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 ofAcme Interplanetary Express and demanded a job as dispatcher.
They threw him out. They forgot to lock the door. The next time theythrew 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 Directorsrealized that they had something unusual in the way of determineddrunks to deal with.
Acme was one of the small hermaphroditic companies—hauling mainlyfreight, but shipping a few passengers—which were an outgrowth of themost recent war to create peace.
During that violent conflict, America had established bases throughoutthe Solar System. These required an endless stream of items necessaryfor human existence.
While the hostilities lasted, the small outfits were vital and for thatreason prospered. They hauled oxygen, food, spare parts, whisky, atomicslugs, 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, theregular dispatcher, had been fired that morning. He had succeeded inleaving 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 SpaceRegulations 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 theyshrugged and hired him.
His first act was to order a case of beer. His second was to look atwhat Dovorkin had left of a Dispatch Sheet.
"Number 5 is still blasting through the astraloids. It should befree-falling. Why the hell isn't it?"
Old Mister Cerobie, Chairman of the Board, said quietly: "Before youbegin your work, we would like a bit of information. What is your fullname?"
"Patrick M. Swenson."
"What does the M stand for?"
"I don't know."
"Why not?"
"My mother never told me. I don't think she knows. In the name of God,why don't you send Number 3...."
"What's your nationality?"
"I'm supposed to be a Swede."
"What do you mean, 'supposed'?"
"Will you open one of those beers?"
"I asked you...."
Swenson made a notation on the Dispatch Sheet and spun