Swenson, Dispatcher

John Stuart Mill · en
"Yes, I--"

"Wouldn't you rather your wife laid an egg than--"

"I don't know," O'Toole interrupted, "but I do know that I'd like to
find out what the dispatch situation is at the moment."

Swenson grabbed a piece of paper and drew a diagram.

While O'Toole was studying the diagram, someone laid a Special Message
on Swenson's desk. Swenson glanced at it:

    _Acme Interplanetary Express_
    _147 Z Street_
    _New York_

    _Your ship Number 4 is hereby grounded at Luna City, pending an
    investigation of a riot involving your men, and for non-payment of
    bill for atomic slug purification. Your Number 4 is also charged
    with unpaid demurrage bill._

    _Planetary Commerce Commission_

       *       *       *       *       *

Swenson muttered: "Good!" and threw the Special Message in the
wastebasket. Mister Cerobie, who had just entered the office, fished
the form out and read it.

"It never rains, but it pours," he said.

"You can't stand long on one foot," Swenson answered without looking
up. "Put all your troubles in one basket and then lose the basket.
_Morituri te salutamus._ Have you heard my theory about the advantage
of reproduction via the egg? And get me a beer."

"I will get you a beer, but if you say a word about that egg theory, I
will fire you. I heard you talking to O'Toole."

"Okay. We'll forget the egg for the nonce. Did you pilfer that snuff?"

"It's being loaded. And it cost Acme--"

"Did you expect it would fall like manna from heaven?" Swenson flipped
the switch of the intercom to Acme's launching area. "Give me Number 2.
Captain Wilkins."

"What are you going to do?" Mister Cerobie asked.

"Don't you remember what I told you yesterday? Where's that beer?"

Mister Cerobie smiled, a weary, dogged smile, the smile of a man who
had bet on drawing to a belly straight.

"Captain Wilkins," came over the intercom, "calling Swenson,
dispatcher, for orders."

"Blast as soon as loaded for low altitude Earth-orbital." Swenson was
silent a moment, then: "Hell, don't you know the plot? All right, I'll
give it to you. Full jets, two minutes, azimuth...."

Mister Cerobie interrupted quietly: "Swenson, don't you think you'd
better check with the astrographer?"

Turning off the intercom, Swenson spun in his chair. "Any decent
dispatcher knows that one by heart. So maybe I'm wrong. Then Number
2 will pile up on either the Moon or the Earth. If that happens, you
can collect the insurance and get out of this mess." He flipped on the
intercom switch. "Sorry, Captain Wilkins, brass interference. As I was
saying, azimuth...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mister Cerobie made no effort to continue the conversation. He was
reading an astrogram, which had just been handed to him.

    ACME INTERPLANETARY EXPRESS
    147 Z STREET
    NEW YORK
    EARTH