* * * * * 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.