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inspection it turns out that his work is an attempt to solve his own problems, caused by the combination of an IQ of 173 with an unhappy child-hood. Too great a risk.
    But most of this Schneider had not seen at first hand. He was too preoccupied with the development of the actual manufacturing techniques to be employed in creating the superman. The techniques existed, but only in embryo; he knew where to look, but not what he would find.
    Slowly, success began to seem less remote. Still spewingforth data, the computers proposed investigating a biologist in China who had not only done remarkable and original work but was also highly regarded for her delicately beautiful water color paintings. They checked. Well balanced. Socially adjusted. Amazing. Success began to loom larger yet.
    In Africa a social engineer, linguist and anthropologist, whose work in assimilating people from a tribal society to a city society had given him material for four distinguished novels and a famous screenplay. They checked. Score two.
    In India, a mathematician who had provided some of the fundamental equations used in the design of the hyperphotonic engines now being assembled in
Old Stormalong—at
the age of eighteen. At the age of twenty, an epic in Hindi which people compared with the traditional epics and did not find wanting. They checked. Score three.
    In Russia, a physicist who had contributed several original papers to scientific journals on the nature of matter and energy, and who was also an Olympic running medalist. They checked. Score four, with slight reservations.
    Right in the middle of the project itself, a psychologist and cyberneticist who had actually passed through the first trials of his own technique and emerged unscathed. A man with invaluable experience, therefore. Score five. The idea made Schneider more than somewhat apprehensive. Yet it was remorselessly logical to choose him; his work on the project had put him the equivalent of ten years ahead of anyone else in understanding the physical basis of human thought processes.
    And now, with Maggie’s news: score six. That was probably the absolute limit; theory indicated that up to twelve might be possible, but in such a radically new technique one had to allow for at least fifty per cent inefficiency.
    Schneider looked again at Joe Morea’s documents. They were all here—reports from the starship project about his technical ability, revealing that he had a rare gift for seeing the concealed possibilities in a new device; medical and psychological reports, indicating that he was in excellent health and mentally very stable indeed; reports from friends, acquaintances, former employers, relations, childhood doctors, schoolteachers, everyone.
    Schneider put out his cigar. He went through the papersanother time yet, trying to construct out of the cold words on the page a picture of the living human being to whom he was soon going to be closer than hands or feet. Schneider looked towards the blank wall of his office and conjured up a vision of Joe Morea. “Hi, Joe,” he said as if to an old friend. “I hope we get along.”
    Not for the first time, a cold shiver overtook him as he reflected on all that hung on this desperate gamble. He spoke aloud again to reassure himself.
    “Well,” he said musingly, “at any rate we’re giving them six of the best. And we can’t do more.”

V
    “L ETTER FOR YOU, honey,” said maggie, coming from the kitchen to the bedroom with a tray loaded with breakfast. Her voice betrayed the slightest hint of tension, but Joe failed to notice, for he was fuzzy with sleep. He grinned, his head sunk deeply back into the plump white pillow.
    “You look terrific in that housecoat,” he said. Maggie pulled a face at him and placed a tray on the bedside table.
    “You’ve got a letter,” she repeated. She picked it up and held it out; he waved it aside and caught her other hand, trying to pull her towards him. She detached the hand from his