CHAPTER XIIIThe Widening Rift
Discontented applicants soon learned Mason Brooks’ Labor Direction Bureau consisted of a portable table at which he sat, and a mathematical machine standing on three legs beside him. This astonishing contrivance, powered like most other things from the central tower, noted down every detail of the applicant—height, weight, muscular power, size of brain, intellectual development, and so forth—and within the space of ten seconds disgorged a square piece of metal foil stating exactly what kind of work the applicant should undertake.
The one word “Driller,” “Machinist,” “Welder,” or whatever it might be, was in the language of the master race, of course, but with very few exceptions Brooks understood them. He had had plenty of time by now to discover the meaning
