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."