"I know one big problem you're going to run into," Jones sulked. "Just like the IBM cards. You're going to find one guy who clobbers the Electronics part of the test but completely busts out in History and everything else."
"I don't think so," Dwindle said. "The preliminary test will have taken care of that. It was designed so that, in order to answer every question right, a person would have to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of all twenty-four major fields."
As Jones was considering whether it would be better to slit his own throat or Dwindle's, General Marcher entered the room and approached.
"Excellent. Excellent," the general declared. "A very distinguished looking group you've assembled here, Dwindle. Hello, Jones."
"Yes, sir," Dwindle said, "with the possible exception of the seedy chap in the rear."
Jones looked to the rear of the room, and his eyes bugged.
Freddy the Fish, clean-shaven but tattered, was alternately wetting the pencil lead in his mouth and eating peanuts.
"That's the bum who feeds sparrows in the park!" Jones gasped. "How did he get out of jail so quick? I saw a couple of policemen haul him off just a day or so ago."
"This is where they hauled him to," General Marcher said. "It just so happens that he answered every question right on the preliminary examination. He says his name's Freddy Smith, although I doubt that he could prove it."
"He says he never had a father," Dwindle added. "Says his family was too poor."
Jones stared at General Marcher, then stared at Dwindle, then turned and stared at Freddy the Fish, who had just left his seat and was ambling toward the trio.
"Looks like he's throwing in the towel," Jones said happily. "He's bringing his paper with him."
"Maybe he just wants clarification on a question," Dwindle said.
"I'm all done," Freddy said. "Who gets this?"
"Go ahead, Dwindle," Carlton Jones smirked. "Grade the man's paper. He's all done."
Dwindle smiled uncertainly. "You're allowed all the time you need, Mr. Smith."
"Oh, that's O.K. I'm done."
Dwindle produced his red pencil and the answer sheet which had 1,200 small circles punched in it. He sat down, placed the key over the test paper, and began searching for white spaces showing through.
"That's the last one, sir," Dwindle said six hours later as he added the one hundred twelfth graded test to the neat stack at the left of his desk. He stared through the thousand-plus holes in the answer key as if expecting the holes to shift.
"And still no change in the standings?" General Marcher asked again.
"Mr. Smith still has the best grade," Dwindle answered.
"The percentages again?" the general asked.
"Over all, ninety-six per cent for Mr. Smith," Dwindle said for the fourth time. "His lowest percentage in any one category was eighty per cent. The next highest score was by Dr. Schmelling, who had seventy-eight per cent, but he failed in six categories. The third highest score was by Dr. Ranson, seventy-six per cent, failing in seven categories. The fourth highest score was—"
"Enough. Enough," General Marcher interrupted. "I think we've found our man, don't you, Dwindle?"
"I hope we don't have to use pressure, sir," Dwindle replied.
Jones turned from the window, from which he was observing the bums in the park. "How can you possibly consider such a thing," he blurted, "as to send a penniless, unemployed, dirty, ragged tramp to Ganymede as the United States' Number One emissary?"
"Jones, perhaps I'd best clarify a point or two for you," General Marcher said in measured tones. "We've been searching the nation over, seeking a man who can fulfill our exacting requirements. We have found that man. There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Smith possesses the greatest single store of knowledge about this planet and its people. So far as I'm concerned, which is considerable, it doesn't matter that this man has chosen the way of a philosopher instead of seeking an occupation. It doesn't matter that he lacks the necessary status to be listed on your IBM cards. It doesn't matter that you failed to find this man, because Dwindle succeeded. And, it doesn't matter whether I ever see you again!"
"Yes, sir," Jones said, and picked up his hat and left.
"Now, back to the business at hand, Dwindle. You say these prospects don't know the reasons behind the test?"
"That is correct, sir. I feared there might be some temptation for the prospects to not do their best, if they knew that success might result in their being removed from the face of the Earth."
"Wise. Then I suggest we approach Mr. Smith on the idea, cautiously, to determine his sentiments. If he doesn't want to go, of course, we've got to draft him."
Freddy cracked the peanut, put half in his mouth and tossed the other half to the sparrows.
"I might be going away for a while, Willy," he said, ending a rather long silence.
"You ain't gettin' a job, are ya Freddy?"
"Watch yer language," Oscar scolded.
"Naw, not really a job. At least not the kind you think of. Sort of an all-expense-paid vacation, with a change of scenery."
"Ya ain't had a run-in with the bulls, have ya?" the stricken Willy asked.
"Me? You know me better, Willy. Nothing like that. And I'm not even sure the thing will pan out, but you know all those newspaper stories about messages from another planet?"
"Yeh! Yeh! Ya read it to me!" Willy jabbered excitedly.
"And that test I took that you sent in and the fellas talked to me about?"
"Yeh! Say, I hope that didn't make you trouble, Freddy, 'cuz me 'n' Oscar was just kinda jokin', see, and—"
"It's O.K., Willy. Well, one of the fellas I talked to was General Marcher, who's been mentioned in the newspaper stories in connection with ... here, Willy, take these," he interrupted himself when he saw the two men approaching. "See that new guy at the bench over yonder? Give him these peanuts. I think he'd like to feed my sparrows while I'm gone. Name's Jones, and he'll probably be around for a spell."
Freddy stood up to greet the two arrivals.
"Hello, general," he said, tipping his battered cap. "It's about the trip to Ganymede, I suppose?"