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."