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?"