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?"