Swenson, Dispatcher

By R. DeWITT MILLER
Illustrated by FRANCIS
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 of Acme Interplanetary Express and demanded a job as dispatcher.
They threw him out. They forgot to lock the door. The next time they threw 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 Directors realized that they had something unusual in the way of determined drunks to deal with.
Acme was one of the small hermaphroditic companies—hauling mainly freight, but shipping a few passengers—which were an outgrowth of the most recent war to create peace.
During that violent conflict, America had established bases throughout the Solar System. These required an endless stream of items necessary for human existence.
While the hostilities lasted, the small outfits were vital and for that reason prospered. They hauled oxygen, food, spare parts, whisky, atomic slugs, 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, the regular dispatcher, had been fired that morning. He had succeeded in leaving the schedule in a nightmarish muddle.
And on Dovorkin's vacant desk lay the last straw—a Special Message.