this beam clear. Good luck." Swenson turned to Mister Cerobie. "I presume you can at least find enough cash for the back pay?" Mister Cerobie did not answer. He was staring at a Special Message which had just been handed to him. He dropped it on Swenson's desk. _Acme Interplanetary Express_ _147 Z Street_ _New York_