Day of the Moron | Page 3

it across. "Heydenreich
thought of that, too. He got this up for me, about five years ago. The intelligence test is
based on the new French Sûreté test for mentally deficient criminals. Then there's a
memory test, and tests for judgment and discrimination, semantic reactions,
temperamental and emotional makeup, and general mental attitude."
She took the folder and leafed through it. "Yes, I see. I always liked this Sûreté test. And

this memory test is a honey--'One hen, two ducks, three squawking geese, four corpulent
porpoises, five Limerick oysters, six pairs of Don Alfonso tweezers....' I'd like to see
some of these memory-course boys trying to make visual images of six pairs of Don
Alfonso tweezers. And I'm going to make a copy of this word-association list. It's really a
semantic reaction test; Korzybski would have loved it. And, of course, our old friend, the
Rorschach Ink-Blots. I've always harbored the impious suspicion that you can prove
almost anything you want to with that. But these question-suggestions for personal
interview are really crafty. Did Heydenreich get them up himself?"
"Yes. And we have stacks and stacks of printed forms for the written portion of the test,
and big cards to summarize each subject on. And we have a disk-recorder to use in the
oral tests. There'll have to be a pretty complete record of each test, in case--"
* * * * *
The office door opened and a bulky man with a black mustache entered, beating the snow
from his overcoat with a battered porkpie hat and commenting blasphemously on the
weather. He advanced into the room until he saw the woman in the chair beside the desk,
and then started to back out.
"Come on in, Sid," Melroy told him. "Dr. Rives, this is our general foreman, Sid Keating.
Sid, Dr. Rives, the new dimwit detector. Sid's in direct charge of personnel," he continued,
"so you two'll be working together quite a bit."
"Glad to know you, doctor," Keating said. Then he turned to Melroy. "Scott, you're really
going through with this, then?" he asked. "I'm afraid we'll have trouble, then."
"Look, Sid," Melroy said. "We've been all over that. Once we start work on the reactors,
you and Ned Puryear and Joe Ricci and Steve Chalmers can't be everywhere at once. A
cybernetic system will only do what it's been assembled to do, and if some quarter-wit
assembles one of these things wrong--" He left the sentence dangling; both men knew
what he meant.
Keating shook his head. "This union's going to bawl like a branded calf about it," he
predicted. "And if any of the dear sirs and brothers get washed out--" That sentence didn't
need to be completed, either.
"We have a right," Melroy said, "to discharge any worker who is, quote, of unsound mind,
deficient mentality or emotional instability, unquote. It says so right in our union contract,
in nice big print."
"Then they'll claim the tests are wrong."
"I can't see how they can do that," Doris Rives put in, faintly scandalized.
"Neither can I, and they probably won't either," Keating told her. "But they'll go ahead
and do it. Why, Scott, they're pulling the Number One Doernberg-Giardano, tonight. By
oh-eight-hundred, it ought to be cool enough to work on. Where will we hold the tests?

Here?"
"We'll have to, unless we can get Dr. Rives security-cleared." Melroy turned to her.
"Were you ever security-cleared by any Government agency?"
"Oh, yes. I was with Armed Forces Medical, Psychiatric Division, in Indonesia in '62 and
'63, and I did some work with mental fatigue cases at Tonto Basin Research
Establishment in '64."
Melroy looked at her sharply. Keating whistled.
"If she could get into Tonto Basin, she can get in here," he declared.
"I should think so. I'll call Colonel Bradshaw, the security officer."
"That way, we can test them right on the job," Keating was saying. "Take them in relays.
I'll talk to Ben about it, and we'll work up some kind of a schedule." He turned to Doris
Rives. "You'll need a wrist-Geiger, and a dosimeter. We'll furnish them," he told her. "I
hope they don't try to make you carry a pistol, too."
"A pistol?" For a moment, she must have thought he was using some technical-jargon
term, and then it dawned on her that he wasn't. "You mean--?" She cocked her thumb and
crooked her index finger.
"Yeah. A rod. Roscoe. The Equalizer. We all have to." He half-lifted one out of his side
pocket. "We're all United States deputy marshals. They don't bother much with
counterespionage, here, but they don't fool when it comes to countersabotage. Well, I'll
get an order cut and posted. Be seeing you, doctor."
* * * * *
"You think the union will make trouble about