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.