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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Plague ship!" the Black Doctor exploded. "Oh, yes. Egad! I hum! imagine that the dispatcher must have gotten his signals mixed somehow. Well, I suppose you want to examine me. Let's have it over with." The doctors examined him within an inch of his life.
You see, Sheriff Burke is moving up to cut them off from the Catalinas, Jackson is riding out from Mammoth to haid them off that way, these anxious lads that have just pulled out from here are taking care of the Galiuros. I'm supposed to be sitting with my fingers on the keys as a sort of posse dispatcher." "Well, I hope you won't catch them," she told him bluntly.
In another compartment he heard a dispatcher chattering his own special code-language into a microphone in a low-pitched voice. He passed another grill, and then stopped short as a familiar voice drifted through. Merrill Tawney's voice. Tom hugged the grill, straining to catch the words. The company man sounded angry; the man he was talking to sounded even angrier.
The metallic voice of the dispatcher echoed through the waiting room of the subspaceport on the outskirts of Marsport and the passengers began moving toward the field gate, where the stewards of the ship checked each ticket against the liner's seating plan.
A certain daredeviltry went hand in hand with his work a calling in which a careless load dispatcher, a cut wire, or a faulty strap may mean instant death. Usually the girls laughed and called back to them or went on more quickly, the color in their cheeks a little higher. But not Anastasia Rourke.
I walked with the chief dispatcher into the airport waitingroom, dull with the listless air, not of unoccupancy, but disuse. "Not much air travel," I remarked idly. "Yours is the first plane in a month." "I wonder you bother to keep the airport open at all." "We do what we can to preserve the forms of civilization.
But when the conductor came for the tickets the old man inquired whether orders had been issued to have the train held up at a certain siding. "Yes, sir, to leave two passengers," said the conductor. He was courteous, but he winked at the old politician with the air of one who thought he understood something. He exhibited his telegram from the dispatcher. "Can't be much politics there, Mr.
While we were talking, the busy little telegraph instrument began busily ticking for our station. The call was answered and a message received, saying that a weather report received by the dispatcher stated that the night would likely be stormy, and my friend was asked to stay up till about one o'clock in the morning, as he might be needed to take a crossing order for two trains at his station.
A ditched locomotive is usually voiceless if not driverless as well. Blocked by a slide? Rock Cut had a bad repute for that kind of accident. But the quality of the call predicated more of a catastrophe than a mere blockade. Besides, in that case why could not the train back down The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted his conjectures.
The conductor about to take charge of the train was talking with the one just leaving. The range-rider saw them look at him and laugh as he approached. His blood began to warm. "I want you to run this train onto a siding," he said at once. "You the train dispatcher?" asked the new man satirically. "You know who I am. I'll say right now that the cattle on this train are suffering.
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