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.
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 Space Regulations make our action mandatory.