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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0dd3e4b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66612 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66612) diff --git a/old/66612-0.txt b/old/66612-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6efa6b1..0000000 --- a/old/66612-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1459 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wanted: One Sane Man, by Frank M. Robinson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Wanted: One Sane Man - -Author: Frank M. Robinson - -Release Date: October 26, 2021 [eBook #66612] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANTED: ONE SANE MAN *** - - - - - WANTED: One Sane Man - - By Frank M. Robinson - - Personnel Incorporated bragged that they - could supply a man for any job. Maxwell doubted - this, needing a space pilot for the first Lunar - trip. Now, if he had just asked for a lunatic.... - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy - June 1955 - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - -The small man adjusted his bi-focals and stared critically at the -huge brass nameplate over the glass entrance doors. The plate read -"Personnel Incorporated" in neat, modest lettering. Directly above the -plate was a traveling neon sign which informed the public in letters -six feet tall that: - -PERSONNEL CAN SUPPLY THE MAN FOR ANY JOB!--SEVENTY-FIVE PER CENT -OF THE PERSONNEL PROBLEMS ON THE AMERICAN CONTINENT ARE HANDLED BY -PERSONNEL--DOES YOUR JOB SEEM BORING LATELY? SEE PERSONNEL AND BE -PSYCHOLOGICALLY FITTED FOR YOUR WORK!--PERSONNEL CAN SUPPLY THE MAN FOR -ANY JOB!--SEVENTY-FIVE PER CENT OF THE.... - -The small man looked at it for a minute and turned to his tall -companion. - -"Tell me, Maxwell, why the seventy-five? Why not eighty or -eighty-three?" - -Maxwell glanced up at the sign. "If they do seventy-six per cent or -more of the business, they're a monopoly. It must pain Whiteford to -have to hold himself down to only seventy-five." - -"Whiteford?" - -Maxwell looked surprised. "You haven't heard of him? The newest boy -wonder in the business world? He's the genius who runs this modern -slave market." He looked at his watch. "And, incidentally, he's also -the guy we've got an appointment with in five minutes." - -They joined the crowds streaming up the wide, granite steps and found -themselves in the large entrance lobby, directly opposite the battery -of ascending elevators. - -The small man approached the starter. "--ah--pardon me, but would you -tell us what floor Personnel Incorporated is on?" - -The starter looked shocked. "Poisonnel ain't just on one floor, Mister, -it's the whole building. Who'dja wanna see?" - -"We wanted to--well, that is--whoever's in...." - -The starter brushed him aside. "Step outta the way of the passengers, -Mister. Be with ya in a second.... Okay, lady, maid soivice and -domestics is on the thoity-foist floor. Don't shove in the elevator, -please! Next elevator, _please!_" - -He turned back to the small man. - -"We got administration on the foist floor. Second floor, automotive and -transportation. Assemblers, welders, painters, cushion upholsterers, -sprayers, mock-up men, testers and greasers. Thoid floor, electrical. -Solderers, cabinet workers, wirers, draftsmen, coil-winders, and design -expoits. Next floor, entertainers. Everything from acrobats to zither -players and concert ottists. Fifth...." - -"We want to see Whiteford," Maxwell cut in impatiently. - -The starter looked impressed. "The Chief, eh? Administration's on -the foist floor, like I told ya, Mister. Straight down to the end of -the curridor and to your left. Ya can't miss it." He had a second -thought and turned and shouted after them. "If ya want a job, General -Employment's on the second curridor to your right!" - - * * * * * - -"Think this will do any good?" the small man asked, mopping the sweat -off his bald head. - -"We don't have any choice. We've got to try it." Maxwell pushed open -one of the double swinging doors marked "Office of the President." - -They walked into the outer fringes of a whirlpool of noise and bedlam, -rivaling that of a stock exchange or a grain pit in the middle of the -harvesting season. The room covered more than an acre, with ninety -per cent of the floor space devoted to adding machines, typewriters, -tabulators, collators, sorters, key punches, automatic alphabetizers -and the other ten per cent to their operators. A battery of sorters on -their left digested stacks of small, white cards and spewed forth more -stacks of them into waiting hoppers. On their right, the nearest of -three switchboard operators smiled a weak greeting and turned back to -her board. - -"Personnel Incorporated. National Carbide and Carbon? Just a moment, -please. I'll connect you with the president's office.... Personnel -Incorporated. Chrysler Corporation? That's the automotive division, -extension 2214.... Personnel Incorporated. Shanghai Importing Company? -I believe our sales division can furnish you with the men, extension -230." - -She turned to the small man. "The monster's office is that glass -enclosure down there"--she pointed to a glassed-in office at the -end of the room--"and while there, tell him he'll have to get some -more help for the switchboard." She mopped her forehead with a soggy -handkerchief. "It's more than we can handle." - -The center of the whirlpool was the glassed-in office, with the name -WHITEFORD on the door--nothing else. Whiteford himself, neatly dressed -in a business suit with creases sharp enough to shave with, was sitting -behind half an acre of mahogany desk. He was young, about 30, with the -healthy and slightly overfed look of a graduated college halfback. -Maxwell decided he didn't like him. He looked like a character who -exuded confidence like perspiration. - -Whiteford didn't bother looking up but continued barking into the -intercom. - -"Lyons? About the Amazon Valley deal. Fly in three thousand -semi-skilled next week. Get 'em housed in quonset huts and make -arrangements with a coast concern for shipments of fresh fruits and -vegetables for the central kitchen." He paused. "Better call in the bug -experts to liquidate the mosquitoes instead of spending the money for -netting and anti-malaria. Cheaper in the long run." - -He took time out to gulp some pills from a bottle and wash them down -with water from a desk side tap. "Just a quick lunch," he apologized. -His voice was brisk. "What can I do for you?" - -The small man gestured to himself and his companion. "I'm George -Burger, director of the experimental division at Atlantic Motors. And -this is Frank Maxwell; he's with the government. We have something -important we'd like to discuss...." - -"Be glad to,"--Whiteford looked at his watch--"for about four minutes. -I have an engagement at eleven. As you were saying, Mister Bircher?" - -The small man winced. "Burger. We need...." - -A secretary came in on the run. - -"Call for you from London, Mr. Whiteford! About dredging the Thames...." - -"... a man...." - -"I'll take it out there in a moment. Miss Hancock." - -"... to pilot...." - -The phone rang. - -"... a rocket...." - -"IBM? Call me back in half an hour." - -"... to the...." - -Whiteford flipped the intercom switch. - -"Tell the man from General Motors we'll be able to supply the gear -specialists, Miss Hancock." - -"... moon." - -Whiteford glanced at his watch again and frowned. - -"Really, Burger, I'm a very busy man. You'll have to cut it short." - -Maxwell shouldered past Burger and leaned possessively on Whiteford's -desk, his jaw an inch from Whiteford's own. - -"It so happens that what concerns Atlantic Motors vitally concerns -the government, Whiteford! We'd appreciate it if you could stretch -that generosity of yours and give us five minutes of your undivided -attention. After all, we _did_ have an appointment!" - - * * * * * - -Whiteford turned off the intercom and leaned back in his swivel chair, -his fingers tapping nervously on the chair arm. - -"Sorry Maxwell, but keeping the organization running keeps me on the -hump." - -"Like it kept the slavers of the eighteenth century on the hump," -Maxwell growled. - -Whiteford's eyebrows shot up. - -"Personnel Incorporated was founded on one of the most obvious needs -of our civilization, Maxwell! With the expansion of production -after the first atomic war, the demand for personnel, and increasing -labor-management difficulties, it was obvious that dozens of little -employment agencies and company employment divisions were only -hampering manufacturing facilities. A single, centralized bureau was -needed. Personnel Incorporated filled that need. From myself on down, -everybody who's been handled by Personnel has been psychologically -tested for their job--which means strikes and walkouts have been cut to -a minimum. - -"Modern civilization would be impossible without Personnel, Maxwell! -But that's water over the dam." He nodded to Burger. "You have a -personnel problem?" - -"That's why I came here," Burger said testily. "As you may know, Mr. -Whiteford, Atlantic Motors has constructed a rocket to make the first -flight to the moon. We need a pilot for that rocket." - -Whiteford looked bored. "All the Sunday supplements have carried -articles about the A-M rocket. As for the pilot, there are thousands of -men in this country alone who are probably qualified for the job. To -find one would be routine, I should think." - -"It's somewhat more complicated than picking a pilot out of a hat, Mr. -Whiteford. Not just any pilot will do. There are, of course, certain -technical qualifications but there are more important ones than that. -Our man would have to be perfect mentally--no nervousness, neurosis, -streaks of instability or anything of the sort. We could hardly trust -75,000,000 dollars worth of rocket to a man who wasn't sound physically -and mentally." - -"I take it you couldn't find any?" - -Burger shook his head. - -"Where does the government come in?" - -"The government is naturally interested in rockets," Maxwell said. -"It's rumored the Russians aren't far behind us. At any rate, without a -pilot, the rocket is useless." - -"And the government has been unsuccessful, too?" - -Maxwell hesitated. "As a matter of fact we found a pilot--at least we -thought we had. He piloted the first rocket that was sent--one flight -has been attempted before. From what little evidence we can gather, it -appears he deliberately crashed the rocket on the moon." - -"Why?" - -Maxwell shrugged. "Off his trolley, I suppose. That's reason number one -for our qualifications being so high." - -"I frankly don't think you can find one," Burger added nastily. -"Atlantic Motors has tried for months with no success." - -"Personnel Incorporated is not Atlantic Motors, Burger," Whiteford -said sarcastically. "We've never failed! _Never_ failed!" He repeated -it like a liturgy. "We don't intend to fail now. Come back in a week -and we'll have your man." - -"Just like the Royal Canadian Mounted," Maxwell muttered. - -When they had gone, Whiteford flipped the switch of the intercom. - -"Miss Hancock? Cancel my appointment with the directors of AT&T. Call -in the company psychologists to prepare a personnel test. Contact -Haskins at our London office and Schubert in Paris and tell them we -intend to launch a campaign for rocket pilots immediately. Examination -papers for applicants will be forwarded at once. Notify our other -branch offices to the same effect. All on the QT, you understand. -And Miss Hancock--have the psychologists test our advertising for -confidence appeal. A representative of Atlantic Motors just implied we -couldn't supply them with help!" - - * * * * * - -"Those cards represent exactly 250,342 applicants," Whiteford said -proudly, gesturing to stacks of tabulating cards by the sorting -machine. Burger looked mildly surprised. "All of them qualified to be -the pilot?" - -Whiteford smiled indulgently. "Probably only a small -proportion--several thousand or so. Each hole punched in the card -represents either the applicant's physical condition, his technical -knowledge, or answers to carefully phrased questions which will reveal -his mental state. The sorting machine here,"--he patted the mechanical -monster at his side--"has been set to sort out only those cards that -meet with the qualifications the company psychologists have set up. - -"I've arranged this demonstration to show the efficiency of the -corporation; we have quite a reputation for fulfilling contracts." -He shot a glance at Burger. "We'll run through this large stack -here--applicants from England--first." - -Maxwell pointed curiously to a small pile. "Where's that stack from?" - -Whiteford glanced at it casually. "That stack was forwarded from our -branch office in Hindustan. Some Indians make darn good pilot material." - -He inserted part of the stack of cards from England into the chute of -the machine and started it up. There was a slow snick-snick-snick as -the cards passed through the intricate system of metal "fingers" that -would separate the sheep from the goats--or, in this case, the pilots -from the remainder of the applicants. - -The chute emptied and no cards had been tossed out into the acceptance -hopper. - -"No luck, eh?" Maxwell couldn't help grinning. - -Whiteford frowned. "We've just started." - -Two hours later the entire stack of cards--including the stack from -Hindustan--had been run through. - -The acceptance hopper was still empty. - -Whiteford was in his shirt sleeves, beads of sweat dripping unnoticed -off the tip of his nose. - -"I can't understand," he muttered. "I can't believe.... Miss Hancock! -Call in Dr. Burroughs!" - -When the doctor had showed up, Whiteford pointed to the cards lying in -heaps on the floor. - -"Not a one qualified--not a single one! Why, Burroughs?" - -Burroughs hemmed and hawed and finally decided to risk it. "Well, -that's ah--not too hard to understand. Unfortunately the majority of -applicants were nothing more than--if you'll pardon me--crackpots. The -kind who will volunteer for anything. Most of them lacked the technical -knowledge. Those who had it either failed the physical or were again, -mentally unstable. Only slightly, in most cases, but enough so there -was a danger of it becoming pronounced while in the rocket. Those who -might've qualified weren't interested." - -"Why not? The pay was good." - -"Let me pose a question. What _entirely_ sane man would volunteer, for -any amount of money, to pilot a plutonium engine rocket around the moon -and back?" - -Whiteford looked blank. - -"In other words--personnel can't supply the man. Is that it?" Maxwell -interrupted. - -Burroughs spread his hands in an expansive gesture. "Well, now, I -wouldn't say that. Someplace there must be a man...." - -Whiteford turned and went into his office, slamming the door behind -him. They could see him collapse into his swivel chair. - -"Well, what do you suppose came over him?" Burger gasped. - -"I suspect that God has finally found a stone he couldn't lift," -Maxwell murmured. - - * * * * * - -Whiteford kneaded his knuckles and stared morosely out the window. From -time to time his hand strayed to the intercom and then he'd snap it -back. - -He'd been sitting that way for two hours. For two hours the gigantic -cogs of Personnel Incorporated had been stopped by a grain of sand. Or -at least, so it seemed. - -Suddenly his hand lashed out and he flipped the intercom switch. - -"Would you please come here a minute, Miss Hancock?" - -"Y-yes, Mr. Whiteford?" - -"Do you think you could run Personnel Incorporated while I'm away?" - -"Well--I don't--I hardly think I'm capable...." - -"You're not," Whiteford said drily. "But you're more capable than -anyone else that's here. You'll assume my duties until I return." - -He paused at the door. - -"In case anyone asks, I'll be gone for a month." - - * * * * * - -Burger wrung his hands nervously. "Only a half hour until take-off -time, Mr. Whiteford. I think we've thought of everything. You realize -that your position on the rocket, actually, is only the safety factor -of the rocket itself. And, of course, an observer is preferable. -First hand accounts of human reactions on board the rocket will be -invaluable. You've been drilled for two weeks in your duties on board, -the listing of meter readings in the log book, a careful diary of your -own physiological reactions, etc. And naturally, what to do in case -of an emergency. Of course, the chances are several million to one of -anything actually going wrong with the rocket. - -"Oh yes, the pictures of the first rocket flight. The film actually -doesn't show much but it might be of interest." - -Whiteford followed him to the small projection room. - -"The camera was tracked by radar," Burger exclaimed. "We can follow -the rocket all the way. I'll speed up the action a little." The -pin-point of light on the screen leaped ahead and in a few moments the -pock-marked face of the moon came into view. Burger slowed the action -down to normal. The tiny tad-pole of light swam closer to the moon. -Suddenly it swerved and in a moment there was a tiny burst of light on -one of the craters and the screen went blank. - -"The crash, eh?" - -Burger nodded. "You can still back out, you know. You can up until the -moment you step inside the rocket." - -"Don't be silly!" Whiteford snorted. - -They went out to the landing field. - -"Incidentally, Mr. Whiteford, you'll find a small cabinet on board -with various books, puzzles, and what-not for your leisure hours. -They've been scientifically selected for your type of personality." -Burger smiled faintly. "In fact, you'll discover that the pilot has -been provided for very well, considering weight limitations and all. -Practically every possible occurrence has been provided for. I'm sure -you'll experience no difficulty on the flight." - -Whiteford nodded absently. "Just be sure and tell Maxwell that -Personnel Incorporated can always supply the man! Always!" - - * * * * * - -Inside the cabin, Whiteford methodically went through the take-off -preparations he had practiced during the previous two weeks. He gave -the chronometer, synchronized to start with the take-off, a quick -inspection and turned to the meters on the instrument panel. He -quickly went over the small control board that would permit him to -make deviations and corrections in the ship's course of as much as -five degrees and checked the geiger counter apparatus which emitted a -faint burp as a stray cosmic ray hit it. The Counter was designed to -warn against stray radiation from the engines (but the chances were ten -million to one that there would be any, Burger had said). He flicked -through the pages of the ship's log and idly noted the entry pages for -meter readings and observations. - -Against the rear bulkhead of the small cabin was a hammock-like affair, -suspended by coil springs. He punched the hammock casually. It would -serve to cushion the effects of acceleration at the take-off and as a -bunk for the pilot the rest of the trip. Near it and almost a part of -the deck was a food locker. There was a small spigot at the top that -served as a water tap for the tank below. - -Around the top of the cabin there was a series of small ports of -steel-strong plastic, permitting an outside view. The ports were -currently closed with steel over-lap caps. - -He looked down at his watch. Two minutes until take-off. He strapped -himself in the hammock and bounced once or twice to test the springs. -They hardly gave at all under his efforts; they were designed to give -way under the acceleration of 8 or 9 g's. The hammock and the skin -tight pilot suit were supposed to keep him together under the crushing -weight of acceleration, at which time he'd be like jelly in a mould. - -A light sweat sprung out on his forehead. If something went wrong with -the apparatus, they could scrape him off the rear bulkhead like a -pancake off a hot griddle. He hadn't thought of that before. Not only -that but how about radiation from the engines? Shielded, of course, but -even the best engineers could sometimes.... Good God, how did he ever -get.... - -There was a sudden surge of the ship and the springs holding the -hammock stretched as easy as a dime store rubber-band. He felt his -weight double and treble. His breath came in tight little gasps as -if a sorting machine had been dumped on his chest. The weight kept -increasing and the cabin started to spin. Little black dots danced -around the edges of his area of vision and gradually covered it. He -felt he was smothering in a dark, black pit.... - -Maxwell's face flashed at him out of the darkness. "Always supply -the man, eh?" it sneered. Hands appeared before the face and dropped -application cards until they fluttered in front of it like snow. The -snow cleared and he could see prim Miss Hancock coming toward him, a -suddenly alluring Miss Hancock sans glasses and most everything else. -He had a faint impression of being shocked. The image faded and he -saw himself being chased down the boulevard by a group of animated -tabulating machines. He made it to the Personnel building and made a -dash for the elevator. Instead of going up, the elevator went down, -faster, faster.... He felt the bottom of the elevator drop away from -under him and he floated in the air, vainly kicking at the walls.... - -Whiteford opened his eyes slowly. The hammock quivered a little on the -springs but they were no longer stretched. The chronometer read five -minutes since take-off. - - * * * * * - -He unstrapped and tried to get out of the hammock. An instant later -he found himself floating at about the same level as the hammock, not -touching the deck. A fragment of a dream about an elevator touched -his mind and it suddenly occurred to him that he was falling--falling -faster than he had fallen before. He closed his eyes, which promptly -made it worse. He was falling--falling hundreds of miles to earth. -An image formed in his mind of the ship entering the atmosphere, the -screaming of the tortured air, the heating of the metallic shell from -friction until it glowed a cherry red, roasting its occupant to a -blackened cinder. - -He screamed and the sound of his own voice brought him back to sanity. -The sensation of falling was what he should expect from weightlessness. -It was like being in the elevator he had imagined that kept going -faster and faster until it fell away from beneath him. He kept his mind -on the concept with an effort. - -He managed to control his imagination but his nervous system kept -sending the impulses which screamed that he was falling. He clutched at -the hammock in a sudden wave of nausea. The feeling didn't leave him -and he closed his eyes and vomited. It was amazingly easy to do--in -free flight gravity no longer helped in holding down his meal. - -He was in the middle of an agonizing attack of what any sailor would -recognize as the "dry heaves" before he managed to gain control of his -knotted stomach muscles. - -The hammock served as a point of orientation and he dragged himself on -to it and buried his face in the canvas. He tried not to feel anything -or hear anything or think anything. He had lain like that for a long -time when he felt something brush his face. - -He opened his eyes and saw a few little spheroids of matter floating in -the cabin. He batted idly at one with a free hand and it immediately -broke up into smaller spheroids which drifted apart from each other. - -He groaned. It had been a mistake to vomit. Whether he liked it or not, -his next duty would have to be to gather up all the spheroids and stuff -them into the disposal chute. He found a rubberized bag in the medicine -kit and went after the spheroids much in the same way a little boy -catches butterflies. - -When he had finished the unpleasant task of collecting the spheroids, -he glanced over at the chronometer. It read some fifty minutes since -the beginning of the trip. Time to begin his tour of duty. He took -the log book and made his round of the meters and jotted down their -readings. Under _Personal Reactions_ he jotted down _sick; steady and -unremitting feeling of nausea_. - -Ten minutes later he had accomplished his duties for the next -eight-hour period. That left only--well, fourteen days going, same -time returning. He had left only twenty-seven days and twenty-three -hours before he'd see earth again. - -Twenty-seven days and twenty-three hours of sheer hell. - -Things--unpleasant things--seemed to pile up on him. He had suffered -from migraine headaches before--but nothing like he did now. It -was easier for his heart to pump blood to his head, and the minute -enlargement of the blood vessels in his head caused splitting pains -to shoot through it. He had noticed the headaches shortly after he -had attempted to look through one of the ports. Not that they weren't -there before--he had been too busy vomiting to take note of them. The -ports were a fiasco in themselves. The practically solid beams of -light coming through had blinded him temporarily, even when he wore -sun-glasses; enough to show him that sight-seeing and human observation -were out of the question. - -And mixed in with all of these were the difficulties of getting around -the small compartment. He could kick himself around, inasmuch as he -was weightless in free flight, but the piping and equipment in the -compartment turned it into a hazardous obstacle course. He nearly broke -his arm, once, trying to stop from running into a bulkhead. - -And there were other things. Embarrassing things. Or, considering he -was alone in the compartment, just mildly annoying things. - -After trying to look through the ports, he pushed back to the hammock -and lay down. He could just as easily have rested floating in the air -but the hammock was a great mental aid. He tried to keep his mind blank -but snatches of thought kept running through it. Today was Friday on -earth. About time for the evening meal. Fried perch and scalloped -potatoes.... - -He groaned again. Nowhere on the examinations they had made out for the -applicants was there a question asking if the prospect was susceptible -to space-sickness. - - * * * * * - -Whiteford lay on the hammock and thought about what it had been like -on earth a few hours before. It would be near quitting time and the -five o'clock rush just beginning. Most people would be going home to -a hearty dinner--he skipped that--and then a quiet evening with the -television, or perhaps a ringside table at any of the local night spots -where he used to entertain clients. There would be the many little -tables with the clean, white tablecloths and the neat arrangement of -polished silver, the glasses filled to the brim with sparkling clear -water.... - -He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. It felt like fur. -Sparkling clear water might be just what he needed. A few sips of ice -water and a cold, wet-rag on his face would work wonders. Clear, cool, -gushing, water.... - -He had to have water! He rolled out of the hammock and dove for the -water tap. A split second later he remembered his first accident and -twisted frantically in the air, trying to slow his momentum. He grabbed -for some pipes that threaded through the cabin, missed, and hit the -water tap butt first: the plastic panels at the front splintered and -broke and the tiny aluminum tubing, scientifically designed to deliver -water under conditions of free flight bent and crumpled. - -Whiteford felt wet. He turned and grimly surveyed the demolished water -tap. A few drops of water floated lazily, tantalizingly in the air. He -_had_ to have water! A kit near the food locker yielded some cooking -utensils and an old-fashioned can-opener, one end of which might serve -as a crude lever. He had to wedge himself between the tap and the -bulkhead to get leverage to pry with; otherwise, a hearty twist only -resulted in his body turning a slow circle in the air. - -The tubes didn't straighten very easily. Finally, the can-opener broke; -a loss that didn't become immediately apparent. He grabbed the pipes -with his hands and heaved outward. They bent. He heaved again and they -bent still more. On the third heave he felt a slight pain in his side. -He was exerting quite a bit of effort--effort which on earth would have -made him sweat and his heart pump faster. He was sweating now but his -heart wasn't only pumping faster, it was racing. - - * * * * * - -He grasped the pipes harder for a final effort. With a brittle snap, -one of the connections burst and a few drops of water sprayed out at -him. He didn't notice. He was holding his sides in pain while his heart -took off like a race horse. The veins in his wrist swelled to the size -of lead pencils and he could feel the throbbing pulse of blood. He -floated stiffly in the air, half paralyzed by sudden fear. - -When the pumping had slowed down he turned his attention back to the -battered pipes. He straightened one of them out--being careful not to -over-exert himself--and used it to suck the water through. The water -was clear and cold but tasted a little of metal. It refreshed him and -he began to think of something to go with it. Whether he felt like -eating or not, it was obviously going to be necessary. - -_It wasn't--too bad--so far. He could take the headaches and the nausea -if he had to. There were--other things, though. Fear of what might -happen. Meteorites, for one thing. Chances of his ship colliding with a -speck of dust were ten million to one against it. But still...._ - -He went to the food locker and broke out a small electric hot-plate, -a skillet, and a dozen eggs. The skillet was a little flatter than an -ordinary one with a hinged cover to keep the contents in. - -_It wasn't pleasant to think about.... The ship a drifting derelict, -riddled and airless, with his body frozen as hard as stone floating -on the inside. What rubbish! Let's see, a one kilogram meteorite -with a velocity of ten miles a second hitting the hull ... probably -fuse a section of it. Ten miles ... sixteen kilometers a second, -approximately...._ - -Five minutes later, he was trying to coax an egg, floating sedately in -mid-air, into it. He'd have the affair around it, hurriedly close the -lid, and watch the air forced out from between the skillet and the lid -push the egg away. - -_A one kilogram meteorite at that speed could fuse about fifteen -kilograms of hull ... about thirty-three pounds, enough to...._ - -The trick was to close the lid slowly. With that accomplished he -discovered that grease wouldn't stay in the bottom of the skillet. -Finally he filled the skillet with water and poached the egg. - -... _vaporize a section of the hull big enough so he could poke his -fist through it ... with a velocity of a hundred miles a second there -probably wouldn't be enough left of the ship to identify...._ - -He dumped the egg into the disposal chute. He had lost his appetite. - - * * * * * - -Read the meters, list the readings in the log book. Note any changes -between consecutive readings. Test the air, note the humidity. Read the -meters, list the readings in the log book. Note the--oh hell, he knew -the order by heart as it was. Under _Personal Reaction_ he wrote: _damn -sick and tired of it. Ten days to go before halfway mark._ - - * * * * * - -He flipped the switch that cut the light circuit and floated lazily in -the dark. It was peaceful and quiet and his eyes closed in sleep. - -_Tick ... tick ... tick...._ - -He jerked awake. What the hell! - -_Tick ... tick ... tick ... tick!_ - -It sounded a little faster now. - -_Tick-tick-tick-tick!_ - -The ticking swelled to a roar and then subsided to a gentle, purring -_tick ... tick ... tick_! - -He crouched there in the dark, straining for the sound, wondering what -it was. It almost sounded like a slow-motion tabulator.... - -_The geiger counter!_ - -His heart skipped and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. There was a -counter on board to warn against stray radiation. Not that there would -be any--the Cameron-Smith energy converters were shielded so thoroughly -that not even a single stray particle could get through. - -_They were supposed to be, that is. Was it possible that the engineers -could have slipped up?_ - -Pictures of the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, hideous with -radiation keloids, flashed into his mind. A news story about radiation -poisoning gibbered in the back of his imagination. - -_Tick-tick-tick-tick!_ - -Sterility.... - -He flipped the light switch and floated over to the counter readings -on the instrument panel. The row of tiny lights flashed rapidly in -succession and the counter added another digit. - -Stray radiation ... stray.... It came to him, then. For a moment he had -forgotten that the counter was apt to read high, due to the increase -in cosmic ray radiation once outside the atmosphere of the earth. He -laughed weakly. What a thing to forget! - -Something snickered in the back of his mind. _Yeah, what a thing to -forget! And how will you tell whether the counter is reading stray -radiation from the converters or the increase in cosmic rays? The -engineers never make mistakes, though. Never? Well, hardly ever!_ - -The question of adequate shielding of the converters haunted him -continuously. - - * * * * * - -By the sixth day out, Whiteford had become accustomed to the life in -the cabin. He took it easy getting about and kept up with the business -of the ship. By splitting the "day" into segments, as on earth, he -managed to keep up a fairly normal routine. Sixteen hours on duty and -about eight for sleeping, although sleeping wasn't too easy. He was -rarely physically tired and made the mistake of trying to force himself -to sleep. By the sixth "evening" he had developed into a first rate -insomniac. - -And by the sixth evening he was aware that the job of pilot was one of -sheer boredom. It was dull routine with nothing to break the monotony -but worry. There was no radio, no television, no telephone to shatter -the silence. The first day or so he had whistled and sung to himself; -now he hated the sound of his own voice. - -He floated disgustedly in the hammock. He had read the meters, he had -listed the readings in the log book. He had noted the changes between -consecutive readings. He had tested the air and noted the humidity; he -had listed his own physiological reactions from acne to watering eyes. -He had cleaned and loaded the automatic cameras. All of which took -about one hour out of every twenty-four. - -He threaded his way over to the locker containing the books and games -Burger had mentioned. Odd that he hadn't thought of it before. - -This was more like it. Everything was designed to appeal to the -businessminded type of man, which was all to the good. He picked up the -thin books, printed on india paper to conserve weight, and frowned. -One of them was almost a text on finance; ordinarily, if he could have -curled up in an easy chair with nothing around to bother him, he'd -be interested. The other book he had read before. That left one--and -fifteen minutes later he discovered that he couldn't concentrate. His -eyes bothered him and the type blurred; he was a little too sick to -drum up interest in a book. - -He went back to the cabinet and got out a popular parlor game. It was -designed so that one person could play at it. The game itself was -simple; based on a combination of finance and mathematics the object -was to corner all the real estate on the board and "break the bank." -It provided an hour of amusement. After that he discovered he always -won; the board was _too_ simple--he had memorized the exact sequence of -moves to win the game every time. The remaining game was a complicated -three-dimensional chess set. This he discarded even sooner. He couldn't -win at all. - -He fell back on a deck of cards and tried to play solitaire but the -cards were too slick and their weight wouldn't hold them down anymore. -He would manage to arrange them in neat rows and then accidentally jar -them and they would go skitting off through the cabin. He finally tore -the pack in two with disgust and spent the rest of the day picking up -the pieces from the various corners where he had thrown them. - -His nerves were fraying rapidly. He couldn't shave and he couldn't -shower. The air was dry--a little too dry--and he began to itch, a -vague, annoying sensation that shifted over his body. - -And the cabin smelled. The air purifiers worked to satisfaction as far -as the meters were concerned but the odor of unwashed humanity still -clung to the cabin. He had a hunch it would get worse as time went on. - -He no longer bothered to prepare full meals for himself. He was too -tired, he didn't want to go to the effort, he didn't feel hungry -anyways. He ended up by nibbling on cold meats and bread at idle -moments. With the change in diet, his face broke out in large, ugly -splotches that bothered him considerably. Among other things, the diet -he had been originally supplied with had been designed to avoid just -that. If he had kept on the original diet ... if he had the energy to -prepare a full meal ... if he didn't feel so damned sick ... if only -that had been taken into consideration! - -The steady, irritating ticking of the geiger counter worried him -constantly. He could never be sure that the ticking was entirely -innocent; he grew to have a superstitious dread of the rear bulkhead -that stood between the cabin and converters. He unconsciously avoided -it, keeping to the front of the cabin as much as possible. - -Little noises startled him. If an occasional drop of water happened to -collide with him in the cabin, it sent him into a raving fury--blood -pressure be damned. He even derived a certain grim amusement from it, -thinking of the times he had laughed at the typical picture of the -apoplectic businessman. - - * * * * * - -On the eighth day, when making the check of the instrument panel, he -noticed that the panel on the board reading "Manual Control" was lit; -the one marked "Automatic" was out. In the middle of the board was the -face of an oscilloscope with two hair lines intersecting at the middle. -A small red dot, representing the rocket, should have been set exactly -at the intersection. - -It wasn't. It was at the bottom of the 'scope, almost off the face -altogether. - -_To hell with all engineers_, he snarled to himself. - -He would have to jockey the dot back to the center before the automatic -controls would take over again. If he failed, the rocket would be -hopelessly off course, a tiny wanderer in space. The auxiliary chemical -rockets, allowing for two degree corrections in the line of flight, -would have to be used. They consisted of four sets at right angles to -each other around the hull. By jockeying between them, he should be -able to work the ship back. - -He pressed the key for firing the portside jets. The next moment he -felt himself hurled from his position and thrown against the left-hand -bulkhead. The cabin exploded into a pinwheel of stars that quickly -faded into blackness. - - * * * * * - -His head hurt and something that felt very much like oozing blood -was sticking his eyelids together. He wrenched them open and rubbed -his head with his hands, then wiped the stickiness off on the pilot -suit. It _was_ blood, flowing from a cut in his scalp. Judging from -the cabin, he had lost quite a bit. But the cut was of secondary -importance. - -He clawed his way back to the oscilloscope. The spot on the face had -moved way over to the other side of the scope. He braced himself into -position so that the sudden acceleration wouldn't affect him again. He -pressed the key very lightly again and waited for the dot to shift. -Sweat collected on his nose and stayed there. He shook his head and a -spatter of drops flew off. - -The dot on the scope shifted--too much. He felt weak. This was going -to be a precision job; the slightest pressure on the firing stud might -prove to be too much again. He'd have to jockey it back and forth -until, by sheer luck, he hit the center of the scope. He could do -it--but it would take time. - -Five hours later a worn out, nervous Whiteford left the control panel -and drifted wearily over to the hammock. He was dead tired--so tired he -couldn't sleep. - - * * * * * - -It was the thirteenth day out. - -A floating drop of water brushed lightly past Whiteford. He batted at -it, swore, and began to cry; a peculiar sobbing that shook his whole -body. He blubbered for ten minutes. - -He was sick and hungry. The cut on his head begun to fester and his -whole head throbbed with pain. There was a first-aid kit in the cabin -but he felt too weak to get it. His beard itched and his body felt -slimy; sweat didn't drop off but stuck and spread over his skin until -it formed a thin coating. - -_Just a poor little lamb who is lost in space, ha--ha--ha!_ - -The tune slipped into his mind and at the end he laughed with the -chorus. He couldn't stop laughing. It built up to a hysterical roar -that left him shaking silently in the hammock. - -_Oh, Whiteford had a spaceship, its hull as white as snow; but every -time he pressed the stud, the ship refused to go!_ - -That was hilariously funny, too. - -He was sick, he was tired, he was dirty. He hadn't had enough energy or -ambition to fill in the log books for the last two days. - -Besides, who gave a damn? - -He was just the stupid jerk who piloted the thing. What did it matter -if he got killed in the attempt. - -_My rocket started out for the star-speckled void, my rocket started -out in great haste; but the g's were far too many for me, and I stuck -to the bulkhead like paste!_ - -Burger and Maxwell had sent a rocket as far as the moon, hadn't they? - -_He was sick--he didn't care whether he lived or died._ - -He was a sucker. A dope. A sick dope who wished to hell it was all -over. - -The moon was close now. If he waited until he got just a little closer -and then pressed the portside firing stud, he could wreck their blessed -rocket. Serve Burger and Maxwell right. As for himself, he was so sick -of the whole thing that death would come as a relief. - -That's what he'd do.... - -_My bonny, my bonny, my bonny so true, do you think you will miss me if -I die in the blue?_ - -C day for Crack-up day! He put his thumb on the key and allowed himself -five extra seconds of gloating. The company would have a tough time -sending a wreath to his funeral. The company.... - -_Who in hell would run Personnel Incorporated if he failed to return?_ -He nodded his head thoughtfully, faintly surprised that he hadn't -thought of it before. - -Who _would_ run the company? He was the only one who knew how. He _was_ -the company. He had practically raised it all by himself to where it -was now. - -He took his thumb off the key. - -And what would happen to the company's reputation if he failed to come -back? That meant that their slogan no longer held--that they hadn't -found the man for the job. And he hadn't kidded about the mottos. They -had been capable of finding a man to do any job--even this one. Not -just to go out on a job. To _do_ a job. - -He had a sudden vision of Maxwell shouting gleefully: "I told you so! -Personnel can't supply the man!" - -Five minutes later he hardly remembered his desire to crash the ship. -He thought fleetingly of the movies showing the crack-up of the first -ship. Something pretty much the same as had happened to him must have -happened to the pilot on the first flight. - -He shuddered and kicked his way over to the first-aid kit. - - * * * * * - -The next day the ship began the long smooth curve that would carry it -around the moon and on the last leg of the journey. Whiteford went to -the panel board and pressed the key releasing the steel porthole caps. -He pressed the key again and when they still didn't move realized they -were stuck. It wouldn't be hard to find the trouble but.... - -It wasn't worth the effort. He didn't give a damn whether he saw the -moon or not. - -He drifted back to the hammock and went into an almost coma state -staring dully at the overhead. He lay that way until time came for his -next round of readings. - - * * * * * - -Two thousand miles out from earth the ship started the first of a -dozen trips around the earth that would slow it down for a landing. -Five hundred miles up the ship entered the first tenuous wisps of -atmosphere. A hundred miles up, the air was screaming past the ship -and the hull begun to get warm. Ten miles up Whiteford jettisoned the -rocket tubes and engine over the Atlantic ocean. At the same time he -released the double duty nylon parachute attached to the cabin. - -Inside, Whiteford had begun to experience discomfort as his weight -returned. It was an effort to move around and his heart beat seemed -sluggish. His stomach sagged heavily and he thought wistfully of a -gentleman's girdle. Water bubbled merrily from the broken water pipes -and splashed unheeded on the deck. - -The cabin thudded on something soft and Whiteford crawled to the hatch -and opened it. The ship was floating on a large body of water. Waves -slapped cheerfully against the hull and overhead a few startled gulls -cawed angrily. A cool gust of fresh air blew in. Whiteford hauled -himself erect and stripped off the pilot suit. He stood nude in the -opening, inhaling the air in greedy gulps. It smelled as clean and cool -as the conditioned air in his office at Personnel Incorporated. - - * * * * * - -"Ahoy, there!" - -There was a boat a few feet from the hatch. - -"Coming aboard!" They drifted closer and one of the men in the boat -grabbed the ladder by the hatchway. Five men and a woman tumbled aboard. - -"The Coast Guard at your...." - -"I'm from the Daily Newsworld, Mr. Whiteford. I wonder...." - -"What was it like in space...." - -"You must have been simply _thrillllled_...." - -Burger's bald head pushed itself forward. "How did the moon look to -you, Mr. Whiteford?" - -Whiteford had to think a little. "Come to think of it, I never saw it." - -There was a dead silence. - -"Oh, it's all on the films the automatic cameras shot. I wasn't too -much interested myself." - -The reporters frowned in disappointment but tried again. - -"What do you intend to do now that you're back? Do the town, go on a -fishing trip...." - -Whiteford looked at them as if they had crawled out from under a rock. -"Nonsense!" he snarled. "I'll get back to my office, of course!" - - * * * * * - -Maxwell looked at the president of Personnel approvingly. "I honestly -didn't think you could do it, once I heard that you had gone." He -paused and fumbled with his pipe. "Pretty tough, wasn't it?" - -Whiteford knocked the ash off his cigarette and reached for the bottle -of pills on his desk. "I wouldn't say so," he said expansively. "Just a -matter of being fitted for the job." - -Maxwell inspected his fingernails. "You didn't take the examinations -your own outfit rigged up. Any particular reason?" - -Whiteford looked annoyed. "I was technically qualified--engineering -course in college. As for the rest, I successfully piloted the ship -which should establish something on that score." - -Maxwell twirled his hat self-consciously. A half smile played on his -lips. "Oh, sure. Absolutely." He tamped his pipe. "You know, it's hard -to visualize anybody wanting to go to the moon. It must be--well, some -terrific drive that makes them do it." - -Whiteford stared at him suspiciously. "What are you getting at?" - -Maxwell looked innocent and gave an exaggerated shrug. "Why, nothing! -Nothing at all. It's just that it seems ... seems so unusual that you -couldn't find a qualified man, a completely _normal_ man who wanted to -go!" - -The temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. "Implying," -Whiteford said icily, "that I'm not quite sane?" - -Maxwell stood up and chuckled. "Exactly. Hasn't it occurred to you that -the qualifications you set up for a pilot were all wrong? When has a -_completely_ normal man ever succeeded at _anything_ that was a little -difficult? Why did you succeed? Because you're just a shade neurotic, -because you've got a streak of monomania in you. It's what built -up Personnel Incorporated. It's what got you to the moon and back. -Hell, Whiteford, after this when we want pilots we'll just run your -characteristics on the sorter and pick them out that way!" - -Whiteford glared at him and for a moment Maxwell felt sorry. He had -pushed a big man off a pedestal; he had punctured an ego. - -Suddenly Whiteford grinned self-consciously. "Maybe you've got a point -there. I never thought of it that way." - -Maxwell started for the door and paused, his hand on the knob. The look -he gave Whiteford was one of sudden admiration. - -"There's something else, too. Something that it takes to send a man to -the moon and back and something you can't measure on an IBM machine." -He paused. "It takes courage. A hell of a lot of it." - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANTED: ONE SANE MAN *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Robinson</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Wanted: One Sane Man</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Frank M. Robinson</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 26, 2021 [eBook #66612]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANTED: ONE SANE MAN ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter x-ebookmaker-drop"> - <img src="images/illusc.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<h1>WANTED: One Sane Man</h1> - -<h2>By Frank M. Robinson</h2> - -<p>Personnel Incorporated bragged that they<br /> -could supply a man for any job. Maxwell doubted<br /> -this, needing a space pilot for the first Lunar<br /> -trip. Now, if he had just asked for a lunatic....</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy<br /> -June 1955<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>The small man adjusted his bi-focals and stared critically at the -huge brass nameplate over the glass entrance doors. The plate read -"Personnel Incorporated" in neat, modest lettering. Directly above the -plate was a traveling neon sign which informed the public in letters -six feet tall that:</p> - -<p>PERSONNEL CAN SUPPLY THE MAN FOR ANY JOB!—SEVENTY-FIVE PER CENT -OF THE PERSONNEL PROBLEMS ON THE AMERICAN CONTINENT ARE HANDLED BY -PERSONNEL—DOES YOUR JOB SEEM BORING LATELY? SEE PERSONNEL AND BE -PSYCHOLOGICALLY FITTED FOR YOUR WORK!—PERSONNEL CAN SUPPLY THE MAN FOR -ANY JOB!—SEVENTY-FIVE PER CENT OF THE....</p> - -<p>The small man looked at it for a minute and turned to his tall -companion.</p> - -<p>"Tell me, Maxwell, why the seventy-five? Why not eighty or -eighty-three?"</p> - -<p>Maxwell glanced up at the sign. "If they do seventy-six per cent or -more of the business, they're a monopoly. It must pain Whiteford to -have to hold himself down to only seventy-five."</p> - -<p>"Whiteford?"</p> - -<p>Maxwell looked surprised. "You haven't heard of him? The newest boy -wonder in the business world? He's the genius who runs this modern -slave market." He looked at his watch. "And, incidentally, he's also -the guy we've got an appointment with in five minutes."</p> - -<p>They joined the crowds streaming up the wide, granite steps and found -themselves in the large entrance lobby, directly opposite the battery -of ascending elevators.</p> - -<p>The small man approached the starter. "—ah—pardon me, but would you -tell us what floor Personnel Incorporated is on?"</p> - -<p>The starter looked shocked. "Poisonnel ain't just on one floor, Mister, -it's the whole building. Who'dja wanna see?"</p> - -<p>"We wanted to—well, that is—whoever's in...."</p> - -<p>The starter brushed him aside. "Step outta the way of the passengers, -Mister. Be with ya in a second.... Okay, lady, maid soivice and -domestics is on the thoity-foist floor. Don't shove in the elevator, -please! Next elevator, <i>please!</i>"</p> - -<p>He turned back to the small man.</p> - -<p>"We got administration on the foist floor. Second floor, automotive and -transportation. Assemblers, welders, painters, cushion upholsterers, -sprayers, mock-up men, testers and greasers. Thoid floor, electrical. -Solderers, cabinet workers, wirers, draftsmen, coil-winders, and design -expoits. Next floor, entertainers. Everything from acrobats to zither -players and concert ottists. Fifth...."</p> - -<p>"We want to see Whiteford," Maxwell cut in impatiently.</p> - -<p>The starter looked impressed. "The Chief, eh? Administration's on -the foist floor, like I told ya, Mister. Straight down to the end of -the curridor and to your left. Ya can't miss it." He had a second -thought and turned and shouted after them. "If ya want a job, General -Employment's on the second curridor to your right!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Think this will do any good?" the small man asked, mopping the sweat -off his bald head.</p> - -<p>"We don't have any choice. We've got to try it." Maxwell pushed open -one of the double swinging doors marked "Office of the President."</p> - -<p>They walked into the outer fringes of a whirlpool of noise and bedlam, -rivaling that of a stock exchange or a grain pit in the middle of the -harvesting season. The room covered more than an acre, with ninety -per cent of the floor space devoted to adding machines, typewriters, -tabulators, collators, sorters, key punches, automatic alphabetizers -and the other ten per cent to their operators. A battery of sorters on -their left digested stacks of small, white cards and spewed forth more -stacks of them into waiting hoppers. On their right, the nearest of -three switchboard operators smiled a weak greeting and turned back to -her board.</p> - -<p>"Personnel Incorporated. National Carbide and Carbon? Just a moment, -please. I'll connect you with the president's office.... Personnel -Incorporated. Chrysler Corporation? That's the automotive division, -extension 2214.... Personnel Incorporated. Shanghai Importing Company? -I believe our sales division can furnish you with the men, extension -230."</p> - -<p>She turned to the small man. "The monster's office is that glass -enclosure down there"—she pointed to a glassed-in office at the -end of the room—"and while there, tell him he'll have to get some -more help for the switchboard." She mopped her forehead with a soggy -handkerchief. "It's more than we can handle."</p> - -<p>The center of the whirlpool was the glassed-in office, with the name -WHITEFORD on the door—nothing else. Whiteford himself, neatly dressed -in a business suit with creases sharp enough to shave with, was sitting -behind half an acre of mahogany desk. He was young, about 30, with the -healthy and slightly overfed look of a graduated college halfback. -Maxwell decided he didn't like him. He looked like a character who -exuded confidence like perspiration.</p> - -<p>Whiteford didn't bother looking up but continued barking into the -intercom.</p> - -<p>"Lyons? About the Amazon Valley deal. Fly in three thousand -semi-skilled next week. Get 'em housed in quonset huts and make -arrangements with a coast concern for shipments of fresh fruits and -vegetables for the central kitchen." He paused. "Better call in the bug -experts to liquidate the mosquitoes instead of spending the money for -netting and anti-malaria. Cheaper in the long run."</p> - -<p>He took time out to gulp some pills from a bottle and wash them down -with water from a desk side tap. "Just a quick lunch," he apologized. -His voice was brisk. "What can I do for you?"</p> - -<p>The small man gestured to himself and his companion. "I'm George -Burger, director of the experimental division at Atlantic Motors. And -this is Frank Maxwell; he's with the government. We have something -important we'd like to discuss...."</p> - -<p>"Be glad to,"—Whiteford looked at his watch—"for about four minutes. -I have an engagement at eleven. As you were saying, Mister Bircher?"</p> - -<p>The small man winced. "Burger. We need...."</p> - -<p>A secretary came in on the run.</p> - -<p>"Call for you from London, Mr. Whiteford! About dredging the Thames...."</p> - -<p>"... a man...."</p> - -<p>"I'll take it out there in a moment. Miss Hancock."</p> - -<p>"... to pilot...."</p> - -<p>The phone rang.</p> - -<p>"... a rocket...."</p> - -<p>"IBM? Call me back in half an hour."</p> - -<p>"... to the...."</p> - -<p>Whiteford flipped the intercom switch.</p> - -<p>"Tell the man from General Motors we'll be able to supply the gear -specialists, Miss Hancock."</p> - -<p>"... moon."</p> - -<p>Whiteford glanced at his watch again and frowned.</p> - -<p>"Really, Burger, I'm a very busy man. You'll have to cut it short."</p> - -<p>Maxwell shouldered past Burger and leaned possessively on Whiteford's -desk, his jaw an inch from Whiteford's own.</p> - -<p>"It so happens that what concerns Atlantic Motors vitally concerns -the government, Whiteford! We'd appreciate it if you could stretch -that generosity of yours and give us five minutes of your undivided -attention. After all, we <i>did</i> have an appointment!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Whiteford turned off the intercom and leaned back in his swivel chair, -his fingers tapping nervously on the chair arm.</p> - -<p>"Sorry Maxwell, but keeping the organization running keeps me on the -hump."</p> - -<p>"Like it kept the slavers of the eighteenth century on the hump," -Maxwell growled.</p> - -<p>Whiteford's eyebrows shot up.</p> - -<p>"Personnel Incorporated was founded on one of the most obvious needs -of our civilization, Maxwell! With the expansion of production -after the first atomic war, the demand for personnel, and increasing -labor-management difficulties, it was obvious that dozens of little -employment agencies and company employment divisions were only -hampering manufacturing facilities. A single, centralized bureau was -needed. Personnel Incorporated filled that need. From myself on down, -everybody who's been handled by Personnel has been psychologically -tested for their job—which means strikes and walkouts have been cut to -a minimum.</p> - -<p>"Modern civilization would be impossible without Personnel, Maxwell! -But that's water over the dam." He nodded to Burger. "You have a -personnel problem?"</p> - -<p>"That's why I came here," Burger said testily. "As you may know, Mr. -Whiteford, Atlantic Motors has constructed a rocket to make the first -flight to the moon. We need a pilot for that rocket."</p> - -<p>Whiteford looked bored. "All the Sunday supplements have carried -articles about the A-M rocket. As for the pilot, there are thousands of -men in this country alone who are probably qualified for the job. To -find one would be routine, I should think."</p> - -<p>"It's somewhat more complicated than picking a pilot out of a hat, Mr. -Whiteford. Not just any pilot will do. There are, of course, certain -technical qualifications but there are more important ones than that. -Our man would have to be perfect mentally—no nervousness, neurosis, -streaks of instability or anything of the sort. We could hardly trust -75,000,000 dollars worth of rocket to a man who wasn't sound physically -and mentally."</p> - -<p>"I take it you couldn't find any?"</p> - -<p>Burger shook his head.</p> - -<p>"Where does the government come in?"</p> - -<p>"The government is naturally interested in rockets," Maxwell said. -"It's rumored the Russians aren't far behind us. At any rate, without a -pilot, the rocket is useless."</p> - -<p>"And the government has been unsuccessful, too?"</p> - -<p>Maxwell hesitated. "As a matter of fact we found a pilot—at least we -thought we had. He piloted the first rocket that was sent—one flight -has been attempted before. From what little evidence we can gather, it -appears he deliberately crashed the rocket on the moon."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>Maxwell shrugged. "Off his trolley, I suppose. That's reason number one -for our qualifications being so high."</p> - -<p>"I frankly don't think you can find one," Burger added nastily. -"Atlantic Motors has tried for months with no success."</p> - -<p>"Personnel Incorporated is not Atlantic Motors, Burger," Whiteford -said sarcastically. "We've never failed! <i>Never</i> failed!" He repeated -it like a liturgy. "We don't intend to fail now. Come back in a week -and we'll have your man."</p> - -<p>"Just like the Royal Canadian Mounted," Maxwell muttered.</p> - -<p>When they had gone, Whiteford flipped the switch of the intercom.</p> - -<p>"Miss Hancock? Cancel my appointment with the directors of AT&T. Call -in the company psychologists to prepare a personnel test. Contact -Haskins at our London office and Schubert in Paris and tell them we -intend to launch a campaign for rocket pilots immediately. Examination -papers for applicants will be forwarded at once. Notify our other -branch offices to the same effect. All on the QT, you understand. -And Miss Hancock—have the psychologists test our advertising for -confidence appeal. A representative of Atlantic Motors just implied we -couldn't supply them with help!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Those cards represent exactly 250,342 applicants," Whiteford said -proudly, gesturing to stacks of tabulating cards by the sorting -machine. Burger looked mildly surprised. "All of them qualified to be -the pilot?"</p> - -<p>Whiteford smiled indulgently. "Probably only a small -proportion—several thousand or so. Each hole punched in the card -represents either the applicant's physical condition, his technical -knowledge, or answers to carefully phrased questions which will reveal -his mental state. The sorting machine here,"—he patted the mechanical -monster at his side—"has been set to sort out only those cards that -meet with the qualifications the company psychologists have set up.</p> - -<p>"I've arranged this demonstration to show the efficiency of the -corporation; we have quite a reputation for fulfilling contracts." -He shot a glance at Burger. "We'll run through this large stack -here—applicants from England—first."</p> - -<p>Maxwell pointed curiously to a small pile. "Where's that stack from?"</p> - -<p>Whiteford glanced at it casually. "That stack was forwarded from our -branch office in Hindustan. Some Indians make darn good pilot material."</p> - -<p>He inserted part of the stack of cards from England into the chute of -the machine and started it up. There was a slow snick-snick-snick as -the cards passed through the intricate system of metal "fingers" that -would separate the sheep from the goats—or, in this case, the pilots -from the remainder of the applicants.</p> - -<p>The chute emptied and no cards had been tossed out into the acceptance -hopper.</p> - -<p>"No luck, eh?" Maxwell couldn't help grinning.</p> - -<p>Whiteford frowned. "We've just started."</p> - -<p>Two hours later the entire stack of cards—including the stack from -Hindustan—had been run through.</p> - -<p>The acceptance hopper was still empty.</p> - -<p>Whiteford was in his shirt sleeves, beads of sweat dripping unnoticed -off the tip of his nose.</p> - -<p>"I can't understand," he muttered. "I can't believe.... Miss Hancock! -Call in Dr. Burroughs!"</p> - -<p>When the doctor had showed up, Whiteford pointed to the cards lying in -heaps on the floor.</p> - -<p>"Not a one qualified—not a single one! Why, Burroughs?"</p> - -<p>Burroughs hemmed and hawed and finally decided to risk it. "Well, -that's ah—not too hard to understand. Unfortunately the majority of -applicants were nothing more than—if you'll pardon me—crackpots. The -kind who will volunteer for anything. Most of them lacked the technical -knowledge. Those who had it either failed the physical or were again, -mentally unstable. Only slightly, in most cases, but enough so there -was a danger of it becoming pronounced while in the rocket. Those who -might've qualified weren't interested."</p> - -<p>"Why not? The pay was good."</p> - -<p>"Let me pose a question. What <i>entirely</i> sane man would volunteer, for -any amount of money, to pilot a plutonium engine rocket around the moon -and back?"</p> - -<p>Whiteford looked blank.</p> - -<p>"In other words—personnel can't supply the man. Is that it?" Maxwell -interrupted.</p> - -<p>Burroughs spread his hands in an expansive gesture. "Well, now, I -wouldn't say that. Someplace there must be a man...."</p> - -<p>Whiteford turned and went into his office, slamming the door behind -him. They could see him collapse into his swivel chair.</p> - -<p>"Well, what do you suppose came over him?" Burger gasped.</p> - -<p>"I suspect that God has finally found a stone he couldn't lift," -Maxwell murmured.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Whiteford kneaded his knuckles and stared morosely out the window. From -time to time his hand strayed to the intercom and then he'd snap it -back.</p> - -<p>He'd been sitting that way for two hours. For two hours the gigantic -cogs of Personnel Incorporated had been stopped by a grain of sand. Or -at least, so it seemed.</p> - -<p>Suddenly his hand lashed out and he flipped the intercom switch.</p> - -<p>"Would you please come here a minute, Miss Hancock?"</p> - -<p>"Y-yes, Mr. Whiteford?"</p> - -<p>"Do you think you could run Personnel Incorporated while I'm away?"</p> - -<p>"Well—I don't—I hardly think I'm capable...."</p> - -<p>"You're not," Whiteford said drily. "But you're more capable than -anyone else that's here. You'll assume my duties until I return."</p> - -<p>He paused at the door.</p> - -<p>"In case anyone asks, I'll be gone for a month."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Burger wrung his hands nervously. "Only a half hour until take-off -time, Mr. Whiteford. I think we've thought of everything. You realize -that your position on the rocket, actually, is only the safety factor -of the rocket itself. And, of course, an observer is preferable. -First hand accounts of human reactions on board the rocket will be -invaluable. You've been drilled for two weeks in your duties on board, -the listing of meter readings in the log book, a careful diary of your -own physiological reactions, etc. And naturally, what to do in case -of an emergency. Of course, the chances are several million to one of -anything actually going wrong with the rocket.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes, the pictures of the first rocket flight. The film actually -doesn't show much but it might be of interest."</p> - -<p>Whiteford followed him to the small projection room.</p> - -<p>"The camera was tracked by radar," Burger exclaimed. "We can follow -the rocket all the way. I'll speed up the action a little." The -pin-point of light on the screen leaped ahead and in a few moments the -pock-marked face of the moon came into view. Burger slowed the action -down to normal. The tiny tad-pole of light swam closer to the moon. -Suddenly it swerved and in a moment there was a tiny burst of light on -one of the craters and the screen went blank.</p> - -<p>"The crash, eh?"</p> - -<p>Burger nodded. "You can still back out, you know. You can up until the -moment you step inside the rocket."</p> - -<p>"Don't be silly!" Whiteford snorted.</p> - -<p>They went out to the landing field.</p> - -<p>"Incidentally, Mr. Whiteford, you'll find a small cabinet on board -with various books, puzzles, and what-not for your leisure hours. -They've been scientifically selected for your type of personality." -Burger smiled faintly. "In fact, you'll discover that the pilot has -been provided for very well, considering weight limitations and all. -Practically every possible occurrence has been provided for. I'm sure -you'll experience no difficulty on the flight."</p> - -<p>Whiteford nodded absently. "Just be sure and tell Maxwell that -Personnel Incorporated can always supply the man! Always!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Inside the cabin, Whiteford methodically went through the take-off -preparations he had practiced during the previous two weeks. He gave -the chronometer, synchronized to start with the take-off, a quick -inspection and turned to the meters on the instrument panel. He -quickly went over the small control board that would permit him to -make deviations and corrections in the ship's course of as much as -five degrees and checked the geiger counter apparatus which emitted a -faint burp as a stray cosmic ray hit it. The Counter was designed to -warn against stray radiation from the engines (but the chances were ten -million to one that there would be any, Burger had said). He flicked -through the pages of the ship's log and idly noted the entry pages for -meter readings and observations.</p> - -<p>Against the rear bulkhead of the small cabin was a hammock-like affair, -suspended by coil springs. He punched the hammock casually. It would -serve to cushion the effects of acceleration at the take-off and as a -bunk for the pilot the rest of the trip. Near it and almost a part of -the deck was a food locker. There was a small spigot at the top that -served as a water tap for the tank below.</p> - -<p>Around the top of the cabin there was a series of small ports of -steel-strong plastic, permitting an outside view. The ports were -currently closed with steel over-lap caps.</p> - -<p>He looked down at his watch. Two minutes until take-off. He strapped -himself in the hammock and bounced once or twice to test the springs. -They hardly gave at all under his efforts; they were designed to give -way under the acceleration of 8 or 9 g's. The hammock and the skin -tight pilot suit were supposed to keep him together under the crushing -weight of acceleration, at which time he'd be like jelly in a mould.</p> - -<p>A light sweat sprung out on his forehead. If something went wrong with -the apparatus, they could scrape him off the rear bulkhead like a -pancake off a hot griddle. He hadn't thought of that before. Not only -that but how about radiation from the engines? Shielded, of course, but -even the best engineers could sometimes.... Good God, how did he ever -get....</p> - -<p>There was a sudden surge of the ship and the springs holding the -hammock stretched as easy as a dime store rubber-band. He felt his -weight double and treble. His breath came in tight little gasps as -if a sorting machine had been dumped on his chest. The weight kept -increasing and the cabin started to spin. Little black dots danced -around the edges of his area of vision and gradually covered it. He -felt he was smothering in a dark, black pit....</p> - -<p>Maxwell's face flashed at him out of the darkness. "Always supply -the man, eh?" it sneered. Hands appeared before the face and dropped -application cards until they fluttered in front of it like snow. The -snow cleared and he could see prim Miss Hancock coming toward him, a -suddenly alluring Miss Hancock sans glasses and most everything else. -He had a faint impression of being shocked. The image faded and he -saw himself being chased down the boulevard by a group of animated -tabulating machines. He made it to the Personnel building and made a -dash for the elevator. Instead of going up, the elevator went down, -faster, faster.... He felt the bottom of the elevator drop away from -under him and he floated in the air, vainly kicking at the walls....</p> - -<p>Whiteford opened his eyes slowly. The hammock quivered a little on the -springs but they were no longer stretched. The chronometer read five -minutes since take-off.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He unstrapped and tried to get out of the hammock. An instant later -he found himself floating at about the same level as the hammock, not -touching the deck. A fragment of a dream about an elevator touched -his mind and it suddenly occurred to him that he was falling—falling -faster than he had fallen before. He closed his eyes, which promptly -made it worse. He was falling—falling hundreds of miles to earth. -An image formed in his mind of the ship entering the atmosphere, the -screaming of the tortured air, the heating of the metallic shell from -friction until it glowed a cherry red, roasting its occupant to a -blackened cinder.</p> - -<p>He screamed and the sound of his own voice brought him back to sanity. -The sensation of falling was what he should expect from weightlessness. -It was like being in the elevator he had imagined that kept going -faster and faster until it fell away from beneath him. He kept his mind -on the concept with an effort.</p> - -<p>He managed to control his imagination but his nervous system kept -sending the impulses which screamed that he was falling. He clutched at -the hammock in a sudden wave of nausea. The feeling didn't leave him -and he closed his eyes and vomited. It was amazingly easy to do—in -free flight gravity no longer helped in holding down his meal.</p> - -<p>He was in the middle of an agonizing attack of what any sailor would -recognize as the "dry heaves" before he managed to gain control of his -knotted stomach muscles.</p> - -<p>The hammock served as a point of orientation and he dragged himself on -to it and buried his face in the canvas. He tried not to feel anything -or hear anything or think anything. He had lain like that for a long -time when he felt something brush his face.</p> - -<p>He opened his eyes and saw a few little spheroids of matter floating in -the cabin. He batted idly at one with a free hand and it immediately -broke up into smaller spheroids which drifted apart from each other.</p> - -<p>He groaned. It had been a mistake to vomit. Whether he liked it or not, -his next duty would have to be to gather up all the spheroids and stuff -them into the disposal chute. He found a rubberized bag in the medicine -kit and went after the spheroids much in the same way a little boy -catches butterflies.</p> - -<p>When he had finished the unpleasant task of collecting the spheroids, -he glanced over at the chronometer. It read some fifty minutes since -the beginning of the trip. Time to begin his tour of duty. He took -the log book and made his round of the meters and jotted down their -readings. Under <i>Personal Reactions</i> he jotted down <i>sick; steady and -unremitting feeling of nausea</i>.</p> - -<p>Ten minutes later he had accomplished his duties for the next -eight-hour period. That left only—well, fourteen days going, same -time returning. He had left only twenty-seven days and twenty-three -hours before he'd see earth again.</p> - -<p>Twenty-seven days and twenty-three hours of sheer hell.</p> - -<p>Things—unpleasant things—seemed to pile up on him. He had suffered -from migraine headaches before—but nothing like he did now. It -was easier for his heart to pump blood to his head, and the minute -enlargement of the blood vessels in his head caused splitting pains -to shoot through it. He had noticed the headaches shortly after he -had attempted to look through one of the ports. Not that they weren't -there before—he had been too busy vomiting to take note of them. The -ports were a fiasco in themselves. The practically solid beams of -light coming through had blinded him temporarily, even when he wore -sun-glasses; enough to show him that sight-seeing and human observation -were out of the question.</p> - -<p>And mixed in with all of these were the difficulties of getting around -the small compartment. He could kick himself around, inasmuch as he -was weightless in free flight, but the piping and equipment in the -compartment turned it into a hazardous obstacle course. He nearly broke -his arm, once, trying to stop from running into a bulkhead.</p> - -<p>And there were other things. Embarrassing things. Or, considering he -was alone in the compartment, just mildly annoying things.</p> - -<p>After trying to look through the ports, he pushed back to the hammock -and lay down. He could just as easily have rested floating in the air -but the hammock was a great mental aid. He tried to keep his mind blank -but snatches of thought kept running through it. Today was Friday on -earth. About time for the evening meal. Fried perch and scalloped -potatoes....</p> - -<p>He groaned again. Nowhere on the examinations they had made out for the -applicants was there a question asking if the prospect was susceptible -to space-sickness.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Whiteford lay on the hammock and thought about what it had been like -on earth a few hours before. It would be near quitting time and the -five o'clock rush just beginning. Most people would be going home to -a hearty dinner—he skipped that—and then a quiet evening with the -television, or perhaps a ringside table at any of the local night spots -where he used to entertain clients. There would be the many little -tables with the clean, white tablecloths and the neat arrangement of -polished silver, the glasses filled to the brim with sparkling clear -water....</p> - -<p>He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. It felt like fur. -Sparkling clear water might be just what he needed. A few sips of ice -water and a cold, wet-rag on his face would work wonders. Clear, cool, -gushing, water....</p> - -<p>He had to have water! He rolled out of the hammock and dove for the -water tap. A split second later he remembered his first accident and -twisted frantically in the air, trying to slow his momentum. He grabbed -for some pipes that threaded through the cabin, missed, and hit the -water tap butt first: the plastic panels at the front splintered and -broke and the tiny aluminum tubing, scientifically designed to deliver -water under conditions of free flight bent and crumpled.</p> - -<p>Whiteford felt wet. He turned and grimly surveyed the demolished water -tap. A few drops of water floated lazily, tantalizingly in the air. He -<i>had</i> to have water! A kit near the food locker yielded some cooking -utensils and an old-fashioned can-opener, one end of which might serve -as a crude lever. He had to wedge himself between the tap and the -bulkhead to get leverage to pry with; otherwise, a hearty twist only -resulted in his body turning a slow circle in the air.</p> - -<p>The tubes didn't straighten very easily. Finally, the can-opener broke; -a loss that didn't become immediately apparent. He grabbed the pipes -with his hands and heaved outward. They bent. He heaved again and they -bent still more. On the third heave he felt a slight pain in his side. -He was exerting quite a bit of effort—effort which on earth would have -made him sweat and his heart pump faster. He was sweating now but his -heart wasn't only pumping faster, it was racing.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He grasped the pipes harder for a final effort. With a brittle snap, -one of the connections burst and a few drops of water sprayed out at -him. He didn't notice. He was holding his sides in pain while his heart -took off like a race horse. The veins in his wrist swelled to the size -of lead pencils and he could feel the throbbing pulse of blood. He -floated stiffly in the air, half paralyzed by sudden fear.</p> - -<p>When the pumping had slowed down he turned his attention back to the -battered pipes. He straightened one of them out—being careful not to -over-exert himself—and used it to suck the water through. The water -was clear and cold but tasted a little of metal. It refreshed him and -he began to think of something to go with it. Whether he felt like -eating or not, it was obviously going to be necessary.</p> - -<p><i>It wasn't—too bad—so far. He could take the headaches and the nausea -if he had to. There were—other things, though. Fear of what might -happen. Meteorites, for one thing. Chances of his ship colliding with a -speck of dust were ten million to one against it. But still....</i></p> - -<p>He went to the food locker and broke out a small electric hot-plate, -a skillet, and a dozen eggs. The skillet was a little flatter than an -ordinary one with a hinged cover to keep the contents in.</p> - -<p><i>It wasn't pleasant to think about.... The ship a drifting derelict, -riddled and airless, with his body frozen as hard as stone floating -on the inside. What rubbish! Let's see, a one kilogram meteorite -with a velocity of ten miles a second hitting the hull ... probably -fuse a section of it. Ten miles ... sixteen kilometers a second, -approximately....</i></p> - -<p>Five minutes later, he was trying to coax an egg, floating sedately in -mid-air, into it. He'd have the affair around it, hurriedly close the -lid, and watch the air forced out from between the skillet and the lid -push the egg away.</p> - -<p><i>A one kilogram meteorite at that speed could fuse about fifteen -kilograms of hull ... about thirty-three pounds, enough to....</i></p> - -<p>The trick was to close the lid slowly. With that accomplished he -discovered that grease wouldn't stay in the bottom of the skillet. -Finally he filled the skillet with water and poached the egg.</p> - -<p>... <i>vaporize a section of the hull big enough so he could poke his -fist through it ... with a velocity of a hundred miles a second there -probably wouldn't be enough left of the ship to identify....</i></p> - -<p>He dumped the egg into the disposal chute. He had lost his appetite.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Read the meters, list the readings in the log book. Note any changes -between consecutive readings. Test the air, note the humidity. Read the -meters, list the readings in the log book. Note the—oh hell, he knew -the order by heart as it was. Under <i>Personal Reaction</i> he wrote: <i>damn -sick and tired of it. Ten days to go before halfway mark.</i></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He flipped the switch that cut the light circuit and floated lazily in -the dark. It was peaceful and quiet and his eyes closed in sleep.</p> - -<p><i>Tick ... tick ... tick....</i></p> - -<p>He jerked awake. What the hell!</p> - -<p><i>Tick ... tick ... tick ... tick!</i></p> - -<p>It sounded a little faster now.</p> - -<p><i>Tick-tick-tick-tick!</i></p> - -<p>The ticking swelled to a roar and then subsided to a gentle, purring -<i>tick ... tick ... tick</i>!</p> - -<p>He crouched there in the dark, straining for the sound, wondering what -it was. It almost sounded like a slow-motion tabulator....</p> - -<p><i>The geiger counter!</i></p> - -<p>His heart skipped and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. There was a -counter on board to warn against stray radiation. Not that there would -be any—the Cameron-Smith energy converters were shielded so thoroughly -that not even a single stray particle could get through.</p> - -<p><i>They were supposed to be, that is. Was it possible that the engineers -could have slipped up?</i></p> - -<p>Pictures of the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, hideous with -radiation keloids, flashed into his mind. A news story about radiation -poisoning gibbered in the back of his imagination.</p> - -<p><i>Tick-tick-tick-tick!</i></p> - -<p>Sterility....</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>He flipped the light switch and floated over to the counter readings -on the instrument panel. The row of tiny lights flashed rapidly in -succession and the counter added another digit.</p> - -<p>Stray radiation ... stray.... It came to him, then. For a moment he had -forgotten that the counter was apt to read high, due to the increase -in cosmic ray radiation once outside the atmosphere of the earth. He -laughed weakly. What a thing to forget!</p> - -<p>Something snickered in the back of his mind. <i>Yeah, what a thing to -forget! And how will you tell whether the counter is reading stray -radiation from the converters or the increase in cosmic rays? The -engineers never make mistakes, though. Never? Well, hardly ever!</i></p> - -<p>The question of adequate shielding of the converters haunted him -continuously.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>By the sixth day out, Whiteford had become accustomed to the life in -the cabin. He took it easy getting about and kept up with the business -of the ship. By splitting the "day" into segments, as on earth, he -managed to keep up a fairly normal routine. Sixteen hours on duty and -about eight for sleeping, although sleeping wasn't too easy. He was -rarely physically tired and made the mistake of trying to force himself -to sleep. By the sixth "evening" he had developed into a first rate -insomniac.</p> - -<p>And by the sixth evening he was aware that the job of pilot was one of -sheer boredom. It was dull routine with nothing to break the monotony -but worry. There was no radio, no television, no telephone to shatter -the silence. The first day or so he had whistled and sung to himself; -now he hated the sound of his own voice.</p> - -<p>He floated disgustedly in the hammock. He had read the meters, he had -listed the readings in the log book. He had noted the changes between -consecutive readings. He had tested the air and noted the humidity; he -had listed his own physiological reactions from acne to watering eyes. -He had cleaned and loaded the automatic cameras. All of which took -about one hour out of every twenty-four.</p> - -<p>He threaded his way over to the locker containing the books and games -Burger had mentioned. Odd that he hadn't thought of it before.</p> - -<p>This was more like it. Everything was designed to appeal to the -businessminded type of man, which was all to the good. He picked up the -thin books, printed on india paper to conserve weight, and frowned. -One of them was almost a text on finance; ordinarily, if he could have -curled up in an easy chair with nothing around to bother him, he'd -be interested. The other book he had read before. That left one—and -fifteen minutes later he discovered that he couldn't concentrate. His -eyes bothered him and the type blurred; he was a little too sick to -drum up interest in a book.</p> - -<p>He went back to the cabinet and got out a popular parlor game. It was -designed so that one person could play at it. The game itself was -simple; based on a combination of finance and mathematics the object -was to corner all the real estate on the board and "break the bank." -It provided an hour of amusement. After that he discovered he always -won; the board was <i>too</i> simple—he had memorized the exact sequence of -moves to win the game every time. The remaining game was a complicated -three-dimensional chess set. This he discarded even sooner. He couldn't -win at all.</p> - -<p>He fell back on a deck of cards and tried to play solitaire but the -cards were too slick and their weight wouldn't hold them down anymore. -He would manage to arrange them in neat rows and then accidentally jar -them and they would go skitting off through the cabin. He finally tore -the pack in two with disgust and spent the rest of the day picking up -the pieces from the various corners where he had thrown them.</p> - -<p>His nerves were fraying rapidly. He couldn't shave and he couldn't -shower. The air was dry—a little too dry—and he began to itch, a -vague, annoying sensation that shifted over his body.</p> - -<p>And the cabin smelled. The air purifiers worked to satisfaction as far -as the meters were concerned but the odor of unwashed humanity still -clung to the cabin. He had a hunch it would get worse as time went on.</p> - -<p>He no longer bothered to prepare full meals for himself. He was too -tired, he didn't want to go to the effort, he didn't feel hungry -anyways. He ended up by nibbling on cold meats and bread at idle -moments. With the change in diet, his face broke out in large, ugly -splotches that bothered him considerably. Among other things, the diet -he had been originally supplied with had been designed to avoid just -that. If he had kept on the original diet ... if he had the energy to -prepare a full meal ... if he didn't feel so damned sick ... if only -that had been taken into consideration!</p> - -<p>The steady, irritating ticking of the geiger counter worried him -constantly. He could never be sure that the ticking was entirely -innocent; he grew to have a superstitious dread of the rear bulkhead -that stood between the cabin and converters. He unconsciously avoided -it, keeping to the front of the cabin as much as possible.</p> - -<p>Little noises startled him. If an occasional drop of water happened to -collide with him in the cabin, it sent him into a raving fury—blood -pressure be damned. He even derived a certain grim amusement from it, -thinking of the times he had laughed at the typical picture of the -apoplectic businessman.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>On the eighth day, when making the check of the instrument panel, he -noticed that the panel on the board reading "Manual Control" was lit; -the one marked "Automatic" was out. In the middle of the board was the -face of an oscilloscope with two hair lines intersecting at the middle. -A small red dot, representing the rocket, should have been set exactly -at the intersection.</p> - -<p>It wasn't. It was at the bottom of the 'scope, almost off the face -altogether.</p> - -<p><i>To hell with all engineers</i>, he snarled to himself.</p> - -<p>He would have to jockey the dot back to the center before the automatic -controls would take over again. If he failed, the rocket would be -hopelessly off course, a tiny wanderer in space. The auxiliary chemical -rockets, allowing for two degree corrections in the line of flight, -would have to be used. They consisted of four sets at right angles to -each other around the hull. By jockeying between them, he should be -able to work the ship back.</p> - -<p>He pressed the key for firing the portside jets. The next moment he -felt himself hurled from his position and thrown against the left-hand -bulkhead. The cabin exploded into a pinwheel of stars that quickly -faded into blackness.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>His head hurt and something that felt very much like oozing blood -was sticking his eyelids together. He wrenched them open and rubbed -his head with his hands, then wiped the stickiness off on the pilot -suit. It <i>was</i> blood, flowing from a cut in his scalp. Judging from -the cabin, he had lost quite a bit. But the cut was of secondary -importance.</p> - -<p>He clawed his way back to the oscilloscope. The spot on the face had -moved way over to the other side of the scope. He braced himself into -position so that the sudden acceleration wouldn't affect him again. He -pressed the key very lightly again and waited for the dot to shift. -Sweat collected on his nose and stayed there. He shook his head and a -spatter of drops flew off.</p> - -<p>The dot on the scope shifted—too much. He felt weak. This was going -to be a precision job; the slightest pressure on the firing stud might -prove to be too much again. He'd have to jockey it back and forth -until, by sheer luck, he hit the center of the scope. He could do -it—but it would take time.</p> - -<p>Five hours later a worn out, nervous Whiteford left the control panel -and drifted wearily over to the hammock. He was dead tired—so tired he -couldn't sleep.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was the thirteenth day out.</p> - -<p>A floating drop of water brushed lightly past Whiteford. He batted at -it, swore, and began to cry; a peculiar sobbing that shook his whole -body. He blubbered for ten minutes.</p> - -<p>He was sick and hungry. The cut on his head begun to fester and his -whole head throbbed with pain. There was a first-aid kit in the cabin -but he felt too weak to get it. His beard itched and his body felt -slimy; sweat didn't drop off but stuck and spread over his skin until -it formed a thin coating.</p> - -<p><i>Just a poor little lamb who is lost in space, ha—ha—ha!</i></p> - -<p>The tune slipped into his mind and at the end he laughed with the -chorus. He couldn't stop laughing. It built up to a hysterical roar -that left him shaking silently in the hammock.</p> - -<p><i>Oh, Whiteford had a spaceship, its hull as white as snow; but every -time he pressed the stud, the ship refused to go!</i></p> - -<p>That was hilariously funny, too.</p> - -<p>He was sick, he was tired, he was dirty. He hadn't had enough energy or -ambition to fill in the log books for the last two days.</p> - -<p>Besides, who gave a damn?</p> - -<p>He was just the stupid jerk who piloted the thing. What did it matter -if he got killed in the attempt.</p> - -<p><i>My rocket started out for the star-speckled void, my rocket started -out in great haste; but the g's were far too many for me, and I stuck -to the bulkhead like paste!</i></p> - -<p>Burger and Maxwell had sent a rocket as far as the moon, hadn't they?</p> - -<p><i>He was sick—he didn't care whether he lived or died.</i></p> - -<p>He was a sucker. A dope. A sick dope who wished to hell it was all -over.</p> - -<p>The moon was close now. If he waited until he got just a little closer -and then pressed the portside firing stud, he could wreck their blessed -rocket. Serve Burger and Maxwell right. As for himself, he was so sick -of the whole thing that death would come as a relief.</p> - -<p>That's what he'd do....</p> - -<p><i>My bonny, my bonny, my bonny so true, do you think you will miss me if -I die in the blue?</i></p> - -<p>C day for Crack-up day! He put his thumb on the key and allowed himself -five extra seconds of gloating. The company would have a tough time -sending a wreath to his funeral. The company....</p> - -<p><i>Who in hell would run Personnel Incorporated if he failed to return?</i> -He nodded his head thoughtfully, faintly surprised that he hadn't -thought of it before.</p> - -<p>Who <i>would</i> run the company? He was the only one who knew how. He <i>was</i> -the company. He had practically raised it all by himself to where it -was now.</p> - -<p>He took his thumb off the key.</p> - -<p>And what would happen to the company's reputation if he failed to come -back? That meant that their slogan no longer held—that they hadn't -found the man for the job. And he hadn't kidded about the mottos. They -had been capable of finding a man to do any job—even this one. Not -just to go out on a job. To <i>do</i> a job.</p> - -<p>He had a sudden vision of Maxwell shouting gleefully: "I told you so! -Personnel can't supply the man!"</p> - -<p>Five minutes later he hardly remembered his desire to crash the ship. -He thought fleetingly of the movies showing the crack-up of the first -ship. Something pretty much the same as had happened to him must have -happened to the pilot on the first flight.</p> - -<p>He shuddered and kicked his way over to the first-aid kit.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The next day the ship began the long smooth curve that would carry it -around the moon and on the last leg of the journey. Whiteford went to -the panel board and pressed the key releasing the steel porthole caps. -He pressed the key again and when they still didn't move realized they -were stuck. It wouldn't be hard to find the trouble but....</p> - -<p>It wasn't worth the effort. He didn't give a damn whether he saw the -moon or not.</p> - -<p>He drifted back to the hammock and went into an almost coma state -staring dully at the overhead. He lay that way until time came for his -next round of readings.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Two thousand miles out from earth the ship started the first of a -dozen trips around the earth that would slow it down for a landing. -Five hundred miles up the ship entered the first tenuous wisps of -atmosphere. A hundred miles up, the air was screaming past the ship -and the hull begun to get warm. Ten miles up Whiteford jettisoned the -rocket tubes and engine over the Atlantic ocean. At the same time he -released the double duty nylon parachute attached to the cabin.</p> - -<p>Inside, Whiteford had begun to experience discomfort as his weight -returned. It was an effort to move around and his heart beat seemed -sluggish. His stomach sagged heavily and he thought wistfully of a -gentleman's girdle. Water bubbled merrily from the broken water pipes -and splashed unheeded on the deck.</p> - -<p>The cabin thudded on something soft and Whiteford crawled to the hatch -and opened it. The ship was floating on a large body of water. Waves -slapped cheerfully against the hull and overhead a few startled gulls -cawed angrily. A cool gust of fresh air blew in. Whiteford hauled -himself erect and stripped off the pilot suit. He stood nude in the -opening, inhaling the air in greedy gulps. It smelled as clean and cool -as the conditioned air in his office at Personnel Incorporated.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Ahoy, there!"</p> - -<p>There was a boat a few feet from the hatch.</p> - -<p>"Coming aboard!" They drifted closer and one of the men in the boat -grabbed the ladder by the hatchway. Five men and a woman tumbled aboard.</p> - -<p>"The Coast Guard at your...."</p> - -<p>"I'm from the Daily Newsworld, Mr. Whiteford. I wonder...."</p> - -<p>"What was it like in space...."</p> - -<p>"You must have been simply <i>thrillllled</i>...."</p> - -<p>Burger's bald head pushed itself forward. "How did the moon look to -you, Mr. Whiteford?"</p> - -<p>Whiteford had to think a little. "Come to think of it, I never saw it."</p> - -<p>There was a dead silence.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's all on the films the automatic cameras shot. I wasn't too -much interested myself."</p> - -<p>The reporters frowned in disappointment but tried again.</p> - -<p>"What do you intend to do now that you're back? Do the town, go on a -fishing trip...."</p> - -<p>Whiteford looked at them as if they had crawled out from under a rock. -"Nonsense!" he snarled. "I'll get back to my office, of course!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Maxwell looked at the president of Personnel approvingly. "I honestly -didn't think you could do it, once I heard that you had gone." He -paused and fumbled with his pipe. "Pretty tough, wasn't it?"</p> - -<p>Whiteford knocked the ash off his cigarette and reached for the bottle -of pills on his desk. "I wouldn't say so," he said expansively. "Just a -matter of being fitted for the job."</p> - -<p>Maxwell inspected his fingernails. "You didn't take the examinations -your own outfit rigged up. Any particular reason?"</p> - -<p>Whiteford looked annoyed. "I was technically qualified—engineering -course in college. As for the rest, I successfully piloted the ship -which should establish something on that score."</p> - -<p>Maxwell twirled his hat self-consciously. A half smile played on his -lips. "Oh, sure. Absolutely." He tamped his pipe. "You know, it's hard -to visualize anybody wanting to go to the moon. It must be—well, some -terrific drive that makes them do it."</p> - -<p>Whiteford stared at him suspiciously. "What are you getting at?"</p> - -<p>Maxwell looked innocent and gave an exaggerated shrug. "Why, nothing! -Nothing at all. It's just that it seems ... seems so unusual that you -couldn't find a qualified man, a completely <i>normal</i> man who wanted to -go!"</p> - -<p>The temperature in the room dropped thirty degrees. "Implying," -Whiteford said icily, "that I'm not quite sane?"</p> - -<p>Maxwell stood up and chuckled. "Exactly. Hasn't it occurred to you that -the qualifications you set up for a pilot were all wrong? When has a -<i>completely</i> normal man ever succeeded at <i>anything</i> that was a little -difficult? Why did you succeed? Because you're just a shade neurotic, -because you've got a streak of monomania in you. It's what built -up Personnel Incorporated. It's what got you to the moon and back. -Hell, Whiteford, after this when we want pilots we'll just run your -characteristics on the sorter and pick them out that way!"</p> - -<p>Whiteford glared at him and for a moment Maxwell felt sorry. He had -pushed a big man off a pedestal; he had punctured an ego.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Whiteford grinned self-consciously. "Maybe you've got a point -there. I never thought of it that way."</p> - -<p>Maxwell started for the door and paused, his hand on the knob. The look -he gave Whiteford was one of sudden admiration.</p> - -<p>"There's something else, too. Something that it takes to send a man to -the moon and back and something you can't measure on an IBM machine." -He paused. "It takes courage. 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