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.