A bewildering variety of people. Mexican labourers mute and frightened. A hard-faced urban couple. A jet stoker. Japanese workmen. A red-lipped girl. The middle-aged owner of a retail store that had failed. An agronomy student. A salesman. A cook. A nurse. A carpenter. All of them perspiring, shoving, listening, watching intently.
These were people with skill in their hands, not their heads. Their ability had come from years of practice, from direct contact with work. They could grow plants, sink foundations, repair leaking pipes, maintain machinery, weave clothing, cook meals. According to the classification system they were failures.
"I think everybody's here," Rita O'Neill said. "You can go ahead."
Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and raised his voice.
"I want to say something before the cars leave. The ship has been checked over and it's supposed to be ready for deep-space flight."
"That's correct," Captain Groves said impassively. He was a stern-faced Negro, big and solemn and dignified.
Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metal foil.
"Well, this is it. Anybody want to back out?"
Excitement and tension, but none of them stirred.
"This is what we've been working for. Now the parallel-club system can be disbanded; you're seeing each other face to face. During the flight you'll get to know each other. I hope you get along."
Faint, nervous smiles.
"This is the Society." Cartwright managed to get a half-joking note in his voice. "You people are it. This is all of us."
They peered good-naturedly at each other. Opinions were forming fast; perhaps too fast.
"You'll be jammed in tight," Cartwright continued. "This isn't a pleasure ship; it's a run-down General Motors ore freighter ready for the scrap heap. But it's all we could afford. Maybe if some rich woman had given a few million more..."