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."