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....

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."