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.