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!"