[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, May 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
A mood was upon Kevan MacGreene. As of the moment, he did not considerthis the best of all possible worlds. In fact, many arguments to thecontrary were running through his head—on shoes of iron, it seemed.Only twenty-five years of age, Kevan MacGreene was foot-loose and fancyfree, but his thoughts were cast in gloom and darkly shaped.
It was 1952 and the threats of atomic warfare appeared almost daily inthe newspapers. The cost of living continued to go up. The prisons andasylums were overflowing. Congress, having investigated everythingelse, had formed a Goober-Natural Committee (fifteen governors hadmisunderstood and resigned the first day it was announced) and wereknee-deep in peanuts. The Soviet representative had just stormed outof another U.N. meeting. The American representative wanted to lockthe door so he couldn't get back in. A columnist had written that"the world is going to hell on a street car" and had been forced toapologize to seven railroad companies and a major-interest-owned busline.
But it was because of none of these things that Kevan MacGreene walkedthe streets of lower Manhattan and pondered on the frailty of Man. Itwas now only a few days since he had received his draft notice. Farfrom objecting, he had welcomed the opportunity to become a hero—evena radioactive one. He had quit his job in Macy's complaint departmentand the night before he'd spent all of his money financing a binge forhimself and a few select friends. It had lasted until morning and then,complete with hangover, Kevan MacGreene had reported for his physical.
It was while being questioned by a fatherly doctor, who, it turned out,was a psychiatrist, that Kevan made his first slip. Usually he was morealert, but the hangover was demanding attention and he automaticallyadmitted that he often heard voices. Under the pressure of questioning,while wondering if his head was really as hollow as it felt, he wentinto some detail on the voices and what they said. By the time herealized what was happening it was too late. He was classified as anunstable personality and was being ushered through the door reservedfor those who weren't wanted.
Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstablepersonality, especially since everything now combined to make him feellike one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of GreenwichVillage. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner whereFourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there fora minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of thebuildings:
TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.
Below that, in smaller letters, it said:
Come in.
Kevan MacGreene went in.
The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like blackvelvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her madeKevan MacGreene feel better.
"I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thingthat came into his aching head.
The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like toemploy us?" she asked.
"No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want."I'd like you to employ me."
"I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positionsopen—none, at least, that you could fill."
"But I need a job," Kevan said. "I—I gave up my last job because Ithought I was going to be drafted. Now I ha