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."