From somewhere came the clatter of a facsimile-printer, carrying the day's message from GHQ. A boy whistled above the squawk of a superwave radio. But otherwise the place seemed deserted at that early-morning hour. For lack of anything better to do, Ollie filled out the application, leaving the job title blank. The only thing that gave him pause, aside from the difficulty of seeing, was his arrest record, and in time he decided to put it down just as it was, including the pending assault charge with its implication of jumped bail. After an hour a young captain entered the building and went to the office marked Adjutant. A fat major gave Ollie a piercing glance and then entered the Civilian Personnel office. At about five minutes of eight the place suddenly boiled with military and civilian people of all ages and both sexes. Things quieted promptly at eight. A blond youth came out of the office, glanced at Ollie's application form, kept it, and invited him inside. "First thing for you," he said, "will be a physical exam." He took Ollie to another room and turned him over to a young medic who put him in a box like a steam cabinet, attached electrodes to his temples, wrists, ankles, and chest, and put a helmet on his head. For five minutes Ollie stood encased, his stomach fluttering as he recalled the grocer's warning. He waited for the vivisection to begin. It didn't. He was removed from his shell and handed an inked graph. "Here's your profile," the medic said. "It's good, considering. Take it back to the fellow who brought you here." He did and was ushered into a glassed-in office containing two desks, each labelled Civilian Personnel Officer. At one sat the fat major. At the other, a tallish young civilian held Ollie's application. "My name is Katt," the civilian said, getting up to shake hands. "This is Major Brownwight." The major also shook his hand. Katt placed a straightbacked chair between the two desks, and invited Ollie to sit in it. Ollie did, gazing uncertainly from one man to the other. "We heard you arrived by train early this morning," Katt said. "Yes, sir." "You were first reported in Sparks, but I'll bet you boarded that train in San Francisco." "Yes, sir. What's the penalty?" "None. I like it. It's enterprising, athletic, and even brave for a man of your years to do that for a job. Shows resourcefulness. Also skill, because men are trying to nip rides here from all over the United States, but very few arrive." "They're too old," said Major Brownwight. He turned to Katt and added, "I still don't think it's an old man's job!" "Well sir," said Katt, stifling a sigh, "your predecessor understood and approved of it. These old-timers have a lower metabolic rate than younger people, with all that that implies. They don't mind the enforced inactivity, they won't use up so much oxygen nor need so much food, they won't spend so many hours in sleep. All qualities we need."