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."