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A Gene Revolution

Module 8.2 Sustainable Agriculture: Raising Crops

Farming Like an Ecosystem

Online Module 8.3 Sustainable Agriculture: Raising Livestock

Can a Sustainable Diet Include Meat?

Online Module 8.4 Fisheries and Aquaculture

Fish in a Warehouse?

Chapter 9 Conventional Energy: Fossil Fuels

Module 9.1 Coal
Bringing Down the Mountain

Module 9.2 Oil and Natural Gas

The Bakken Oil Boom

Chapter 10 Air Quality and Climate Change

Module 10.1 Air Pollution
The Youngest Scientists

Module 10.2 Climate Change

Climate Refugees

Chapter 11 Alternatives to Fossil Fuels

Module 11.1 Nuclear Power
The Future of Fukushima

Module 11.2 Sustainable Energy: Stationary Sources

Fueled by the Sun

Online Module 11.3 Sustainable Energy: Mobile Sources

Gas from Grass

Appendix 1 Basic Math Skills

Appendix 2 Data Handling and Graphing Skills
Appendix 3 Statistical Analysis
Appendix 4 Geology

Appendix 5 Selected Answers to End-of-Chapter Problems

Glossary
Credits/Sources
Index
DETAILED CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Introduction to Environmental, Science, and Information Literacy

Module 1.1 Environmental Literacy and Sustainability

Lessons from a Vanished Society
What can we learn about sustainability from a vanished Viking society?

1. Environmental Science
2. Empirical and Applied Science
3. Environmental Issues as “Wicked Problems”
4. Sustainable Development
5. Human Impact and the Anthropocene
6. The Characteristics of a Sustainable Ecosystem
7. Nature as a Model for Sustainable Actions
8. Challenges to Solving Environmental Problems
9. Worldviews and Environmental Ethics

Module 1.2 Science Literacy and the Process of Science

Fungal Attacker Threatens Bats
Unraveling the mystery behind bat deaths

1. The Nature of Science and the Scientific Method

2. Certainty in Science: From Hypothesis to Theory
3. Comparative Studies
4. Observational and Experimental Studies
5. Correlation Versus Causation
6. Using Science to Address Environmental Problems

Module 1.3 Information Literacy and Toxicology

Lead in the Water
A water crisis in Flint, Michigan

1. Toxic Substances in the Environment

2. Factors that Affect Toxicity: Chemical Characteristics
3. Factors That Affect Toxicity: Exposure, Victim Traits, andChemical Interactions
4. Studying Toxic Substances
5. Regulating Toxic Substances
6. Information Literacy: Evaluating Information Sources
7. Information Literacy: Critical Thinking and Logical Fallacies

Chapter 2 Ecology

Module 2.1 Ecosystems and Nutrient Cycling

Engineering Earth
An ambitious attempt to replicate Earth’s life support systems falls short

1. The Ecological Hierarchy: From Biosphere to Individual

2. Energy and Matter in Ecosystems
3. Biomes
4. Range of Tolerance and Its Impact on Species Distribution
5. Matter Cycles and Sinks
6. The Carbon Cycle
7. The Nitrogen Cycle
8. The Phosphorus Cycle

Module 2.2 Population Ecology

Gray Wolves Return to Yellowstone
Endangered gray wolves return to the American West

1. Population Dynamics
2. Population Distributions
3. Population Size and Density
4. Exponential Population Growth
5. Logistic Population Growth
6. Density-Dependent and Density-Independent Growth Factors
7. Life-History Strategies: r– and K–Species
8. Top-Down and Bottom-Up Regulation

Module 2.3 Community Ecology

The Florida Everglades: A Community in Crisis
A bird species in the Everglades reveals the intricacies of a threatened ecosystem

1. Community Ecology
2. The Food Web
3. The Trophic Pyramid
4. Species Diversity
5. Habitat Structure: Edge and Core Regions
6. Keystone Species
7. Species Interactions
8. Restoration Ecology
9. Ecological Succession

Chapter 3 Evolution and Biodiversity

Module 3.1 Evolution and Extinction
A Tropical Murder Mystery
Finding the missing birds of Guam

1. Natural Selection as a Mechanism for Evolution

2. Genetic Diversity and Natural Selection
3. Coevolution
4. Random Events and Evolution
5. The Pace of Evolution and Extinction
6. Mass Extinctions: Past and Present
7. Artificial Selection

Module 3.2 Biodiversity

Palm Oil Plantations Threaten Tropical Forests
Can we have tropical forests and our palm oil too?

1. Biodiversity: The Variety of Life

2. The Value of Biodiversity
3. Types of Biodiversity: Genetic, Species, and Ecological
4. Biodiversity Hotspots
5. Isolation and Extinction Risk
6. Threats to Biodiversity
7. Protecting Biodiversity

Online Module 3.3 Preserving Biodiversity

A Forest without Elephants
Can we save one of Earth’s iconic species?

1. The Causes and Consequences of Biodiversity Loss

2. Conservation Status: IUCN Designation
3. Single-Species Conservation Programs
4. Ecosystem-Based Conservation Programs
5. Conservation Genetics
6. Legal Protections
7. Protected Areas
8. Community and Consumer Contributions to Conservation

Chapter 4 Human Populations and Environmental Health

Module 4.1 Human Population

The Kerala Model
India’s path to population control

1. Human Population: Past, Present, and Future

2. Human Population: Size and Distribution
3. Factors That Affect Population Growth
4. Age Structure and Population Momentum
5. Addressing Population Growth: The Demographic Transition
6. Addressing Population Growth: Social Justice
7. How Many People Can Earth Support?

Module 4.2 Urbanization and Sustainable Communities

Creating Green Cities
Building a better backyard in the Bronx

1. Global Urbanization Patterns

2. The Trade-Offs of Urban Living
3. Environmental Justice Issues
4. Suburban Sprawl
5. The Value of Green Space
6. Green Cities
7. Smart Growth as a Way Forward
8. Green Building

Module 4.3 Environmental Health

Eradicating a Parasitic Nightmare
Human health is intricately linked to the environment

1. Environmental Hazards
2. Environmentally Mediated Infectious Diseases
3. Public Health Programs
4. Reducing the Spread of Infectious Disease
5. Health Issues in Developed Versus Less Developed Nations
6. Global Environmental Health
7. Zoonotic and Emerging Infectious Diseases
8. Addressing Environmentally Mediated Health Problems

Chapter 5 Managing Resources: Environmental Economics and Policy

Module 5.1 Ecological Economics and Consumption

Wall to Wall, Cradle to Cradle
A leading carpet company takes a chance on going green

1. Economics and the Environment

2. Measuring Our Impact: The Ecological Footprint
3. Natural Resources as Capital and Interest
4. Factors that Affect Our Ecological Footprint: The Ipat Equation
5. True Cost Accounting
6. Environmental Economics Versus Mainstream Economics
7. Sustainable Practices: The Role of Business
8. Sustainable Practices: The Role of the Consumer

Module 5.2 Environmental Policy

The World Tackles Ozone Depletion
Dealing with ozone depletion taught nations how to address global environmental
issues

1. The Issue: Stratospheric Ozone Depletion

2. Environmental Policy: Purpose and Scope
3. Environmental Policy in the United States
4. The Policy Cycle: Development and Administration of Policies
5. Factors that Influence Policy Formulation
6. Implementation and Enforcement of Policies
7. International Environmental Policy
8. Responding to Ozone Depletion: The Montréal Protocol

Module 5.3 Managing Solid Waste

A Plastic Surf
Are the oceans teeming with trash?

1. Waste: A Human Invention

2. Municipal Solid Waste
3. Disposal Methods: What We Should Do—What We Actually Do
4. Sanitary Landfills
5. Waste Incinerators
6. Impacts of Solid Waste
7. Household Hazardous Waste
8. Reducing Solid Waste: Composting
9. Reducing Solid Waste: Consumers and the 4 Rs

Chapter 6 Water Resources

Module 6.1 Freshwater Resources

Toilet to Tap
A California county is tapping controversial sources for drinking water

1. Freshwater Distribution and Sources

2. The Water Cycle
3. Groundwater
4. Global Water Use
5. Water Scarcity: Causes and Consequences
6. Wastewater Treatment
7. Addressing Water Shortages with Technology
8. Addressing Water Shortages with Conservation

Module 6.2 Water Pollution

Suffocating the Gulf
Researchers try to pin down the cause of hypoxia in the Gulf of Mexico

1. Water Pollution: Types and Causes

2. Eutrophication
3. The Watershed Concept
4. Assessing Water Quality
5. Legal Protection: The Clean Water Act
6. Addressing Nonpoint Source Pollution
7. Reducing Agricultural Runoff Pollution
8. Reducing Urban and Suburban Stormwater Runoff
9. Holistic Strategies to Protect and Restore Aquatic Habitats

Online Module 6.3 Marine Ecosystems

Ocean Acidification: The “Other” CO2 Problem
Aquanauts explore an ecosystem on the brink

1. Ocean Acidification
2. The Chemistry and Effects of Ocean Acidification
3. The Ecology of Marine Ecosystems
4. Coral Reef Communities
5. Coral Biology and Bleaching
6. Other Threats to Ocean Ecosystems
7. Reducing the Threats

Chapter 7 Land Resources

Module 7.1 Forest Resources

Returning Trees to Haiti
Repairing a forest ecosystem one tree at a time

1. Forest Biomes
2. Forest Structure
3. Ecosystem Services of Forests
4. Threats to Forests
5. Timber Harvesting: Sustainable Options
6. Sustainable Forest Management

Online Module 7.2 Grassland and Soil Resources

Restoring the Range
The key to recovering the world’s grasslands may be a surprising one

1. Grasslands of the World

2. The Ecosystem Services of Grasslands
3. Desertification
4. The Importance of Soil
5. Lessons from Nature: Wild Versus Domestic Grazers
6. Undergrazing Also Damages Grasslands
7. Sustainable Grazing
8. Protecting Grasslands

Online Module 7.3 Mineral Resources

No Stone Unturned
We depend on a bevy of common and unfamiliar minerals—but acquiring them can
create environmental or societal problems

1. Mineral Resources
2. Geology: Earth’s Layers and Plate Tectonics
3. The Rock Cycle
4. Mining of Mineral Resources
5. Processing of Mineral Resources
6. Environmental Impacts of Acquiring Mineral Resources
7. Social Impacts of Acquiring Mineral Resources
8. Recycling Mineral Resources
9. Reducing Impact: Industry and Consumer Options

Chapter 8 Food Resources

Module 8.1 Feeding the World
A Gene Revolution
Can genetically engineered food and industrial agriculture help end hunger?

1. World Hunger
2. Malnutrition
3. The Green Revolution
4. Industrial Agriculture
5. Meeting Food Needs Locally: Food Self-Sufficiency and Sovereignty
6. The Gene Revolution: Genetically Engineered Crops
7. The Trade-Offs of Genetically Engineered Foods
8. Low-Tech Alternatives to Increase Crop Production

Module 8.2 Sustainable Agriculture: Raising Crops

Farming Like an Ecosystem
Learning to farm from nature

1. Sustainable Agriculture
2. Fertilizer Use in Industrial Agriculture
3. Pesticide Use in Industrial Agriculture
4. Agroecology
5. Managing Pests
6. Traditional Farming Methods
7. The Role of Consumers
8. Can Sustainable Agriculture Feed the World?
Online Module 8.3 Sustainable Agriculture: Raising Livestock
Can a Sustainable Diet Include Meat?
Evaluating the trade-offs of meat

1. Environmental Concerns of Meat Production

2. Meat Consumption and Affluence
3. Converting Feed and Water into Meat and Dairy
4. Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations
5. Reducing the Environmental Impact of Livestock
6. Agricultural Policies
7. Consumer Choices

Online Module 8.4 Fisheries and Aquaculture

Fish in a Warehouse?
How one Baltimore fish scientist could change the way we eat

1. Modern Industrial Fishing

2. Industrial Fishing and the Tragedy of the Commons
3. Fishing Disrupts Ocean Food Chains
4. Current Status of Global Fisheries
5. Protections for Fisheries
6. Aquaculture: Traditional Outdoor Methods
7. Indoor Aquaculture: Recirculating Aquaculture Systems

Chapter 9 Conventional Energy: Fossil Fuels

Module 9.1 Coal

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wanted: One
Sane Man
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Wanted: One Sane Man

Author: Frank M. Robinson

Illustrator: W. E. Terry

Release date: October 26, 2021 [eBook #66612]

Language: English

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WANTED: ONE

SANE MAN ***
WANTED: One Sane Man
 By Frank M. Robinson

Personnel Incorporated bragged that they

could supply a man for any job. Maxwell doubted
this, needing a space pilot for the first Lunar
trip. Now, if he had just asked for a lunatic....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
June 1955
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The small man adjusted his bi-focals and stared critically at the huge
brass nameplate over the glass entrance doors. The plate read
"Personnel Incorporated" in neat, modest lettering. Directly above
the plate was a traveling neon sign which informed the public in
letters six feet tall that:
PERSONNEL CAN SUPPLY THE MAN FOR ANY JOB!—SEVENTY-FIVE
PER CENT OF THE PERSONNEL PROBLEMS ON THE AMERICAN
CONTINENT ARE HANDLED BY PERSONNEL—DOES YOUR JOB SEEM
BORING LATELY? SEE PERSONNEL AND BE PSYCHOLOGICALLY
FITTED FOR YOUR WORK!—PERSONNEL CAN SUPPLY THE MAN FOR
ANY JOB!—SEVENTY-FIVE PER CENT OF THE....
The small man looked at it for a minute and turned to his tall
companion.
"Tell me, Maxwell, why the seventy-five? Why not eighty or eighty-
three?"
Maxwell glanced up at the sign. "If they do seventy-six per cent or
more of the business, they're a monopoly. It must pain Whiteford to
have to hold himself down to only seventy-five."
"Whiteford?"
Maxwell looked surprised. "You haven't heard of him? The newest
boy wonder in the business world? He's the genius who runs this
modern slave market." He looked at his watch. "And, incidentally,
he's also the guy we've got an appointment with in five minutes."
They joined the crowds streaming up the wide, granite steps and
found themselves in the large entrance lobby, directly opposite the
battery of ascending elevators.
The small man approached the starter. "—ah—pardon me, but would
you tell us what floor Personnel Incorporated is on?"
The starter looked shocked. "Poisonnel ain't just on one floor, Mister,
it's the whole building. Who'dja wanna see?"
"We wanted to—well, that is—whoever's in...."
The starter brushed him aside. "Step outta the way of the
passengers, Mister. Be with ya in a second.... Okay, lady, maid
soivice and domestics is on the thoity-foist floor. Don't shove in the
elevator, please! Next elevator, please!"
He turned back to the small man.
"We got administration on the foist floor. Second floor, automotive
and transportation. Assemblers, welders, painters, cushion
upholsterers, sprayers, mock-up men, testers and greasers. Thoid
floor, electrical. Solderers, cabinet workers, wirers, draftsmen, coil-
winders, and design expoits. Next floor, entertainers. Everything
from acrobats to zither players and concert ottists. Fifth...."
"We want to see Whiteford," Maxwell cut in impatiently.
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."
He took time out to gulp some pills from a bottle and wash them
down with water from a desk side tap. "Just a quick lunch," he
apologized. His voice was brisk. "What can I do for you?"
The small man gestured to himself and his companion. "I'm George
Burger, director of the experimental division at Atlantic Motors. And
this is Frank Maxwell; he's with the government. We have something
important we'd like to discuss...."
"Be glad to,"—Whiteford looked at his watch—"for about four
minutes. I have an engagement at eleven. As you were saying,
Mister Bircher?"
The small man winced. "Burger. We need...."
A secretary came in on the run.
"Call for you from London, Mr. Whiteford! About dredging the
Thames...."
"... a man...."
"I'll take it out there in a moment. Miss Hancock."
"... to pilot...."
The phone rang.
"... a rocket...."
"IBM? Call me back in half an hour."
"... to the...."
Whiteford flipped the intercom switch.
"Tell the man from General Motors we'll be able to supply the gear
specialists, Miss Hancock."
"... moon."
Whiteford glanced at his watch again and frowned.
"Really, Burger, I'm a very busy man. You'll have to cut it short."
Maxwell shouldered past Burger and leaned possessively on
Whiteford's desk, his jaw an inch from Whiteford's own.
"It so happens that what concerns Atlantic Motors vitally concerns
the government, Whiteford! We'd appreciate it if you could stretch
that generosity of yours and give us five minutes of your undivided
attention. After all, we did have an appointment!"

Whiteford turned off the intercom and leaned back in his swivel
chair, his fingers tapping nervously on the chair arm.
"Sorry Maxwell, but keeping the organization running keeps me on
the hump."
"Like it kept the slavers of the eighteenth century on the hump,"
Maxwell growled.
Whiteford's eyebrows shot up.
"Personnel Incorporated was founded on one of the most obvious
needs of our civilization, Maxwell! With the expansion of production
after the first atomic war, the demand for personnel, and increasing
labor-management difficulties, it was obvious that dozens of little
employment agencies and company employment divisions were only
hampering manufacturing facilities. A single, centralized bureau was
needed. Personnel Incorporated filled that need. From myself on
down, everybody who's been handled by Personnel has been
psychologically tested for their job—which means strikes and
walkouts have been cut to a minimum.
"Modern civilization would be impossible without Personnel, Maxwell!
But that's water over the dam." He nodded to Burger. "You have a
personnel problem?"
"That's why I came here," Burger said testily. "As you may know, Mr.
Whiteford, Atlantic Motors has constructed a rocket to make the first
flight to the moon. We need a pilot for that rocket."
Whiteford looked bored. "All the Sunday supplements have carried
articles about the A-M rocket. As for the pilot, there are thousands of
men in this country alone who are probably qualified for the job. To
find one would be routine, I should think."
"It's somewhat more complicated than picking a pilot out of a hat,
Mr. Whiteford. Not just any pilot will do. There are, of course, certain
technical qualifications but there are more important ones than that.
Our man would have to be perfect mentally—no nervousness,
neurosis, streaks of instability or anything of the sort. We could
hardly trust 75,000,000 dollars worth of rocket to a man who wasn't
sound physically and mentally."
"I take it you couldn't find any?"
Burger shook his head.
"Where does the government come in?"
"The government is naturally interested in rockets," Maxwell said.
"It's rumored the Russians aren't far behind us. At any rate, without
a pilot, the rocket is useless."
"And the government has been unsuccessful, too?"
Maxwell hesitated. "As a matter of fact we found a pilot—at least we
thought we had. He piloted the first rocket that was sent—one flight
has been attempted before. From what little evidence we can gather,
it appears he deliberately crashed the rocket on the moon."
"Why?"
Maxwell shrugged. "Off his trolley, I suppose. That's reason number
one for our qualifications being so high."
"I frankly don't think you can find one," Burger added nastily.
"Atlantic Motors has tried for months with no success."
"Personnel Incorporated is not Atlantic Motors, Burger," Whiteford
said sarcastically. "We've never failed! Never failed!" He repeated it
like a liturgy. "We don't intend to fail now. Come back in a week and
we'll have your man."
"Just like the Royal Canadian Mounted," Maxwell muttered.
When they had gone, Whiteford flipped the switch of the intercom.
"Miss Hancock? Cancel my appointment with the directors of AT&T.
Call in the company psychologists to prepare a personnel test.
Contact Haskins at our London office and Schubert in Paris and tell
them we intend to launch a campaign for rocket pilots immediately.
Examination papers for applicants will be forwarded at once. Notify
our other branch offices to the same effect. All on the QT, you
understand. And Miss Hancock—have the psychologists test our
advertising for confidence appeal. A representative of Atlantic Motors
just implied we couldn't supply them with help!"

"Those cards represent exactly 250,342 applicants," Whiteford said

proudly, gesturing to stacks of tabulating cards by the sorting
machine. Burger looked mildly surprised. "All of them qualified to be
the pilot?"
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.
"Well, what do you suppose came over him?" Burger gasped.
"I suspect that God has finally found a stone he couldn't lift,"
Maxwell murmured.

Whiteford kneaded his knuckles and stared morosely out the

window. From time to time his hand strayed to the intercom and
then he'd snap it back.
He'd been sitting that way for two hours. For two hours the gigantic
cogs of Personnel Incorporated had been stopped by a grain of
sand. Or at least, so it seemed.
Suddenly his hand lashed out and he flipped the intercom switch.
"Would you please come here a minute, Miss Hancock?"
"Y-yes, Mr. Whiteford?"
"Do you think you could run Personnel Incorporated while I'm
away?"
"Well—I don't—I hardly think I'm capable...."
"You're not," Whiteford said drily. "But you're more capable than
anyone else that's here. You'll assume my duties until I return."
He paused at the door.
"In case anyone asks, I'll be gone for a month."
Burger wrung his hands nervously. "Only a half hour until take-off
time, Mr. Whiteford. I think we've thought of everything. You realize
that your position on the rocket, actually, is only the safety factor of
the rocket itself. And, of course, an observer is preferable. First hand
accounts of human reactions on board the rocket will be invaluable.
You've been drilled for two weeks in your duties on board, the listing
of meter readings in the log book, a careful diary of your own
physiological reactions, etc. And naturally, what to do in case of an
emergency. Of course, the chances are several million to one of
anything actually going wrong with the rocket.
"Oh yes, the pictures of the first rocket flight. The film actually
doesn't show much but it might be of interest."
Whiteford followed him to the small projection room.
"The camera was tracked by radar," Burger exclaimed. "We can
follow the rocket all the way. I'll speed up the action a little." The
pin-point of light on the screen leaped ahead and in a few moments
the pock-marked face of the moon came into view. Burger slowed
the action down to normal. The tiny tad-pole of light swam closer to
the moon. Suddenly it swerved and in a moment there was a tiny
burst of light on one of the craters and the screen went blank.
"The crash, eh?"
Burger nodded. "You can still back out, you know. You can up until
the moment you step inside the rocket."
"Don't be silly!" Whiteford snorted.
They went out to the landing field.
"Incidentally, Mr. Whiteford, you'll find a small cabinet on board with
various books, puzzles, and what-not for your leisure hours. They've
been scientifically selected for your type of personality." Burger
smiled faintly. "In fact, you'll discover that the pilot has been
provided for very well, considering weight limitations and all.
Practically every possible occurrence has been provided for. I'm sure
you'll experience no difficulty on the flight."
Whiteford nodded absently. "Just be sure and tell Maxwell that
Personnel Incorporated can always supply the man! Always!"

Inside the cabin, Whiteford methodically went through the take-off

preparations he had practiced during the previous two weeks. He
gave the chronometer, synchronized to start with the take-off, a
quick inspection and turned to the meters on the instrument panel.
He quickly went over the small control board that would permit him
to make deviations and corrections in the ship's course of as much
as five degrees and checked the geiger counter apparatus which
emitted a faint burp as a stray cosmic ray hit it. The Counter was
designed to warn against stray radiation from the engines (but the
chances were ten million to one that there would be any, Burger had
said). He flicked through the pages of the ship's log and idly noted
the entry pages for meter readings and observations.
Against the rear bulkhead of the small cabin was a hammock-like
affair, suspended by coil springs. He punched the hammock casually.
It would serve to cushion the effects of acceleration at the take-off
and as a bunk for the pilot the rest of the trip. Near it and almost a
part of the deck was a food locker. There was a small spigot at the
top that served as a water tap for the tank below.
Around the top of the cabin there was a series of small ports of
steel-strong plastic, permitting an outside view. The ports were
currently closed with steel over-lap caps.
He looked down at his watch. Two minutes until take-off. He
strapped himself in the hammock and bounced once or twice to test
the springs. They hardly gave at all under his efforts; they were
designed to give way under the acceleration of 8 or 9 g's. The
hammock and the skin tight pilot suit were supposed to keep him
together under the crushing weight of acceleration, at which time
he'd be like jelly in a mould.
A light sweat sprung out on his forehead. If something went wrong
with the apparatus, they could scrape him off the rear bulkhead like
a pancake off a hot griddle. He hadn't thought of that before. Not
only that but how about radiation from the engines? Shielded, of
course, but even the best engineers could sometimes.... Good God,
how did he ever get....
There was a sudden surge of the ship and the springs holding the
hammock stretched as easy as a dime store rubber-band. He felt his
weight double and treble. His breath came in tight little gasps as if a
sorting machine had been dumped on his chest. The weight kept
increasing and the cabin started to spin. Little black dots danced
around the edges of his area of vision and gradually covered it. He
felt he was smothering in a dark, black pit....
Maxwell's face flashed at him out of the darkness. "Always supply
the man, eh?" it sneered. Hands appeared before the face and
dropped application cards until they fluttered in front of it like snow.
The snow cleared and he could see prim Miss Hancock coming
toward him, a suddenly alluring Miss Hancock sans glasses and most
everything else. He had a faint impression of being shocked. The
image faded and he saw himself being chased down the boulevard
by a group of animated tabulating machines. He made it to the
Personnel building and made a dash for the elevator. Instead of
going up, the elevator went down, faster, faster.... He felt the bottom
of the elevator drop away from under him and he floated in the air,
vainly kicking at the walls....
Whiteford opened his eyes slowly. The hammock quivered a little on
the springs but they were no longer stretched. The chronometer
read five minutes since take-off.

He unstrapped and tried to get out of the hammock. An instant later

he found himself floating at about the same level as the hammock,
not touching the deck. A fragment of a dream about an elevator
touched his mind and it suddenly occurred to him that he was falling
—falling faster than he had fallen before. He closed his eyes, which
promptly made it worse. He was falling—falling hundreds of miles to
earth. An image formed in his mind of the ship entering the
atmosphere, the screaming of the tortured air, the heating of the
metallic shell from friction until it glowed a cherry red, roasting its
occupant to a blackened cinder.
He screamed and the sound of his own voice brought him back to
sanity. The sensation of falling was what he should expect from
weightlessness. It was like being in the elevator he had imagined
that kept going faster and faster until it fell away from beneath him.
He kept his mind on the concept with an effort.
He managed to control his imagination but his nervous system kept
sending the impulses which screamed that he was falling. He
clutched at the hammock in a sudden wave of nausea. The feeling
didn't leave him and he closed his eyes and vomited. It was
amazingly easy to do—in free flight gravity no longer helped in
holding down his meal.
He was in the middle of an agonizing attack of what any sailor would
recognize as the "dry heaves" before he managed to gain control of
his knotted stomach muscles.
The hammock served as a point of orientation and he dragged
himself on to it and buried his face in the canvas. He tried not to feel
anything or hear anything or think anything. He had lain like that for
a long time when he felt something brush his face.
He opened his eyes and saw a few little spheroids of matter floating
in the cabin. He batted idly at one with a free hand and it
immediately broke up into smaller spheroids which drifted apart from
each other.
He groaned. It had been a mistake to vomit. Whether he liked it or
not, his next duty would have to be to gather up all the spheroids
and stuff them into the disposal chute. He found a rubberized bag in
the medicine kit and went after the spheroids much in the same way
a little boy catches butterflies.
When he had finished the unpleasant task of collecting the
spheroids, he glanced over at the chronometer. It read some fifty
minutes since the beginning of the trip. Time to begin his tour of
duty. He took the log book and made his round of the meters and
jotted down their readings. Under Personal Reactions he jotted down
sick; steady and unremitting feeling of nausea.
Ten minutes later he had accomplished his duties for the next eight-
hour period. That left only—well, fourteen days going, same time
returning. He had left only twenty-seven days and twenty-three
hours before he'd see earth again.
Twenty-seven days and twenty-three hours of sheer hell.
Things—unpleasant things—seemed to pile up on him. He had
suffered from migraine headaches before—but nothing like he did
now. It was easier for his heart to pump blood to his head, and the
minute enlargement of the blood vessels in his head caused splitting
pains to shoot through it. He had noticed the headaches shortly
after he had attempted to look through one of the ports. Not that
they weren't there before—he had been too busy vomiting to take
note of them. The ports were a fiasco in themselves. The practically
solid beams of light coming through had blinded him temporarily,
even when he wore sun-glasses; enough to show him that sight-
seeing and human observation were out of the question.
And mixed in with all of these were the difficulties of getting around
the small compartment. He could kick himself around, inasmuch as
he was weightless in free flight, but the piping and equipment in the
compartment turned it into a hazardous obstacle course. He nearly
broke his arm, once, trying to stop from running into a bulkhead.
And there were other things. Embarrassing things. Or, considering he
was alone in the compartment, just mildly annoying things.
After trying to look through the ports, he pushed back to the
hammock and lay down. He could just as easily have rested floating
in the air but the hammock was a great mental aid. He tried to keep
his mind blank but snatches of thought kept running through it.
Today was Friday on earth. About time for the evening meal. Fried
perch and scalloped potatoes....
He groaned again. Nowhere on the examinations they had made out
for the applicants was there a question asking if the prospect was
susceptible to space-sickness.

Whiteford lay on the hammock and thought about what it had been
like on earth a few hours before. It would be near quitting time and
the five o'clock rush just beginning. Most people would be going
home to a hearty dinner—he skipped that—and then a quiet evening
with the television, or perhaps a ringside table at any of the local
night spots where he used to entertain clients. There would be the
many little tables with the clean, white tablecloths and the neat
arrangement of polished silver, the glasses filled to the brim with
sparkling clear water....
He rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. It felt like fur.
Sparkling clear water might be just what he needed. A few sips of
ice water and a cold, wet-rag on his face would work wonders. Clear,
cool, gushing, water....
He had to have water! He rolled out of the hammock and dove for
the water tap. A split second later he remembered his first accident
and twisted frantically in the air, trying to slow his momentum. He
grabbed for some pipes that threaded through the cabin, missed,
and hit the water tap butt first: the plastic panels at the front
splintered and broke and the tiny aluminum tubing, scientifically
designed to deliver water under conditions of free flight bent and
crumpled.
Whiteford felt wet. He turned and grimly surveyed the demolished
water tap. A few drops of water floated lazily, tantalizingly in the air.
He had to have water! A kit near the food locker yielded some
cooking utensils and an old-fashioned can-opener, one end of which
might serve as a crude lever. He had to wedge himself between the
tap and the bulkhead to get leverage to pry with; otherwise, a
hearty twist only resulted in his body turning a slow circle in the air.
The tubes didn't straighten very easily. Finally, the can-opener broke;
a loss that didn't become immediately apparent. He grabbed the
pipes with his hands and heaved outward. They bent. He heaved
again and they bent still more. On the third heave he felt a slight
pain in his side. He was exerting quite a bit of effort—effort which on
earth would have made him sweat and his heart pump faster. He
was sweating now but his heart wasn't only pumping faster, it was
racing.

He grasped the pipes harder for a final effort. With a brittle snap,
one of the connections burst and a few drops of water sprayed out
at him. He didn't notice. He was holding his sides in pain while his
heart took off like a race horse. The veins in his wrist swelled to the
size of lead pencils and he could feel the throbbing pulse of blood.
He floated stiffly in the air, half paralyzed by sudden fear.
When the pumping had slowed down he turned his attention back to
the battered pipes. He straightened one of them out—being careful
not to over-exert himself—and used it to suck the water through.
The water was clear and cold but tasted a little of metal. It refreshed
him and he began to think of something to go with it. Whether he
felt like eating or not, it was obviously going to be necessary.
It wasn't—too bad—so far. He could take the headaches and the
nausea if he had to. There were—other things, though. Fear of what
might happen. Meteorites, for one thing. Chances of his ship
colliding with a speck of dust were ten million to one against it. But
still....
He went to the food locker and broke out a small electric hot-plate, a
skillet, and a dozen eggs. The skillet was a little flatter than an
ordinary one with a hinged cover to keep the contents in.
It wasn't pleasant to think about.... The ship a drifting derelict,
riddled and airless, with his body frozen as hard as stone floating on
the inside. What rubbish! Let's see, a one kilogram meteorite with a
velocity of ten miles a second hitting the hull ... probably fuse a
section of it. Ten miles ... sixteen kilometers a second,
approximately....
Five minutes later, he was trying to coax an egg, floating sedately in
mid-air, into it. He'd have the affair around it, hurriedly close the lid,
and watch the air forced out from between the skillet and the lid
push the egg away.
A one kilogram meteorite at that speed could fuse about fifteen
kilograms of hull ... about thirty-three pounds, enough to....
The trick was to close the lid slowly. With that accomplished he
discovered that grease wouldn't stay in the bottom of the skillet.
Finally he filled the skillet with water and poached the egg.
... vaporize a section of the hull big enough so he could poke his fist
through it ... with a velocity of a hundred miles a second there
probably wouldn't be enough left of the ship to identify....
He dumped the egg into the disposal chute. He had lost his appetite.

Read the meters, list the readings in the log book. Note any changes
between consecutive readings. Test the air, note the humidity. Read
the meters, list the readings in the log book. Note the—oh hell, he
knew the order by heart as it was. Under Personal Reaction he
wrote: damn sick and tired of it. Ten days to go before halfway
mark.
He flipped the switch that cut the light circuit and floated lazily in the
dark. It was peaceful and quiet and his eyes closed in sleep.
Tick ... tick ... tick....
He jerked awake. What the hell!
Tick ... tick ... tick ... tick!
It sounded a little faster now.
Tick-tick-tick-tick!
The ticking swelled to a roar and then subsided to a gentle, purring
tick ... tick ... tick!
He crouched there in the dark, straining for the sound, wondering
what it was. It almost sounded like a slow-motion tabulator....
The geiger counter!
His heart skipped and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. There was
a counter on board to warn against stray radiation. Not that there
would be any—the Cameron-Smith energy converters were shielded
so thoroughly that not even a single stray particle could get through.
They were supposed to be, that is. Was it possible that the
engineers could have slipped up?
Pictures of the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, hideous with
radiation keloids, flashed into his mind. A news story about radiation
poisoning gibbered in the back of his imagination.
Tick-tick-tick-tick!
Sterility....
He flipped the light switch and floated over to the counter readings
on the instrument panel. The row of tiny lights flashed rapidly in
succession and the counter added another digit.
Stray radiation ... stray.... It came to him, then. For a moment he
had forgotten that the counter was apt to read high, due to the
increase in cosmic ray radiation once outside the atmosphere of the
earth. He laughed weakly. What a thing to forget!
Something snickered in the back of his mind. Yeah, what a thing to
forget! And how will you tell whether the counter is reading stray
radiation from the converters or the increase in cosmic rays? The
engineers never make mistakes, though. Never? Well, hardly ever!
The question of adequate shielding of the converters haunted him
continuously.

By the sixth day out, Whiteford had become accustomed to the life
in the cabin. He took it easy getting about and kept up with the
business of the ship. By splitting the "day" into segments, as on
earth, he managed to keep up a fairly normal routine. Sixteen hours
on duty and about eight for sleeping, although sleeping wasn't too
easy. He was rarely physically tired and made the mistake of trying
to force himself to sleep. By the sixth "evening" he had developed
into a first rate insomniac.
And by the sixth evening he was aware that the job of pilot was one
of sheer boredom. It was dull routine with nothing to break the
monotony but worry. There was no radio, no television, no telephone
to shatter the silence. The first day or so he had whistled and sung
to himself; now he hated the sound of his own voice.
He floated disgustedly in the hammock. He had read the meters, he
had listed the readings in the log book. He had noted the changes
between consecutive readings. He had tested the air and noted the
humidity; he had listed his own physiological reactions from acne to
watering eyes. He had cleaned and loaded the automatic cameras.
All of which took about one hour out of every twenty-four.
He threaded his way over to the locker containing the books and
games Burger had mentioned. Odd that he hadn't thought of it
before.
This was more like it. Everything was designed to appeal to the
businessminded type of man, which was all to the good. He picked
up the thin books, printed on india paper to conserve weight, and
frowned. One of them was almost a text on finance; ordinarily, if he
could have curled up in an easy chair with nothing around to bother
him, he'd be interested. The other book he had read before. That
left one—and fifteen minutes later he discovered that he couldn't
concentrate. His eyes bothered him and the type blurred; he was a
little too sick to drum up interest in a book.
He went back to the cabinet and got out a popular parlor game. It
was designed so that one person could play at it. The game itself
was simple; based on a combination of finance and mathematics the
object was to corner all the real estate on the board and "break the
bank." It provided an hour of amusement. After that he discovered
he always won; the board was too simple—he had memorized the
exact sequence of moves to win the game every time. The
remaining game was a complicated three-dimensional chess set.
This he discarded even sooner. He couldn't win at all.
He fell back on a deck of cards and tried to play solitaire but the
cards were too slick and their weight wouldn't hold them down
anymore. He would manage to arrange them in neat rows and then
accidentally jar them and they would go skitting off through the
cabin. He finally tore the pack in two with disgust and spent the rest
of the day picking up the pieces from the various corners where he
had thrown them.
His nerves were fraying rapidly. He couldn't shave and he couldn't
shower. The air was dry—a little too dry—and he began to itch, a
vague, annoying sensation that shifted over his body.
And the cabin smelled. The air purifiers worked to satisfaction as far
as the meters were concerned but the odor of unwashed humanity
still clung to the cabin. He had a hunch it would get worse as time
went on.
He no longer bothered to prepare full meals for himself. He was too
tired, he didn't want to go to the effort, he didn't feel hungry
anyways. He ended up by nibbling on cold meats and bread at idle
moments. With the change in diet, his face broke out in large, ugly
splotches that bothered him considerably. Among other things, the
diet he had been originally supplied with had been designed to avoid
just that. If he had kept on the original diet ... if he had the energy
to prepare a full meal ... if he didn't feel so damned sick ... if only
that had been taken into consideration!
The steady, irritating ticking of the geiger counter worried him
constantly. He could never be sure that the ticking was entirely
innocent; he grew to have a superstitious dread of the rear bulkhead
that stood between the cabin and converters. He unconsciously
avoided it, keeping to the front of the cabin as much as possible.
Little noises startled him. If an occasional drop of water happened to
collide with him in the cabin, it sent him into a raving fury—blood
pressure be damned. He even derived a certain grim amusement
from it, thinking of the times he had laughed at the typical picture of
the apoplectic businessman.

On the eighth day, when making the check of the instrument panel,
he noticed that the panel on the board reading "Manual Control" was
lit; the one marked "Automatic" was out. In the middle of the board
was the face of an oscilloscope with two hair lines intersecting at the
middle. A small red dot, representing the rocket, should have been
set exactly at the intersection.
It wasn't. It was at the bottom of the 'scope, almost off the face
altogether.
To hell with all engineers, he snarled to himself.
He would have to jockey the dot back to the center before the
automatic controls would take over again. If he failed, the rocket
would be hopelessly off course, a tiny wanderer in space. The
auxiliary chemical rockets, allowing for two degree corrections in the
line of flight, would have to be used. They consisted of four sets at
right angles to each other around the hull. By jockeying between
them, he should be able to work the ship back.