"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?"