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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24005-h.zip b/24005-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e1fb1ed --- /dev/null +++ b/24005-h.zip diff --git a/24005-h/24005-h.htm b/24005-h/24005-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1247ef0 --- /dev/null +++ b/24005-h/24005-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2046 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of But, I Don't Think, by Randall Garrett. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of But, I Don't Think, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: But, I Don't Think + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: December 24, 2007 [EBook #24005] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUT, I DON'T THINK *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/></a> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h1>BUT, I DON'T THINK</h1> + +<h2>BY RANDALL GARRETT</h2> + + + +<h3>Illustrated by Freas</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<p><i>As every thinking man knows, every slave always yearns for the freedom +his master denies him...</i></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><i>But, gentlemen," said the Physician, "I really don't think we can +consider any religion which has human sacrifice as an integral part as a +humane religion.</i>"</p> + +<p>"<i>At least," added the Painter with a chuckle, "not as far as the victim +is concerned.</i>"</p> + +<p><i>The Philosopher looked irritated. "Bosh! What if the victim likes it +that way?</i>"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>—THE IDLE WORSHIPERS</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>by R. Phillip Dachboden</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<h3><a href="#I"><b>I</b></a></h3> +<h3><a href="#II"><b>II</b></a></h3> +<h3><a href="#III"><b>III</b></a></h3> +<h3><a href="#IV"><b>IV</b></a></h3> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2> + + +<p>The great merchantship <i>Naipor</i> settled her tens of thousands of tons of +mass into her landing cradle on Viornis as gently as an egg being +settled into an egg crate, and almost as silently. Then, as the +antigravs were cut off, there was a vast, metallic sighing as the +gigantic structure of the cradle itself took over the load of holding +the ship in her hydraulic bath.</p> + +<p>At that point, the ship was officially groundside, and the <i>Naipor</i> was +in the hands of the ground officers. Space Captain Humbolt Reed sighed, +leaned back in his desk chair, reached out a hand, and casually touched +a trio of sensitized spots on the surface of his desk.</p> + +<p>"Have High Lieutenant Blyke bring The Guesser to my office immediately," +he said, in a voice that was obviously accustomed to giving orders that +would be obeyed.</p> + +<p>Then he took his fingers off the spots without waiting for an answer.</p> + +<p>In another part of the ship, in his quarters near the Fire Control +Section, sat the man known as The Guesser. He had a name, of course, a +regular name, like everyone else; it was down on the ship's books and in +the Main Registry. But he almost never used it; he hardly ever even +thought of it. For twenty of his thirty-five years of life, he had been +a trained Guesser, and for fifteen of them he'd been The Guesser of +<i>Naipor</i>.</p> + +<p>He was fairly imposing-looking for a Guesser; he had the tall, +wide-shouldered build and the blocky face of an Executive, and his +father had been worried that he wouldn't show the capabilities of a +Guesser, while his mother had secretly hoped that he might actually +become an Executive. Fortunately for The Guesser, they had both been +wrong.</p> + +<p>He was not only a Guesser, but a first-class predictor, and he showed +impatience with those of his underlings who failed to use their ability +in any particular. At the moment of the ship's landing, he was engaged +in verbally burning the ears off Kraybo, the young man who would +presumably take over The Guesser's job one day—if he ever learned how +to handle it.</p> + +<p>"You're either a liar or an idiot," said The Guesser harshly, "and I +wish to eternity I knew which!"</p> + +<p>Kraybo, standing at attention, merely swallowed and said nothing. He had +felt the back of The Guesser's hand too often before to expose himself +intentionally to its swing again.</p> + +<p>The Guesser narrowed his eyes and tried to see what was going on in +Kraybo's mind.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Kraybo," he said after a moment, "that one single Misfit +ship got close enough to do us some damage. It has endangered the life +of the <i>Naipor</i> and the lives of her crewmen. You were on the board in +that quadrant of the ship, and you let it get in too close. The records +show that you mis-aimed one of your blasts. Now, what I want to know is +this: were you really guessing or were you following the computer too +closely?"</p> + +<p>"I was following the computer," said Kraybo, in a slightly wavering +voice. "I'm sorry for the error, sir; it won't happen again."</p> + +<p>The Guesser's voice almost became a snarl. "It hadn't better! You know +that a computer is only to feed you data and estimate probabilities on +the courses of attacking ships; you're not supposed to think they can +predict!"</p> + +<p>"I know, sir; I just—"</p> + +<p>"You just near came getting us all killed!" snapped The Guesser. "You +claim that you actually guessed where that ship was going to be, but you +followed the computer's extrapolation instead?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," said the tense-faced Kraybo. "I admit my error, and I'm +willing to take my punishment."</p> + +<p>The Guesser grinned wolfishly. "Well, isn't that big-hearted of you? I'm +very glad you're willing, because I just don't know what I'd do if you +refused."</p> + +<p>Kraybo's face burned crimson, but he said nothing.</p> + +<p>The Guesser's voice was sarcastically soft. "But I guess about the only +thing I could do in that case would be to"—The Guesser's voice suddenly +became a bellow—"<i>kick your thick head in</i>!"</p> + +<p>Kraybo's face drained of color suddenly.</p> + +<p>The Guesser became suddenly brusque. "Never mind. We'll let it go for +now. Report to the Discipline Master in Intensity Five for ten minutes +total application time. Dismissed."</p> + +<p>Kraybo, whose face had become even whiter, paused for a moment, as +though he were going to plead with The Guesser. But he saw the look in +his superior's eyes and thought better of it.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," he said in a weak voice. He saluted and left.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>And The Guesser just sat there, waiting for what he knew would come.</p> + +<p>It did. High Lieutenant Blyke showed up within two minutes after Kraybo +had left. He stood at the door of The Guesser's cubicle, accompanied by +a sergeant-at-arms.</p> + +<p>"Master Guesser, you will come with us." His manner was bored and +somewhat flat.</p> + +<p>The Guesser bowed his head as he saluted. "As you command, great sir." +And he followed the lieutenant into the corridor, the sergeant tagging +along behind.</p> + +<p>The Guesser wasn't thinking of his own forthcoming session with the +captain; he was thinking of Kraybo.</p> + +<p>Kraybo was twenty-one, and had been in training as a Guesser ever since +he was old enough to speak and understand. He showed occasional flashes +of tremendous ability, but most of the time he seemed—well, <i>lazy</i>. And +then, there was always the question of his actual ability.</p> + +<p>A battle in the weirdly distorted space of ultralight velocities +requires more than machines and more than merely ordinary human +abilities. No computer, however built, can possibly estimate the flight +of a dodging spaceship with a canny human being at the controls. Even +the superfast beams from a megadyne force gun require a finite time to +reach their target, and it is necessary to fire at the place where the +attacking ship will be, not at the position it is occupying at the time +of firing. That was a bit of knowledge as old as human warfare: you must +lead a moving target.</p> + +<p>For a target moving at a constant velocity, or a constant acceleration, +or in any other kind of orbit which is mathematically predictable, a +computer was not only necessary, but sufficient. In such a case, the +accuracy was perfect, the hits one hundred per cent.</p> + +<p>But the evasive action taken by a human pilot, aided by a randomity +selector, is not logical and therefore cannot be handled by a computer. +Like the path of a microscopic particle in Brownian motion, its position +can only be predicted statistically; estimating its probable location is +the best that can be done. And, in space warfare, probability of that +order is simply not good enough.</p> + +<p>To compute such an orbit required a special type of human mind, and +therefore a special type of human. It required a Guesser.</p> + +<p>The way a Guesser's mind operated could only be explained <i>to</i> a Guesser +<i>by</i> another Guesser. But, as far as anyone else was concerned, only the +objective results were important. A Guesser could "guess" the route of a +moving ship, and that was all anyone cared about. And a Master Guesser +prided himself on his ability to guess accurately 99.999% of the time. +The ancient sport of baseball was merely a test of muscular +co-ordination for a Guesser; as soon as a Guesser child learned to +control a bat, his batting average shot up to 1.000 and stayed there +until he got too old to swing the bat. A Master Guesser could make the +same score blindfolded.</p> + +<p>Hitting a ship in space at ultralight velocities was something else +again. Young Kraybo could play baseball blindfolded, but he wasn't yet +capable of making the master guesses that would protect a merchantship +like the <i>Naipor</i>.</p> + +<p>But what was the matter with him? He had, of course, a fire-control +computer to help him swing and aim his guns, but he didn't seem to be +able to depend on his guesswork. He had more than once fired at a spot +where the computer said the ship would be instead of firing at the spot +where it actually arrived a fraction of a second later.</p> + +<p>There were only two things that could be troubling him. Either he was +doing exactly as he said—ignoring his guesses and following the +computer—or else he was inherently incapable of controlling his +guesswork and was hoping that the computer would do the work for him.</p> + +<p>If the first were true, then Kraybo was a fool; if the second, then he +was a liar, and was no more capable of handling the fire control of the +<i>Naipor</i> than the captain was.</p> + +<p>The Guesser hated to have Kraybo punished, really, but that was the only +way to make a youngster keep his mind on his business.</p> + +<p><i>After all</i>, thought The Guesser, <i>that's the way I learned; Kraybo can +learn the same way. A little nerve-burning never hurt anyone.</i></p> + +<p>But that last thought was more to bolster himself than it was to justify +his own actions toward Kraybo. The lieutenant was at the door of the +captain's office, with The Guesser right behind him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The door dilated to receive the three—the lieutenant, The Guesser, and +the sergeant-at-arms—and they marched across the room to the captain's +desk.</p> + +<p>The captain didn't even bother to look up until High Lieutenant Blyke +saluted and said: "The Guesser, sir."</p> + +<p>And the captain gave the lieutenant a quick nod and then looked coldly +at The Guesser. "The ship has been badly damaged. Since there are no +repair docks here on Viornis, we will have to unload our cargo and then +go—<i>empty</i>—all the way to D'Graski's Planet for repairs. All during +that time, we will be more vulnerable than ever to Misfit raids."</p> + +<p>His ice-chill voice stopped, and he simply looked at The Guesser with +glacier-blue, unblinking eyes for ten long seconds.</p> + +<p>The Guesser said nothing. There was nothing he <i>could</i> say. Nothing that +would do him any good.</p> + +<p>The Guesser disliked Grand Captain Reed—and more, feared him. Reed had +been captain of the <i>Naipor</i> for only three years, having replaced the +old captain on his retirement. He was a strict disciplinarian, and had a +tendency to punish heavily for very minor infractions of the rules. Not, +of course, that he didn't have every right to do so; he was, after all, +the captain.</p> + +<p>But the old captain hadn't given The Guesser a nerve-burning in all the +years since he had accepted The Guesser as The Guesser. And Captain +Reed—</p> + +<p>The captain's cold voice interrupted his thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Well? What was it? If it was a mechano-electronic misfunction of the +computer, say so; we'll speak to the engineer."</p> + +<p>The Guesser knew that the captain was giving him what looked like an +out—but The Guesser also knew it was a test, a trap.</p> + +<p>The Guesser bowed his head very low and saluted. "No, great sir; the +fault was mine."</p> + +<p>Grand Captain Reed nodded his head in satisfaction. "Very well. +Intensity Five, two minutes. Dismissed."</p> + +<p>The Guesser bowed his head and saluted, then he turned and walked out +the door. The sergeant-at-arms didn't need to follow him; he had been +let off very lightly.</p> + +<p>He marched off toward the Disciplinary Room with his head at the proper +angle—ready to lift it if he met a lesser crewman, ready to lower it if +he met an executive officer.</p> + +<p>He could already feel the terrible pain of the nerve-burner coursing +through his body—a jolt every ten seconds for two minutes, like a whip +lashing all over his body at once. His only satisfaction was the +knowledge that he had sentenced Kraybo to ten minutes of the same thing.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus1" id="illus1"></a> +<img src="images/illus1.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + + +<p>The Guesser lay on his bed, face down, his grasping fingers clutching +spasmodically at the covering as his nerves twitched with remembered +pain. Thirteen jolts. Thirteen searing jolts of excruciating torture. It +was over now, but his synapses were still crackling with the memories of +those burning lashes of energy.</p> + +<p>He was thirty-five. He had to keep that in mind. He was thirty-five now, +and his nerves should be under better control than they had been at +twenty. He wondered if there were tears streaming from his eyes, and +then decided it didn't matter. At least he wasn't crying aloud.</p> + +<p>Of course, he had screamed in the nerve-burner; he had screamed thirteen +times. Any man who didn't scream when those blinding stabs of pain came +was either unconscious or dead—it was no disgrace to scream in the +burner. But he wasn't screaming now.</p> + +<p>He lay there for ten minutes, his jaw clamped, while the twitching +subsided and his nervous system regained its usual co-ordination.</p> + +<p>The burner did no actual physical damage; it wasn't good economics for +an Executive to allow his men to be hurt in any physical manner. It took +a very little actual amount of energy applied to the nerve endings to +make them undergo the complex electrochemical reaction that made them +send those screaming messages to the brain and spine. There was less +total damage done to the nerves than a good all-night binge would do to +a normal human being. But the effect on the mind was something else +again.</p> + +<p>It was a very effective method of making a man learn almost any lesson +you wanted to teach him.</p> + +<p>After a while, The Guesser shuddered once more, took a deep breath, held +it for fifteen seconds, and then released it. A little later, he lifted +himself up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. He sat on the +edge of the bed for a few minutes, then got up and got dressed in his +best uniform.</p> + +<p>After all, the captain hadn't said anything about restricting him to the +ship, and he had never been to Viornis before. Besides, a couple of +drinks might make him feel better.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<p>There were better planets in the galaxy, he decided two hours later. +Thousands of them.</p> + +<p>For one thing, it was a small, but dense world, with a surface gravity +of one point two standard gees—not enough to be disabling, but enough +to make a man feel sluggish. For another, its main export was farm +products: there were very few large towns on Viornis, and no center of +population that could really be called a city. Even here, at the +spaceport, the busiest and largest town on the planet, the population +was less than a million. It was a "new" world, with a history that +didn't stretch back more than two centuries. With the careful population +control exercised by the ruling Execs, it would probably remain small +and provincial for another half millennium.</p> + +<p>The Guesser moseyed down one of the streets of Bellinberg probably named +after the first Prime Executive of the planet—looking for a decent +place for a spaceman to have a drink. It was evening, and the sinking of +the yellow primary below the western horizon had left behind it a clear, +star-filled sky that filled the air with a soft, white radiance. The +streets of the town itself were well-lit by bright glow-plates imbedded +in the walls of the buildings, but above the street level, the buildings +themselves loomed darkly. Occasionally, an Exec's aircar would drift +rapidly overhead with a soft rush of air, and, in the distance, he could +see the shimmering towers of the Executive section rising high above the +eight- or ten-storyed buildings that made up the majority of Bellinberg.</p> + +<p>The streets were fairly crowded with strollers—most of them Class Four +or Five citizens who stepped deferentially aside as soon as they saw his +uniform, and kept their eyes averted from him. Now and then, the power +car of a Class Three rolled swiftly by, and The Guesser felt a slight +twinge of envy. Technically, his own rank was the equivalent of Class +Three, but he had never owned a groundcar. What need had a spaceman of a +groundcar? Still, it would be nice to drive one just once, he thought; +it would be a new experience, certainly.</p> + +<p>Right now, though, he was looking for a Class Three bar; just a place to +have a small, quiet drink and a bite to eat. He had a perfect right to +go into a lower class bar, of course, but he had never felt quite +comfortable associating with his inferiors in such a manner, and +certainly they would feel nervous in his presence because of the sidearm +at his hip.</p> + +<p>No one below Class Three was allowed to carry a beamgun, and only Ones +and Twos were allowed to wear the screening fields that protected them +from the nerve-searing effects of the weapon. And they, being Execs, +were in no danger from each other.</p> + +<p>Finally, after much walking, he decided that he was in the wrong part of +town. There were no Class Three bars anywhere along these streets. +Perhaps, he thought, he should have gone to the Spacemen's Club at the +spaceport itself. On the other hand, he hadn't particularly wanted to +see any of the other minor officers of his own class after the +near-fiasco which had damaged the <i>Naipor</i>. Being a Guesser set him +apart, even from other Threes.</p> + +<p>He thought for a moment of asking a policeman, but he dismissed it. +Cops, as always, were a breed apart. Besides, they weren't on the +streets to give directions, but to preserve order.</p> + +<p>At last, he went into a nearby Class Four bar and snapped his fingers +for the bartender, ignoring the sudden silence that had followed his +entrance.</p> + +<p>The barman set down a glass quickly and hurried over, bobbing his head +obsequiously. "Yes, sir; yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir? It's an +honor to have you here, sir. How may I serve you?"</p> + +<p>The man himself was wearing the distinctive clothing of a Five, so his +customers outranked him, but the brassard on his arm showed that his +master was a Two, which afforded him enough authority to keep reasonable +order in the place.</p> + +<p>"Where's the nearest Class Three bar?" The Guesser snapped.</p> + +<p>The barman looked faintly disappointed, but he didn't lose his +obsequiousness. "Oh, that's quite a way from here, sir—about the +closest would be Mallard's, over on Fourteenth Street and Upper Drive. A +mile, at least."</p> + +<p>The Guesser scowled. He was in the wrong section of town, all right.</p> + +<p>"But I'd be honored to serve you, sir," the barman hurried on. "Private +booth, best of everything, perfect privacy—"</p> + +<p>The Guesser shook his head quickly. "No. Just tell me how to get to +Mallard's."</p> + +<p>The barman looked at him for a moment, rubbing a fingertip across his +chin, then he said: "You're not driving, I suppose, sir? No? Well, then, +you can either take the tubeway or walk, sir...." He let the sentence +hang, waiting for The Guesser's decision.</p> + +<p>The Guesser thought rapidly. Tubeways were for Fours and Fives. Threes +had groundcars; Ones and Twos had aircars; Sixes and below walked. And +spacemen walked.</p> + +<p>Trouble is, spacemen aren't used to walking, especially on a planet +where they weigh twenty per cent more than they're used to. The Guesser +decided he'd take the tubeway; at the Class Three bar, he might be able +to talk someone into driving him to the spaceport later.</p> + +<p>But five minutes later, he was walking in the direction the bartender +had told him to take for finding Mallard's on foot. To get to the +tubeway was a four-block walk, and then there would be another long walk +after he got off. Hoofing it straight there would be only a matter of +five blocks difference, and it would at least spare him the +embarrassment of taking the tube.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It was a foolish thing to do, perhaps, but once The Guesser had set his +mind on something, it took a lot more than a long walk to dissuade him +from his purpose. He saw he was not the only spaceman out on the town; +one of the Class Five taverns he passed was filled with boisterous +singing, and he could see a crowd of men standing around three crewmen +who were leading them in a distinctly off-color ballad. The Guesser +smiled a little to himself. Let them have their fun while they were +on-planet; their lives weren't exactly bright aboard ship.</p> + +<p>Of course, they got as much as was good for them in the way of +entertainment, but a little binge gave them something to look forward +to, and a good nerve-burning would sober them up fast enough if they +made the mistake of coming back drunk.</p> + +<p>Nerve-burning didn't really bother a Five much, after all; they were +big, tough, work-hardened clods, whose minds and brains simply didn't +have the sensitivity to be hurt by that sort of treatment. Oh, they +screamed as loud as anyone when they were in the burner, but it really +didn't have much effect on them. They were just too thick-skulled to +have it make much difference to them one way or the other.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, an Exec would probably go all to pieces in a burner. +If it didn't kill him outright, he'd at least be sick for days. They +were too soft to take even a touch of it. No Class One, so far as The +Guesser knew, had ever been subjected to that sort of treatment, and a +Two only got it rarely. They just weren't used to it; they wouldn't have +the stamina to take it.</p> + +<p>His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the familiar warning that rang +in his mind like a bell. He realized suddenly, as he became blazingly +aware of his surroundings, that he had somehow wandered into a +definitely low-class neighborhood. Around him were the stark, plain +housing groups of Class Six families. The streets were more dimly lit, +and there was almost no one on the street, since it was after curfew +time for Sixes. The nearest pedestrian was a block off and moving away.</p> + +<p>All that took him but a fraction of a second to notice, and he knew that +it was not his surroundings which had sparked the warning in his mind. +There was something behind him—moving.</p> + +<p>What had told him? Almost nothing. The merest touch of a foot on the +soft pavement—the faintest rustle of clothing—the whisper of something +moving through the air.</p> + +<p>Almost nothing—but enough. To a man who had played blindfold baseball, +it was plenty. He knew that someone not ten paces behind him had thrown +something heavy, and he knew its exact trajectory to within a thousandth +of a millimeter, and he knew exactly how to move his head to avoid the +missile.</p> + +<p>He moved it, at the same time jerking his body to one side. It had only +been a guess—but what more did a Guesser need?</p> + +<p>From the first hint of warning to the beginning of the dodging motion, +less than half a second had passed.</p> + +<p>He started to spin around as the heavy object went by him, but another +warning yelped in his mind. He twisted a little, but it was too late.</p> + +<p>Something burned horribly through his body, like a thousand million +acid-tipped, white-hot needles jabbing through skin and flesh and +sinking into the bone. He couldn't even scream.</p> + +<p>He blacked out as if he'd been a computer suddenly deprived of power.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> + + +<p><i>Of course</i>, came the thought, <i>a very good way to put out a fire is to +pour cold water on it. That's a very good idea.</i></p> + +<p>At least, it had put out the fire.</p> + +<p><i>Fire?</i> What fire? The fire in his body, the scalding heat that had been +quenched by the cold water.</p> + +<p>Slowly, as though it were being turned on through a sluggishly turning +rheostat, consciousness came back to The Guesser.</p> + +<p>He began to recognize the sensations in his body. There was a general, +all-over dull ache, punctuated here and there by sharper aches. There +was the dampness and the chill. And there was the queer, gnawing feeling +in the pit of his stomach.</p> + +<p>At first, he did not think of how he had gotten where he was, nor did he +even wonder about his surroundings. There seemed merely to be an +absolute urgency to get out of wherever he was and, at the same time, an +utter inability to do so. He tried to move, to shift position, but his +muscles seemed so terribly tired that flexing them was a high-magnitude +effort.</p> + +<p>After several tries, he got his arms under his chest, and only then did +he realize that he had been lying prone, his right cheek pressed against +cold, slimy stone. He lifted himself a little, but the effort was too +much, and he collapsed again, his body making a faint splash as he did +so.</p> + +<p>He lay there for a while, trying to puzzle out his odd and uncomfortable +environment. He seemed to be lying on a sloping surface with his head +higher than his feet. The lower part of his body was immersed in chill, +gently-moving water. And there was something else—</p> + +<p>The smell.</p> + +<p>It was an incredible stench, an almost overpowering miasma of decay.</p> + +<p>He moved his head then, and forced his eyes open. There was a dim, +feeble glow from somewhere overhead and to his right, but it was enough +to show him a vaulted ceiling a few feet above him. He was lying in some +sort of tube which—</p> + +<p>And then the sudden realization came.</p> + +<p>He was in a sewer.</p> + +<p>The shock of it cleared his mind a little, and gave added strength to +his muscles. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and began crawling +toward the dim light. It wasn't more than eight or ten feet, but it +seemed to take an eternity for him to get there. Above him was a +grating, partially covered with a soggy-looking sheet of paper. The +light evidently came from a glow-plate several yards away.</p> + +<p>He lay there, exhausted and aching, trying to force his brain into +action, trying to decide what to do next.</p> + +<p>He'd have to lift the grating, of course; that much was obvious. And +he'd have to stand up to do that. Did he have the strength?</p> + +<p>Only one way to find out. Again he pushed himself to his hands and +knees, and it seemed easier this time. Then, bracing himself against the +curving wall of the sewer, he got to his feet. His knees were weak and +wobbly, but they'd hold. They <i>had</i> to hold.</p> + +<p>The top of the sewer duct was not as far off as it had seemed; he had to +stoop to keep from banging his head against the grating. He paused in +that position to catch his breath, and then reached up, first with one +hand and then with the other, to grasp the grating.</p> + +<p>Then, with all the strength he could gather, he pushed upwards. The +hinged grate moved upwards and banged loudly on the pavement.</p> + +<p>There remained the problem of climbing out of the hole. The Guesser +never knew how he solved it. Somehow, he managed to find himself out of +the sewer and lying exhausted on the pavement.</p> + +<p>He knew that there was some reason why he couldn't just lie there +forever, some reason why he had to hide where he couldn't be seen.</p> + +<p>It was not until that moment that he realized that he was completely +naked. He had been stripped of everything, including the chronometer on +his wrist.</p> + +<p>With an effort, he heaved himself to his feet again and began running, +stumbling drunkenly, yet managing somehow to keep on his feet. He had to +find shelter, find help.</p> + +<p>Somewhere in there, his mind blanked out again.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He awoke feeling very tired and weak, yet oddly refreshed, as though he +had slept for a long time. When his eyes opened, he simply stared at the +unfamiliar room for a long time without thinking—without really caring +to think. He only knew that he was warm and comfortable and somehow +safe, and it was such a pleasant feeling after the nightmare of cold and +terror that he only wanted to enjoy it without analyzing it.</p> + +<p>But the memory of the nightmare came again, and he couldn't repress it. +And he knew it hadn't been a nightmare, but reality.</p> + +<p>Full recollection flooded over him.</p> + +<p>Someone had shot him with a beamgun, that nasty little handweapon that +delivered in one powerful, short jolt the same energy that was doled out +in measured doses over a period of minutes in a standard nerve-burner. +He remembered jerking aside at the last second, just before the weapon +was fired, and it was evidently that which had saved his life. If the +beam had hit him in the head or spine, he'd be dead now.</p> + +<p>Then what? Guessing about something that had happened in the past was +futile, and, anyway, guessing didn't apply to situations like that. But +he thought he could pretty well figure out what had happened.</p> + +<p>After he'd been shot down, his assailant had probably dragged him off +somewhere and stripped him, and then dumped him bodily into the sewer. +The criminal had undoubtedly thought that The Guesser was dead; if the +body had been found, days or weeks later, it would be unidentifiable, +and probably dismissed as simply another unsolved murder. They were +rather common in low-class districts such as this.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus2" id="illus2"></a> +<img src="images/illus2.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Which brought him back again to the room.</p> + +<p>He sat up in bed and looked around. Class Six Standard Housing. Hard, +gray, cast polymer walls—very plain. Ditto floor and ceiling. Single +glow-plate overhead. Rough, gray bedclothing.</p> + +<p>Someone had found him after that careening flight from the terror of the +sewer and had brought him here. Who?</p> + +<p><i>Who?</i></p> + +<p>The sense of well-being he had felt upon awakening had long since +deserted him. What he felt now was a queer mixture of disgust and fear. +He had never known a Class Six. Even the lowest crewman on the <i>Naipor</i> +was a Five.</p> + +<p>Uneasily, The Guesser climbed out of the bed. He was wearing a sack-like +gray dress that fell almost to his knees, and nothing else. He walked on +silent bare feet to the door. He could hear nothing beyond it, so he +twisted the handle carefully and eased it open a crack.</p> + +<p>And immediately he heard low voices. The first was a man's.</p> + +<p>"... Like you pick up dogs, hey." He sounded angry. "He bring trouble on +high, that'n. Look, you, at the face he got. He no Sixer, no, nor even +Fiver. Exec, that's what. Trouble."</p> + +<p>Then a woman's voice. "Exec, he?" A sharp laugh. "Naked, dirty-wet, +sick, he fall on my door. Since when Execs ask help from Sixer chippie +like I? And since when Execs talk like Sixer when they out of they head? +No fancy Exec talk, he, no."</p> + +<p>The Guesser didn't understand that. If the woman was talking about +him—and she must be—then surely he had not spoken the illiterate +patois of the Class Six people when he was delirious.</p> + +<p>The woman went on. "No, Lebby; you mind you business; me, I mind mine. +Here, you take you this and get some food. Now, go, now. Come back at +dark."</p> + +<p>The man grumbled something The Guesser didn't understand, but there +seemed to be a certain amount of resignation in his voice. Then a door +opened and closed, and there was a moment of silence.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Then he heard the woman's footsteps approaching the partially opened +door. And her voice said: "You lucky Lebby have he back to you when you +open the door. If he even see it move, he know you wake."</p> + +<p>The Guesser backed away from the door as she came in.</p> + +<p>She was a drab woman, with a colorlessness of face that seemed to match +the colorlessness of her clothing. Her hair was cropped short, and she +seemed to sag all over, as though her body were trying to conform to the +shapelessness of the dress instead of the reverse. When she forced a +smile to her face, it didn't seem to fit, as though her mouth were +unused to such treatment from the muscles.</p> + +<p>"How you feel?" she asked, stopping just inside the room.</p> + +<p>"I ... uh—" The Guesser hardly knew what to say. He was in a totally +alien environment, a completely unknown situation. "I'm fine," he said +at last.</p> + +<p>She nodded. "You get plenty sleep, all right. Like dead, except when you +talk to yourself."</p> + +<p>Then he <i>had</i> spoken in delirium. "How ... how long was I out?"</p> + +<p>"Three days," she said flatly. "Almost four." She paused. "You ship +leave."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus3" id="illus3"></a> +<img src="images/illus3.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"Leave?" The Guesser said blankly. "The <i>Naipor</i>? Gone?" It seemed as if +the world had dropped away from his feet, leaving him to fall endlessly +through nothingness. It was true, of course. It didn't take more than +twenty-four hours to unload the ship's holds, and, since there had been +no intention of reloading, there was no need to stay. He had long +overstayed the scheduled take-off time.</p> + +<p>It created a vacuum in his mind, a hole in his very being that could +never be filled by anything else. The ship was his whole life—his home, +his work, his security.</p> + +<p>"How did you know about the ship?" he asked in a dazed voice.</p> + +<p>"A notice," she said. She fished around in one of the big pockets of the +gray dress and her hand came out with a crumpled sheet of glossy paper. +She handed it to him silently. It was a Breach of Contract notice.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">WANTED<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>for</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">BREACH OF CONTRACT<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">JAIM JAKOM DIEGO<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">AGE: 35<br /></span> +<span class="i0">HEIGHT: 185 cm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">WEIGHT: 96 kg<br /></span> +<span class="i0">HAIR: black<br /></span> +<span class="i0">EYES: blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">COMPLXN: fair<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Jaim Jakom Diego, Spacetech 3rd Guesser, broke contract with +Interstellar Trade Corporation on 3/37/119 by failing to report for +duty aboard home merchantship <i>Naipor</i> on that date. All citizens +are notified hereby that said Jaim Jakom Diego is unemployable +except by the ITC, and that he has no housing, clothing, nor +subsistance rights on any planet, nor any right to transportation +of any kind.</p> + +<p>STANDARD REWARD PLUS BONUS FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE ARREST OF +THIS MAN</p></div> + +<p>The Guesser looked at the picture that accompanied the notice. It was an +old one, taken nearly fifteen years before. It didn't look much like him +any more. But that didn't matter; even if he was never caught, he still +had no place to go. A runaway had almost no chance of remaining a +runaway for long. How would he eat? Where would he live?</p> + +<p>He looked up from the sheet, into the woman's face. She looked back with +a flat, unwavering gaze. He knew now why she had been addressing him as +an equal, even though she knew he was Class Three.</p> + +<p>"Why haven't you tried to collect the reward?" he asked. He felt +suddenly weak, and sat down again on the edge of the bed.</p> + +<p>"Me, I need you." Then her eyes widened a trifle. "Pale you look, you +do. I get you something solid inside you. Nothing but soup I get down +you so far, all three days. Soup. You sit, I be back."</p> + +<p>He nodded. He <i>was</i> feeling sickish.</p> + +<p>She went into the other room, leaving the door open, and he could hear +noises from the small kitchen. The woman began to talk, raising her +voice a little so he could hear her.</p> + +<p>"You like eggs?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Some kinds," said The Guesser. "But it doesn't matter. I'm hungry." He +hadn't realized how hungry he was.</p> + +<p>"<i>Some</i> kinds?" The woman's voice was puzzled. "They more than one kind +of egg?" The kitchen was suddenly silent as she waited intently for the +answer.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said The Guesser. "On other planets. What kind of eggs are +these?"</p> + +<p>"Just ... just <i>eggs</i>."</p> + +<p>"I mean, what kind of animal do they come from?"</p> + +<p>"Chicken. What else lay eggs?"</p> + +<p>"Other birds." He wished vaguely that he knew more about the fauna of +Viornis. Chickens were well-nigh universal; they could live off almost +anything. But other fowl fared pretty well, too. He shrugged it off; +none of his business; leave that to the ecologists.</p> + +<p>"Birds?" the woman asked. It was an unfamiliar word to her.</p> + +<p>"Different kinds of chickens," he said tiredly. "Some bigger, some +smaller, some different colors." He hoped the answer would satisfy her.</p> + +<p>Evidently it did. She said, "Oh," and went on with what she was doing.</p> + +<p>The silence, after only a minute or two, became unbearable. The Guesser +had wanted to yell at the woman to shut up, to leave him alone and not +bother him with her ignorant questions that he could not answer because +she was inherently too stupid to understand. He had wondered why he +hadn't yelled; surely it was not incumbent on a Three to answer the +questions of a Six.</p> + +<p>But he <i>had</i> answered, and after she stopped talking, he began to know +why. He wanted to talk and to be talked to. Anything to fill up the void +in his mind; anything to take the place of a world that had suddenly +vanished.</p> + +<p>What would he be doing now, if this had not happened? Involuntarily, he +glanced at his wrist, but the chronometer was gone.</p> + +<p>He would have awakened, as always, at precisely 0600 ship time. He would +have dressed, and at 0630 he would have been at table, eating his meal +in silence with the others of his class. At 0640, the meal would be +over, and conversation would be allowed until 0645. Then, the inspection +of the fire control system from 0650 until 0750. Then—</p> + +<p>He forced his mind away from it, tried not to think of the pleasant, +regular orderly routine by which he had lived his life for a quarter of +a century and more.</p> + +<p>When the woman's voice came again, it was a relief.</p> + +<p>"What's a Guesser?"</p> + +<p>He told her as best he could, trying to couch his explanation in terms +that would be understood by a woman of her limited vocabulary and +intelligence. He was not too sure he succeeded, but it was a relief to +talk about it. He could almost feel himself dropping into the routine +that he used in the orientation courses for young Guessers who had been +assigned to him for protection and instruction.</p> + +<p>"Accurate predicting of this type is not capable of being taught to all +men; unless a man has within him the innate ability to be a Guesser, he +is as incapable of learning Guessing as a blind man is incapable of +being taught to read." (It occurred to him at that moment to wonder how +the Class Six woman had managed to read the Breach of Contract notice. +He would have to ask her later.) "On the other hand, just as the mere +possession of functioning eyes does not automatically give one the +ability to read, neither does the genetic inheritance of Guesser +potentialities enable one to make accurate, useful Guesses. To make this +potentiality into an ability requires years of hard work and practice.</p> + +<p>"You must learn to concentrate, to focus your every attention on the job +at hand, to—"</p> + +<p>He broke off suddenly. The woman was standing in the doorway, holding a +plate and a steaming mug. Her eyes were wide with puzzlement and +astonishment. "You mean <i>me</i>?"</p> + +<p>"No ... no." He shook his head. "I ... was thinking of something else."</p> + +<p>She came on in, carrying the food. "You got tears in your eyes. You +hurt?"</p> + +<p>He wanted to say <i>yes</i>. He wanted to tell her how he was hurt and why. +But the words wouldn't—or couldn't—come. "No," he said. "My eyes are +just a little blurry, that's all. From sleep."</p> + +<p>She nodded, accepting his statements. "Here. You eat you this. Put some +stuffing in you belly."</p> + +<p>He ate, not caring what the food tasted like. He didn't speak, and +neither did she, for which he was thankful. Conversation during a meal +would have been both meaningless and painful to him.</p> + +<p>It was odd to think that, in a way, a Class Six had more freedom than he +did. Presumably, she <i>could</i> talk, if she wanted, even during a meal.</p> + +<p>And he was glad that she had not tried to eat at the same time. To have +his food cooked and served by a Six didn't bother him, nor was he +bothered by her hovering nearby. But if she had sat down with him to +eat—</p> + +<p>But she hadn't, so he dropped the thought from his mind.</p> + +<p>Afterwards, he felt much better. He actually hadn't realized how hungry +he had been.</p> + +<p>She took the dishes out and returned almost immediately.</p> + +<p>"You thought what you going to do?" she asked.</p> + +<p>He shook his head. He hadn't thought. He hadn't even wanted to think. It +was as though, somewhere in the back of his mind, something kept +whispering that this was all nothing but a very bad dream and that he'd +wake up in his cubicle aboard the <i>Naipor</i> at any moment. +Intellectually, he knew it wasn't true, but his emotional needs, coupled +with wishful thinking, had hamstrung his intellect.</p> + +<p>However, he knew he couldn't stay here. The thought of living in a Class +Six environment all the rest of his life was utterly repellent to him. +And there was nowhere else he could go, either. Even though he had not +been tried as yet, he had effectively been Declassified.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I'll just give myself over to the Corporation," he said. +"I'll tell them I was waylaid—maybe they'll believe it."</p> + +<p>"Maybe? Just only maybe?"</p> + +<p>He shrugged a little. "I don't know. I've never been in trouble like +this before. I just don't know."</p> + +<p>"What they going to do to you, you give up to them?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know that, either."</p> + +<p>Her eyes suddenly looked far off. "Me, I got an idea. Maybe get both of +us some place."</p> + +<p>He looked at her quickly. "What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>Her gaze came back from the distance, and her eyes focused squarely on +his. "The Misfits," she said in her flat voice. "We could go to the +Misfits."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> + + +<p>The Guesser had been fighting the Misfits for twenty years, and hating +them for as long as he could remember. The idea that he could ever +become one of them had simply never occurred to him. Even the idea of +going to one of the Misfit Worlds was so alien that the very suggestion +of it was shocking to his mind.</p> + +<p>And yet, the suggestion that the Sixer woman had made did require a +little thinking over before he accepted or rejected it.</p> + +<p>The Misfits. What did he really know about them, anyway?</p> + +<p>They didn't call themselves Misfits, of course; that was a derogatory +name used by the Aristarchy. But the Guesser couldn't remember off hand +just what they <i>did</i> call themselves. Their form of government was a +near-anarchic form of ochlocracy, he knew—mob rule of some sort, as +might be expected among such people. They were the outgrowth of an +ancient policy that had been used centuries ago for populating the +planets of the galaxy.</p> + +<p>There are some people who simply do not, will not, and can not fit in +with any kind of social organization—except the very flimsiest, +perhaps. Depending on the society in which they exist and the extent of +their own antisocial activities, they have been called, over the +centuries, everything from "criminals" to "pioneers." It was a matter of +whether they fought the unwelcome control of the society in power or +fled from it.</p> + +<p>The Guesser's knowledge of history was close to nonexistent, but he had +heard that the expansion to the stars from Earth—a planet he had never +been within a thousand parsecs of—had been accomplished by the +expedient of combining volunteers with condemned criminals and shipping +them off to newly-found Earth-type planets. After a generation had +passed, others came in—the civilizing types—and settled the planets, +making them part of the Aristarchy proper.</p> + +<p>(Or was the Aristarchy that old? The Guesser had a feeling that the +government at that time had been of a different sort, but he couldn't +for the life of him remember what it was. Perhaps it had been the +prototype of the Aristarchy, for certainly the present system of society +had existed for four or five centuries—perhaps more. The Guesser +realized that his knowledge of ancient history was as confused as +anyone's; after all, it wasn't his specialty. He remembered that when he +was a boy, he'd heard a Teacher Exec talk about the Geological Ages of +Earth and the Teacher had said that "cave men were <i>not</i> contemporary +with the dinosaur." He hadn't known what it meant at the time, since he +wasn't supposed to be listening, anyway, to an Exec class, but he had +realized that the histories of times past often became mixed up with +each other.)</p> + +<p>At any rate, the process had gone along smoothly, even as the present +process of using Class Sevens and Declassified citizens did. But in the +early days there had not been the organization that existed in the +present Aristarchy; planets had become lost for generations at a time. +(The Guesser vaguely remembered that there had been wars of some kind +during that time, and that the wars had contributed to those losses.) +Some planets had civilized themselves without the intervention of the +Earth government, and, when the Earth government had come along, they +had fought integration with everything they could summon to help them.</p> + +<p>Most of the recalcitrant planets had eventually been subdued, but there +were still many "hidden planets" which were organized as separate +governments under a loose confederation. These were the Misfits.</p> + +<p>Because of the numerical superiority of the Aristarchy, and because it +operated in the open instead of skulking in the darkness of space, the +Misfits knew where Aristarchy planets were located, while the Aristarchy +was unable to search out every planet in the multimyriads of star +systems that formed the galaxy.</p> + +<p>Thus the Misfits had become pirates, preying on the merchantships of the +Aristarchy. Why? No one knew. (Or, at least, The Guesser corrected +himself, <i>he</i> didn't know.) Such a non-sane culture would have non-sane +reasons.</p> + +<p>The Aristarchy occupied nearly all the planets of the galaxy that could +be inhabited by Man; that much The Guesser had been told. Just why +Earth-type planets should occur only within five thousand light-years of +the Galactic Center was a mystery to him, but, then, he was no +astrophysicist.</p> + +<p>But the Sixer woman said she had heard that the Aristarchy was holding +back facts; that there were planets clear out to the Periphery, all +occupied by Misfits; that the legendary Earth was one of those planets; +that—</p> + +<p>A thousand things. All wrong, as The Guesser knew. But she was firmly +convinced that if anyone could get to a Misfit planet, they would be +welcomed. There were no Classes among the Misfits, she said. (The +Guesser dismissed that completely; a Classless society was ridiculous on +the face of it.)</p> + +<p>The Guesser had asked the woman why—if her statements were true—the +Misfits had not conquered the Aristarchy long ago. After all, if they +held the galaxy clear out to the Periphery, they had the Aristarchy +surrounded, didn't they?</p> + +<p>She had had no answer.</p> + +<p>And it had only been later that The Guesser realized that <i>he</i> had an +answer. Indeed, that he himself, was a small, but significant part of +that answer.</p> + +<p>The Misfits had no Guessers. That was a fact that The Guesser knew from +personal experience. He had been in space battles with Misfit fleets, +and he had brought the <i>Naipor</i> through those battles unscathed while +wreaking havoc and destruction among the massed ships of the Misfits. +They had no Guessers. (Or no <i>trained</i> Guessers, he amended. The +potential might be there, but certainly the actuality was not.)</p> + +<p>And it occurred to him that the Misfits might have another kind of +trained talent. They seemed to be able to search out and find a single +Aristarchy ship, while it was impossible to even detect a Misfit fleet +until it came within attacking distance. Well, that, again, was not his +business.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>But none of these considerations were important in the long run; none of +them were more than minor. The thing that made up The Guesser's mind, +that spurred him into action, was the woman's admission that she had a +plan for actually reaching Misfit planets.</p> + +<p>It was quite simple, really; they were to be taken prisoners.</p> + +<p>"They spaceships got no people inside, see you," she said, just as +though she knew what she were talking about. "They just want to catch +our ships, not kill 'em. So they send out a bunch of little ships on +they own, just to ... uh ... cripple our ships. It don't matter, they +little ships get hit, because they no one in them, see you. They trying +to get our ships in good shape, and people in them and stuff, that's +all."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," The Guesser had said impatiently, "but what's that to do +with us?"</p> + +<p>She waved a hand, as though she were a little flustered by his +peremptory tone. She wasn't, after all, used to talking with Class +Threes as equals, even though she knew that in this case the Three was +helpless.</p> + +<p>"I <i>tell</i> you! I <i>tell</i> you!" She paused to reorganize her thoughts. +"But I ask you: if we get on a ship, you can keep it from shooting the +Misfit ships?"</p> + +<p>The Guesser saw what she was driving at. It didn't make much sense yet, +but there was a glimmer of something there.</p> + +<p>"You mean," he said, "that you want to know whether it would be possible +for me to partially disable the fire-control system of a spaceship +enough to allow it to be captured by Misfit ships?"</p> + +<p>She nodded rapidly. "Yes ... I think, yes. Can you?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-e-es," The Guesser said, slowly and cautiously. "I could. But not by +just walking in and doing it. I mean, it would be almost impossible to +get aboard a ship in the first place, and without an official position I +couldn't do anything anyway."</p> + +<p>But she didn't look disappointed. Instead, she'd smiled a little. "I get +us on the ship," she said. "And you have official position. We do it."</p> + +<p>When she had gone on to explain, The Guesser's mind had boggled at her +audacity—at first. And then he'd begun to see how it might be possible.</p> + +<p>For it was not until then that the woman had given The Guesser +information which he hadn't thought to ask about before. The first was +her name: Deyla. The second was her job.</p> + +<p>She was a cleaning woman in Executive territory.</p> + +<p>And, as she outlined her plan for reaching the Misfits, The Guesser +began to feel despair slipping from his mind, to be replaced by hope.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The Guesser plodded solemnly along the street toward the tall, +glittering building which was near the center of Executive territory, +his feet moving carefully, his eyes focused firmly on the soft, textured +surface of the pavement. He was clad in the rough gray of a Class Six +laborer, and his manner was carefully tailored to match. As he was +approached by Fours and Fives, he stepped carefully to one side, keeping +his face blank, hiding the anger that seethed just beneath the surface.</p> + +<p>Around his arm was a golden brassard indicating that he was contracted +to a Class One, and in his pocket was a carefully forged card indicating +the same thing. No one noticed him; he was just another Sixer going to +his menial job.</p> + +<p>The front of the building bore a large glowing plaque which said:</p> + +<p>VIORNIS EXPORT CORPORATION</p> + +<p>But the front entrance was no place for a Sixer. He went on past it, +stepping aside regularly for citizens of higher class than his own +assumed Six. He made his way around to the narrow alley that ran past +the rear of the building.</p> + +<p>There was a Class Five guard armed with a heavy truncheon, standing by +the door that led into the workers entrance. The Guesser, as he had +been instructed by Deyla, had his card out as he neared the doorway. The +guard hardly even glanced at it before wagging a finger indicating that +The Guesser was to pass. He didn't bother to speak.</p> + +<p>The Guesser was trembling as he walked on in—partly in anger, partly in +fear. It seemed ridiculous that one glance had not told the guard that +he was not a Class Six. The Guesser was quite certain that he didn't +<i>look</i> like a Sixer. But then, Fives were not very perceptive people, +anyway.</p> + +<p>The Guesser went on walking into the complex corridors of the lower part +of the building, following directions that had been given him by Deyla. +There was no hesitation on his part; his memory for things like that was +as near perfect as any record of the past can be. He knew her +instructions well enough to have navigated the building in the dark.</p> + +<p>Again, The Guesser found himself vaguely perturbed by the relative +freedom of Sixers. As long as they got their jobs done there was almost +no checking as to how they spent their time. Well, actually, the jobs to +which they were suited were rather trivial—some of them were actually +"made work." After all, in a well-run society, it was axiomatic that +everyone have basic job security; that's what kept everyone happy.</p> + +<p>Of course, there were plenty of Sixers working in construction and on +farms who were kept on their toes by overseers, but cleaning jobs and +such didn't need such supervision. A thing can only be so clean; there's +no quota to fill and exceed.</p> + +<p>After several minutes of walking and climbing stairs—Sixers did not use +lift chutes or drop chutes—he found the room where Deyla had told him +to meet her. It was a small storeroom containing cleaning tools and +supplies. She was waiting for him.</p> + +<p>And, now that the time had actually come for them to act on her plan, +fear showed on her face. The Guesser knew then that he had been right in +his decision. But he said nothing about that yet.</p> + +<p>"Now are you certain about the destination?" he asked before she could +speak.</p> + +<p>She nodded nervously. "Yes, yes. D'Graski's Planet. That's what he say."</p> + +<p>"Good." The Guesser had waited for three weeks for this day, but he had +known it would come eventually. D'Graski's Planet was the nearest repair +base; sooner or later, another ship had to make that as a port of call +from Viornis. He had told Deyla that the route to D'Graski's was the one +most likely to be attacked by Misfit ships, that she would have to wait +until a ship bound for there landed at the spaceport before the two of +them could carry out their plan. And now the ship was here.</p> + +<p>"What's the name of the ship?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Th-the <i>Trobwell</i>."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with you?" he asked, suddenly and harshly.</p> + +<p>She shivered. "Scared. Awful scared."</p> + +<p>"I thought so. Have you got the clothing?"</p> + +<p>"Y-yes." Then she broke down completely. "You got to help me! You got to +show me how to act like Exec lady! Show me how to talk! Otherwise, we +both get caught!"</p> + +<p>He shook her to quiet her. "Shut up!" When she had quieted, he said: +"You are right, of course; we'd both be caught if you were to slip up. +But I'm afraid it's too late to teach you now. It's always been too +late."</p> + +<p>"Wha-what ... what you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind. Where's the traveling case?"</p> + +<p>She pointed silently towards a shelf, one of many that lined the room.</p> + +<p>The Guesser went over and pulled out a box of cleaning dust-filters. +Behind it was a gold-and-blue traveling case. The girl had spent months +stealing the little things inside it, bit by bit, long before The +Guesser had come into her life, dreaming of the day when she would +become an Exec lady. Not until he had come had she tried to project that +dream into reality.</p> + +<p>The Guesser thumbed the opener, and the traveling case split into +halves. The sight of the golden uniform of a Class One Executive gleamed +among the women's clothing. And she had forgotten no detail; the +expensive beamgun and holster lay beneath the uniform.</p> + +<p>He picked it up carefully, almost reverently. It was the first time he'd +held one since he'd been beamed down himself, so long ago. He turned the +intensity knob down to the "stun" position.</p> + +<p>"We going to put them on <i>here</i>?" she asked in a hushed voice. "Just +walk out? Me, I scared!"</p> + +<p>He stood up, the stun gun in his hand, its muzzle pointed toward the +floor. "Let me tell you something," he said, keeping his voice as kindly +as he could. "Maybe it will keep you out of further trouble. You could +never pass as an Exec. Never. It wouldn't matter how long you tried to +practice, you simply couldn't do it. Your mind is incapable of it. Your +every word, your every mannerism, would be a dead giveaway."</p> + +<p>There was shock slowly coming over her face. "You not going to take me," +she said, in her soft, flat voice.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"How I ever going to get to Misfits? How?" There were tears in her eyes, +just beginning to fill the lower lids.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid your idealized Misfits just don't +exist. The whole idea is ridiculous. Their insane attacks on us show +that they have unstable, warped minds—and don't tell me about +machine-operated or robot-controlled ships. You don't build a machine to +do a job when a human being is cheaper. Your fanciful Misfit nation +would have dissolved long ago if it had tried to operate on the +principle that a lower-class human is worth more than a machine.</p> + +<p>"You'll be better off here, doing your job; there are no such havens as +Classless Misfit societies."</p> + +<p>She was shaking her head as he spoke, trying to fight away the words +that were shattering her cherished dream. And the words were having +their effect because she believed him, because he believed himself.</p> + +<p>"No," she was saying softly. "No, no, no."</p> + +<p>The Guesser brought up the gun muzzle and shot her where she stood.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Half an hour later, The Guesser was fighting down his own fear. He was +hard put to do it, but he managed to stride purposefully across the +great spacefield toward the towering bulk of the <i>Trobwell</i> without +betraying that fear.</p> + +<p>If they caught him now—</p> + +<p>He closed his mind against the thought and kept on walking.</p> + +<p>At the base of the landing cradle, a Class Four guard was standing +stolidly. He bowed his head and saluted as The Guesser walked by.</p> + +<p><i>It's so easy!</i> The Guesser thought. <i>So incredibly easy!</i></p> + +<p>Even the captain of the ship would only be a Class Two Exec. No one +would question him—no one would <i>dare</i> to.</p> + +<p>A lieutenant looked up, startled as he entered the ship itself, and +saluted hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"It's an honor to have you aboard, great sir," he said apologetically, +"but you realize, of course, that we are taking off in a very few +minutes."</p> + +<p>Words choked suddenly in the Guesser's throat, and he had to swallow +hard before he could speak. "I know that. I'm ... I'm going with you."</p> + +<p>The lieutenant's eyes widened a trifle. "No orders have been taped to +that effect, great sir."</p> + +<p><i>This is it!</i> thought The Guesser. He would either put it over now or +he'd be lost—completely.</p> + +<p>He scowled. "Then tape them! I will apologize to the captain about this +last-minute change, but I want no delay in take-off. It is absolutely +vital that I reach D'Graski's Planet quickly!"</p> + +<p>The lieutenant blanched a little. "Sorry, great sir! I'll see that the +orders are taped. You wish a cabin?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly. I presume you have an adequate one?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure we do, great sir; I'll have the Quarters Officer set one up +for you immediately."</p> + +<p>"Excellent," said The Guesser. "Excellent."</p> + +<p>Fifteen minutes later, the <i>Trobwell</i> lifted from the planet exactly on +schedule. The Guesser, in his assigned room, breathed a deep sigh of +relief. He was on his way to D'Graski's Planet at last!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Tell me, great sir," said the captain, "what do you think the final +decision on this case should be?" He shoved the sheaf of papers across +the desk to The Guesser.</p> + +<p>The Guesser looked at them unseeingly, his mind in a whirl. For five +days now, the captain of the <i>Trobwell</i> had been handing him papers and +asking him questions of that sort. And, since he was the ranking Exec, +he was expected to give some sort of answer.</p> + +<p>This one seemed even more complex than the others, and none of them had +been simple. He forced his eyes to read the print, forced his mind to +absorb the facts.</p> + +<p>These were not clear-cut problems of the kind he had been dealing with +all his life. Computing an orbit mentally was utterly simple compared +with these fantastic problems.</p> + +<p>It was a question of a choice of three different types of cargoes, to be +carried to three different destinations. Which would be the best choice? +The most profitable from an energy standpoint, as far as the ship was +concerned, considering the relative values of the cargoes? What about +relative spoilage rates as compared with fluctuating markets?</p> + +<p>The figures were all there, right before him in plain type. But they +meant nothing. Often, he had been unable to see how there was any +difference between one alternative and another.</p> + +<p>Once, he had been handed the transcripts of a trial on ship, during +which two conflicting stories of an incident had been told by witnesses, +and a third by the defendant. How could one judge on something like +that? And yet he had been asked to.</p> + +<p>He bit his lower lip in nervousness, and then stopped immediately as he +realized that this was no time to display nerves.</p> + +<p>"I should say that Plan B was the best choice," he said at last. It was +a wild stab at nothing, he realized, and yet he could do no better. Had +he made a mistake?</p> + +<p>The captain nodded gravely. "Thank you, great sir. You've been most +helpful. The making of decisions is too important to permit of its being +considered lightly."</p> + +<p>The Guesser could take it no longer. "It was a pleasure to be of +assistance," he said as he stood up, "but there are certain of my own +papers to be gone over before we reach D'Graski's Planet. I trust I +shall be able to finish them."</p> + +<p>The captain stood up quickly. "Oh, certainly, great sir. I hope I +haven't troubled you with my rather minor problems. I shan't disturb you +again during the remainder of the trip."</p> + +<p>The Guesser thanked him and headed for his cabin. He lay on his bed for +hours with a splitting headache. If it weren't for the fact that he had +been forced to go about it this way, he would never have tried to +impersonate an Executive. Never!</p> + +<p>He wasn't even sure he could carry it off for the rest of the trip.</p> + +<p>Somehow, he managed to do it. He kept to himself and pretended that the +blue traveling bag held important papers for him to work on, but he +dreaded mealtimes, when he was forced to sit with the captain and two +lieutenants, chattering like monkeys as they ate. And he'd had to talk, +too; being silent might ruin the impression he had made.</p> + +<p>He hated it. A mouth was built for talking and eating, granted—but not +at the same time. Of course, the Execs had it down to a fine art; they +had a great deal more time for their meals than a Class Three, and they +managed to eat a few bites while someone else was talking, then talk +while the other ate. It was disconcerting and The Guesser never +completely got the hang of co-ordinating the two.</p> + +<p>Evidently, however, none of the three officers noticed it.</p> + +<p>By the time the <i>Trobwell</i> reached D'Graski's Planet, he was actually +physically ill from the strain. One of the worst times had come during +an attack by Misfit ships. He had remained prone on his bed, his mind +tensing at each change of acceleration in the ship. Without the screens +and computer to give him data, he couldn't Guess, and yet he kept +trying; he couldn't stop himself. What made it worse was the knowledge +that his Guesses were coming out wrong almost every time.</p> + +<p>When the ship finally settled into the repair cradle, The Guesser could +hardly keep his hands from shaking. He left the ship feeling broken and +old. But as his feet touched the ground, he thought to himself: <i>I made +it! In spite of everything, I made it!</i></p> + +<p>And then two men walked toward him—two men wearing blue uniforms of a +ship's Disciplinary Corps. He not only recognized their faces, but he +saw the neat embroidery on the lapels.</p> + +<p>It said: <i>Naipor</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2> + + +<p>Space Captain Humbolt Reed, commander of the <i>Naipor</i>, looked at his +Master Guesser and shook his head. "I ought to have you shot. +Declassification is too good for you by far. Impersonating an Executive! +How did you ever think you'd get away with it?" He paused, then barked: +"Come on! Explain!"</p> + +<p>"It was the only way I could think of to get back to the <i>Naipor</i>, great +sir," said The Guesser weakly.</p> + +<p>The captain leaned back slowly in his seat. "Well, there's one +extenuating circumstance. The officers of the <i>Trobwell</i> reported that +you were a fine source of amusement during the trip. They enjoyed your +clownish performance very much.</p> + +<p>"Now, tell me exactly why you didn't show up for take-off on Viornis."</p> + +<p>The Guesser explained what had happened, his voice low. He told about +having something thrown at him, about the beamgun being fired at him. He +told about the girl, Deyla. He told everything in a monotonous +undertone.</p> + +<p>The captain nodded when he was through. "That tallies. It fits with the +confession we got."</p> + +<p>"Confession, sir?" The Guesser looked blank.</p> + +<p>Captain Reed sighed. "You're supposed to be a Guesser. Tell me, do you +think I personally, could beam you from behind?"</p> + +<p>"You're the captain, sir."</p> + +<p>"I don't mean for disciplinary purposes," the captain growled. "I mean +from ambush."</p> + +<p>"Well ... no, sir. As soon as I knew you were there, I'd be able to +Guess where you'd fire. And I wouldn't be there."</p> + +<p>"Then what kind of person would be able to throw something at you so +that you'd Guess, so that you'd dodge, and be so preoccupied with that +first dodging that you'd miss the Guess on the aiming of the beamgun +because of sheer physical inertia? What kind of person would know +exactly where you'd be when you dodged? What kind of person would know +exactly where to aim that beamgun?"</p> + +<p>The Guesser had seen what was coming long before the captain finished +his wordy interrogation.</p> + +<p>"Another Guesser, sir," he said. His eyes narrowed.</p> + +<p>"Exactly," said Captain Reed. "Your apprentice, Kraybo. He broke down +during a Misfit attack on the way here; he was never cut out to be a +Master Guesser, and even though he tried to kill you to get the job, he +couldn't handle it. He cracked completely as soon as he tried to +co-ordinate alone. We've actually missed you, Master Guesser."</p> + +<p>"May I see to the disciplining of Kraybo, sir?" The Guesser asked +coldly.</p> + +<p>"You're too late. He's been declassified." The captain looked down at +the papers on his desk. "You may consider yourself reinstated, Master +Guesser, since the fault was not yours.</p> + +<p>"However, masquerading as an Exec, no matter how worthy your motives, +cannot be allowed to go unpunished. You will report to the Discipline +Master for a three-and-three every day for the next five days. And you +will not be allowed to leave the ship during the time we remain in +repair dock. Dismissed."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, great sir." The Guesser turned on his heel and marched out, +heading for the Discipline Master.</p> + +<p>It was good to be home again.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus4" id="illus4"></a> +<img src="images/illus4.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's But, I Don't Think, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUT, I DON'T THINK *** + +***** This file should be named 24005-h.htm or 24005-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/0/0/24005/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: But, I Don't Think + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: December 24, 2007 [EBook #24005] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUT, I DON'T THINK *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + BUT, I DON'T THINK + + BY RANDALL GARRETT + + + + +_As every thinking man knows, every slave always yearns for the freedom +his master denies him..._ + + + + +"_But, gentlemen," said the Physician, "I really don't think we can +consider any religion which has human sacrifice as an integral part as a +humane religion._" + +"_At least," added the Painter with a chuckle, "not as far as the victim +is concerned._" + +_The Philosopher looked irritated. "Bosh! What if the victim likes it +that way?_" + + _--THE IDLE WORSHIPERS_ + _by R. Phillip Dachboden_ + + + + +I + + +The great merchantship _Naipor_ settled her tens of thousands of tons of +mass into her landing cradle on Viornis as gently as an egg being +settled into an egg crate, and almost as silently. Then, as the +antigravs were cut off, there was a vast, metallic sighing as the +gigantic structure of the cradle itself took over the load of holding +the ship in her hydraulic bath. + +At that point, the ship was officially groundside, and the _Naipor_ was +in the hands of the ground officers. Space Captain Humbolt Reed sighed, +leaned back in his desk chair, reached out a hand, and casually touched +a trio of sensitized spots on the surface of his desk. + +"Have High Lieutenant Blyke bring The Guesser to my office immediately," +he said, in a voice that was obviously accustomed to giving orders that +would be obeyed. + +Then he took his fingers off the spots without waiting for an answer. + +In another part of the ship, in his quarters near the Fire Control +Section, sat the man known as The Guesser. He had a name, of course, a +regular name, like everyone else; it was down on the ship's books and in +the Main Registry. But he almost never used it; he hardly ever even +thought of it. For twenty of his thirty-five years of life, he had been +a trained Guesser, and for fifteen of them he'd been The Guesser of +_Naipor_. + +He was fairly imposing-looking for a Guesser; he had the tall, +wide-shouldered build and the blocky face of an Executive, and his +father had been worried that he wouldn't show the capabilities of a +Guesser, while his mother had secretly hoped that he might actually +become an Executive. Fortunately for The Guesser, they had both been +wrong. + +He was not only a Guesser, but a first-class predictor, and he showed +impatience with those of his underlings who failed to use their ability +in any particular. At the moment of the ship's landing, he was engaged +in verbally burning the ears off Kraybo, the young man who would +presumably take over The Guesser's job one day--if he ever learned how +to handle it. + +"You're either a liar or an idiot," said The Guesser harshly, "and I +wish to eternity I knew which!" + +Kraybo, standing at attention, merely swallowed and said nothing. He had +felt the back of The Guesser's hand too often before to expose himself +intentionally to its swing again. + +The Guesser narrowed his eyes and tried to see what was going on in +Kraybo's mind. + +"Look here, Kraybo," he said after a moment, "that one single Misfit +ship got close enough to do us some damage. It has endangered the life +of the _Naipor_ and the lives of her crewmen. You were on the board in +that quadrant of the ship, and you let it get in too close. The records +show that you mis-aimed one of your blasts. Now, what I want to know is +this: were you really guessing or were you following the computer too +closely?" + +"I was following the computer," said Kraybo, in a slightly wavering +voice. "I'm sorry for the error, sir; it won't happen again." + +The Guesser's voice almost became a snarl. "It hadn't better! You know +that a computer is only to feed you data and estimate probabilities on +the courses of attacking ships; you're not supposed to think they can +predict!" + +"I know, sir; I just--" + +"You just near came getting us all killed!" snapped The Guesser. "You +claim that you actually guessed where that ship was going to be, but you +followed the computer's extrapolation instead?" + +"Yes, sir," said the tense-faced Kraybo. "I admit my error, and I'm +willing to take my punishment." + +The Guesser grinned wolfishly. "Well, isn't that big-hearted of you? I'm +very glad you're willing, because I just don't know what I'd do if you +refused." + +Kraybo's face burned crimson, but he said nothing. + +The Guesser's voice was sarcastically soft. "But I guess about the only +thing I could do in that case would be to"--The Guesser's voice suddenly +became a bellow--"_kick your thick head in_!" + +Kraybo's face drained of color suddenly. + +The Guesser became suddenly brusque. "Never mind. We'll let it go for +now. Report to the Discipline Master in Intensity Five for ten minutes +total application time. Dismissed." + +Kraybo, whose face had become even whiter, paused for a moment, as +though he were going to plead with The Guesser. But he saw the look in +his superior's eyes and thought better of it. + +"Yes, sir," he said in a weak voice. He saluted and left. + + * * * * * + +And The Guesser just sat there, waiting for what he knew would come. + +It did. High Lieutenant Blyke showed up within two minutes after Kraybo +had left. He stood at the door of The Guesser's cubicle, accompanied by +a sergeant-at-arms. + +"Master Guesser, you will come with us." His manner was bored and +somewhat flat. + +The Guesser bowed his head as he saluted. "As you command, great sir." +And he followed the lieutenant into the corridor, the sergeant tagging +along behind. + +The Guesser wasn't thinking of his own forthcoming session with the +captain; he was thinking of Kraybo. + +Kraybo was twenty-one, and had been in training as a Guesser ever since +he was old enough to speak and understand. He showed occasional flashes +of tremendous ability, but most of the time he seemed--well, _lazy_. And +then, there was always the question of his actual ability. + +A battle in the weirdly distorted space of ultralight velocities +requires more than machines and more than merely ordinary human +abilities. No computer, however built, can possibly estimate the flight +of a dodging spaceship with a canny human being at the controls. Even +the superfast beams from a megadyne force gun require a finite time to +reach their target, and it is necessary to fire at the place where the +attacking ship will be, not at the position it is occupying at the time +of firing. That was a bit of knowledge as old as human warfare: you must +lead a moving target. + +For a target moving at a constant velocity, or a constant acceleration, +or in any other kind of orbit which is mathematically predictable, a +computer was not only necessary, but sufficient. In such a case, the +accuracy was perfect, the hits one hundred per cent. + +But the evasive action taken by a human pilot, aided by a randomity +selector, is not logical and therefore cannot be handled by a computer. +Like the path of a microscopic particle in Brownian motion, its position +can only be predicted statistically; estimating its probable location is +the best that can be done. And, in space warfare, probability of that +order is simply not good enough. + +To compute such an orbit required a special type of human mind, and +therefore a special type of human. It required a Guesser. + +The way a Guesser's mind operated could only be explained _to_ a Guesser +_by_ another Guesser. But, as far as anyone else was concerned, only the +objective results were important. A Guesser could "guess" the route of a +moving ship, and that was all anyone cared about. And a Master Guesser +prided himself on his ability to guess accurately 99.999% of the time. +The ancient sport of baseball was merely a test of muscular +co-ordination for a Guesser; as soon as a Guesser child learned to +control a bat, his batting average shot up to 1.000 and stayed there +until he got too old to swing the bat. A Master Guesser could make the +same score blindfolded. + +Hitting a ship in space at ultralight velocities was something else +again. Young Kraybo could play baseball blindfolded, but he wasn't yet +capable of making the master guesses that would protect a merchantship +like the _Naipor_. + +But what was the matter with him? He had, of course, a fire-control +computer to help him swing and aim his guns, but he didn't seem to be +able to depend on his guesswork. He had more than once fired at a spot +where the computer said the ship would be instead of firing at the spot +where it actually arrived a fraction of a second later. + +There were only two things that could be troubling him. Either he was +doing exactly as he said--ignoring his guesses and following the +computer--or else he was inherently incapable of controlling his +guesswork and was hoping that the computer would do the work for him. + +If the first were true, then Kraybo was a fool; if the second, then he +was a liar, and was no more capable of handling the fire control of the +_Naipor_ than the captain was. + +The Guesser hated to have Kraybo punished, really, but that was the only +way to make a youngster keep his mind on his business. + +_After all_, thought The Guesser, _that's the way I learned; Kraybo can +learn the same way. A little nerve-burning never hurt anyone._ + +But that last thought was more to bolster himself than it was to justify +his own actions toward Kraybo. The lieutenant was at the door of the +captain's office, with The Guesser right behind him. + + * * * * * + +The door dilated to receive the three--the lieutenant, The Guesser, and +the sergeant-at-arms--and they marched across the room to the captain's +desk. + +The captain didn't even bother to look up until High Lieutenant Blyke +saluted and said: "The Guesser, sir." + +And the captain gave the lieutenant a quick nod and then looked coldly +at The Guesser. "The ship has been badly damaged. Since there are no +repair docks here on Viornis, we will have to unload our cargo and then +go--_empty_--all the way to D'Graski's Planet for repairs. All during +that time, we will be more vulnerable than ever to Misfit raids." + +His ice-chill voice stopped, and he simply looked at The Guesser with +glacier-blue, unblinking eyes for ten long seconds. + +The Guesser said nothing. There was nothing he _could_ say. Nothing that +would do him any good. + +The Guesser disliked Grand Captain Reed--and more, feared him. Reed had +been captain of the _Naipor_ for only three years, having replaced the +old captain on his retirement. He was a strict disciplinarian, and had a +tendency to punish heavily for very minor infractions of the rules. Not, +of course, that he didn't have every right to do so; he was, after all, +the captain. + +But the old captain hadn't given The Guesser a nerve-burning in all the +years since he had accepted The Guesser as The Guesser. And Captain +Reed-- + +The captain's cold voice interrupted his thoughts. + +"Well? What was it? If it was a mechano-electronic misfunction of the +computer, say so; we'll speak to the engineer." + +The Guesser knew that the captain was giving him what looked like an +out--but The Guesser also knew it was a test, a trap. + +The Guesser bowed his head very low and saluted. "No, great sir; the +fault was mine." + +Grand Captain Reed nodded his head in satisfaction. "Very well. +Intensity Five, two minutes. Dismissed." + +The Guesser bowed his head and saluted, then he turned and walked out +the door. The sergeant-at-arms didn't need to follow him; he had been +let off very lightly. + +He marched off toward the Disciplinary Room with his head at the proper +angle--ready to lift it if he met a lesser crewman, ready to lower it if +he met an executive officer. + +He could already feel the terrible pain of the nerve-burner coursing +through his body--a jolt every ten seconds for two minutes, like a whip +lashing all over his body at once. His only satisfaction was the +knowledge that he had sentenced Kraybo to ten minutes of the same thing. + + * * * * * + +The Guesser lay on his bed, face down, his grasping fingers clutching +spasmodically at the covering as his nerves twitched with remembered +pain. Thirteen jolts. Thirteen searing jolts of excruciating torture. It +was over now, but his synapses were still crackling with the memories of +those burning lashes of energy. + +He was thirty-five. He had to keep that in mind. He was thirty-five now, +and his nerves should be under better control than they had been at +twenty. He wondered if there were tears streaming from his eyes, and +then decided it didn't matter. At least he wasn't crying aloud. + +Of course, he had screamed in the nerve-burner; he had screamed thirteen +times. Any man who didn't scream when those blinding stabs of pain came +was either unconscious or dead--it was no disgrace to scream in the +burner. But he wasn't screaming now. + +He lay there for ten minutes, his jaw clamped, while the twitching +subsided and his nervous system regained its usual co-ordination. + +The burner did no actual physical damage; it wasn't good economics for +an Executive to allow his men to be hurt in any physical manner. It took +a very little actual amount of energy applied to the nerve endings to +make them undergo the complex electrochemical reaction that made them +send those screaming messages to the brain and spine. There was less +total damage done to the nerves than a good all-night binge would do to +a normal human being. But the effect on the mind was something else +again. + +It was a very effective method of making a man learn almost any lesson +you wanted to teach him. + +After a while, The Guesser shuddered once more, took a deep breath, held +it for fifteen seconds, and then released it. A little later, he lifted +himself up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. He sat on the +edge of the bed for a few minutes, then got up and got dressed in his +best uniform. + +After all, the captain hadn't said anything about restricting him to the +ship, and he had never been to Viornis before. Besides, a couple of +drinks might make him feel better. + +There were better planets in the galaxy, he decided two hours later. +Thousands of them. + +For one thing, it was a small, but dense world, with a surface gravity +of one point two standard gees--not enough to be disabling, but enough +to make a man feel sluggish. For another, its main export was farm +products: there were very few large towns on Viornis, and no center of +population that could really be called a city. Even here, at the +spaceport, the busiest and largest town on the planet, the population +was less than a million. It was a "new" world, with a history that +didn't stretch back more than two centuries. With the careful population +control exercised by the ruling Execs, it would probably remain small +and provincial for another half millennium. + +The Guesser moseyed down one of the streets of Bellinberg probably named +after the first Prime Executive of the planet--looking for a decent +place for a spaceman to have a drink. It was evening, and the sinking of +the yellow primary below the western horizon had left behind it a clear, +star-filled sky that filled the air with a soft, white radiance. The +streets of the town itself were well-lit by bright glow-plates imbedded +in the walls of the buildings, but above the street level, the buildings +themselves loomed darkly. Occasionally, an Exec's aircar would drift +rapidly overhead with a soft rush of air, and, in the distance, he could +see the shimmering towers of the Executive section rising high above the +eight- or ten-storyed buildings that made up the majority of Bellinberg. + +The streets were fairly crowded with strollers--most of them Class Four +or Five citizens who stepped deferentially aside as soon as they saw his +uniform, and kept their eyes averted from him. Now and then, the power +car of a Class Three rolled swiftly by, and The Guesser felt a slight +twinge of envy. Technically, his own rank was the equivalent of Class +Three, but he had never owned a groundcar. What need had a spaceman of a +groundcar? Still, it would be nice to drive one just once, he thought; +it would be a new experience, certainly. + +Right now, though, he was looking for a Class Three bar; just a place to +have a small, quiet drink and a bite to eat. He had a perfect right to +go into a lower class bar, of course, but he had never felt quite +comfortable associating with his inferiors in such a manner, and +certainly they would feel nervous in his presence because of the sidearm +at his hip. + +No one below Class Three was allowed to carry a beamgun, and only Ones +and Twos were allowed to wear the screening fields that protected them +from the nerve-searing effects of the weapon. And they, being Execs, +were in no danger from each other. + +Finally, after much walking, he decided that he was in the wrong part of +town. There were no Class Three bars anywhere along these streets. +Perhaps, he thought, he should have gone to the Spacemen's Club at the +spaceport itself. On the other hand, he hadn't particularly wanted to +see any of the other minor officers of his own class after the +near-fiasco which had damaged the _Naipor_. Being a Guesser set him +apart, even from other Threes. + +He thought for a moment of asking a policeman, but he dismissed it. +Cops, as always, were a breed apart. Besides, they weren't on the +streets to give directions, but to preserve order. + +At last, he went into a nearby Class Four bar and snapped his fingers +for the bartender, ignoring the sudden silence that had followed his +entrance. + +The barman set down a glass quickly and hurried over, bobbing his head +obsequiously. "Yes, sir; yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir? It's an +honor to have you here, sir. How may I serve you?" + +The man himself was wearing the distinctive clothing of a Five, so his +customers outranked him, but the brassard on his arm showed that his +master was a Two, which afforded him enough authority to keep reasonable +order in the place. + +"Where's the nearest Class Three bar?" The Guesser snapped. + +The barman looked faintly disappointed, but he didn't lose his +obsequiousness. "Oh, that's quite a way from here, sir--about the +closest would be Mallard's, over on Fourteenth Street and Upper Drive. A +mile, at least." + +The Guesser scowled. He was in the wrong section of town, all right. + +"But I'd be honored to serve you, sir," the barman hurried on. "Private +booth, best of everything, perfect privacy--" + +The Guesser shook his head quickly. "No. Just tell me how to get to +Mallard's." + +The barman looked at him for a moment, rubbing a fingertip across his +chin, then he said: "You're not driving, I suppose, sir? No? Well, then, +you can either take the tubeway or walk, sir...." He let the sentence +hang, waiting for The Guesser's decision. + +The Guesser thought rapidly. Tubeways were for Fours and Fives. Threes +had groundcars; Ones and Twos had aircars; Sixes and below walked. And +spacemen walked. + +Trouble is, spacemen aren't used to walking, especially on a planet +where they weigh twenty per cent more than they're used to. The Guesser +decided he'd take the tubeway; at the Class Three bar, he might be able +to talk someone into driving him to the spaceport later. + +But five minutes later, he was walking in the direction the bartender +had told him to take for finding Mallard's on foot. To get to the +tubeway was a four-block walk, and then there would be another long walk +after he got off. Hoofing it straight there would be only a matter of +five blocks difference, and it would at least spare him the +embarrassment of taking the tube. + + * * * * * + +It was a foolish thing to do, perhaps, but once The Guesser had set his +mind on something, it took a lot more than a long walk to dissuade him +from his purpose. He saw he was not the only spaceman out on the town; +one of the Class Five taverns he passed was filled with boisterous +singing, and he could see a crowd of men standing around three crewmen +who were leading them in a distinctly off-color ballad. The Guesser +smiled a little to himself. Let them have their fun while they were +on-planet; their lives weren't exactly bright aboard ship. + +Of course, they got as much as was good for them in the way of +entertainment, but a little binge gave them something to look forward +to, and a good nerve-burning would sober them up fast enough if they +made the mistake of coming back drunk. + +Nerve-burning didn't really bother a Five much, after all; they were +big, tough, work-hardened clods, whose minds and brains simply didn't +have the sensitivity to be hurt by that sort of treatment. Oh, they +screamed as loud as anyone when they were in the burner, but it really +didn't have much effect on them. They were just too thick-skulled to +have it make much difference to them one way or the other. + +On the other hand, an Exec would probably go all to pieces in a burner. +If it didn't kill him outright, he'd at least be sick for days. They +were too soft to take even a touch of it. No Class One, so far as The +Guesser knew, had ever been subjected to that sort of treatment, and a +Two only got it rarely. They just weren't used to it; they wouldn't have +the stamina to take it. + +His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the familiar warning that rang +in his mind like a bell. He realized suddenly, as he became blazingly +aware of his surroundings, that he had somehow wandered into a +definitely low-class neighborhood. Around him were the stark, plain +housing groups of Class Six families. The streets were more dimly lit, +and there was almost no one on the street, since it was after curfew +time for Sixes. The nearest pedestrian was a block off and moving away. + +All that took him but a fraction of a second to notice, and he knew that +it was not his surroundings which had sparked the warning in his mind. +There was something behind him--moving. + +What had told him? Almost nothing. The merest touch of a foot on the +soft pavement--the faintest rustle of clothing--the whisper of something +moving through the air. + +Almost nothing--but enough. To a man who had played blindfold baseball, +it was plenty. He knew that someone not ten paces behind him had thrown +something heavy, and he knew its exact trajectory to within a thousandth +of a millimeter, and he knew exactly how to move his head to avoid the +missile. + +He moved it, at the same time jerking his body to one side. It had only +been a guess--but what more did a Guesser need? + +From the first hint of warning to the beginning of the dodging motion, +less than half a second had passed. + +He started to spin around as the heavy object went by him, but another +warning yelped in his mind. He twisted a little, but it was too late. + +Something burned horribly through his body, like a thousand million +acid-tipped, white-hot needles jabbing through skin and flesh and +sinking into the bone. He couldn't even scream. + +He blacked out as if he'd been a computer suddenly deprived of power. + + + + +II + + +_Of course_, came the thought, _a very good way to put out a fire is to +pour cold water on it. That's a very good idea._ + +At least, it had put out the fire. + +_Fire?_ What fire? The fire in his body, the scalding heat that had been +quenched by the cold water. + +Slowly, as though it were being turned on through a sluggishly turning +rheostat, consciousness came back to The Guesser. + +He began to recognize the sensations in his body. There was a general, +all-over dull ache, punctuated here and there by sharper aches. There +was the dampness and the chill. And there was the queer, gnawing feeling +in the pit of his stomach. + +At first, he did not think of how he had gotten where he was, nor did he +even wonder about his surroundings. There seemed merely to be an +absolute urgency to get out of wherever he was and, at the same time, an +utter inability to do so. He tried to move, to shift position, but his +muscles seemed so terribly tired that flexing them was a high-magnitude +effort. + +After several tries, he got his arms under his chest, and only then did +he realize that he had been lying prone, his right cheek pressed against +cold, slimy stone. He lifted himself a little, but the effort was too +much, and he collapsed again, his body making a faint splash as he did +so. + +He lay there for a while, trying to puzzle out his odd and uncomfortable +environment. He seemed to be lying on a sloping surface with his head +higher than his feet. The lower part of his body was immersed in chill, +gently-moving water. And there was something else-- + +The smell. + +It was an incredible stench, an almost overpowering miasma of decay. + +He moved his head then, and forced his eyes open. There was a dim, +feeble glow from somewhere overhead and to his right, but it was enough +to show him a vaulted ceiling a few feet above him. He was lying in some +sort of tube which-- + +And then the sudden realization came. + +He was in a sewer. + +The shock of it cleared his mind a little, and gave added strength to +his muscles. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and began crawling +toward the dim light. It wasn't more than eight or ten feet, but it +seemed to take an eternity for him to get there. Above him was a +grating, partially covered with a soggy-looking sheet of paper. The +light evidently came from a glow-plate several yards away. + +He lay there, exhausted and aching, trying to force his brain into +action, trying to decide what to do next. + +He'd have to lift the grating, of course; that much was obvious. And +he'd have to stand up to do that. Did he have the strength? + +Only one way to find out. Again he pushed himself to his hands and +knees, and it seemed easier this time. Then, bracing himself against the +curving wall of the sewer, he got to his feet. His knees were weak and +wobbly, but they'd hold. They _had_ to hold. + +The top of the sewer duct was not as far off as it had seemed; he had to +stoop to keep from banging his head against the grating. He paused in +that position to catch his breath, and then reached up, first with one +hand and then with the other, to grasp the grating. + +Then, with all the strength he could gather, he pushed upwards. The +hinged grate moved upwards and banged loudly on the pavement. + +There remained the problem of climbing out of the hole. The Guesser +never knew how he solved it. Somehow, he managed to find himself out of +the sewer and lying exhausted on the pavement. + +He knew that there was some reason why he couldn't just lie there +forever, some reason why he had to hide where he couldn't be seen. + +It was not until that moment that he realized that he was completely +naked. He had been stripped of everything, including the chronometer on +his wrist. + +With an effort, he heaved himself to his feet again and began running, +stumbling drunkenly, yet managing somehow to keep on his feet. He had to +find shelter, find help. + +Somewhere in there, his mind blanked out again. + + * * * * * + +He awoke feeling very tired and weak, yet oddly refreshed, as though he +had slept for a long time. When his eyes opened, he simply stared at the +unfamiliar room for a long time without thinking--without really caring +to think. He only knew that he was warm and comfortable and somehow +safe, and it was such a pleasant feeling after the nightmare of cold and +terror that he only wanted to enjoy it without analyzing it. + +But the memory of the nightmare came again, and he couldn't repress it. +And he knew it hadn't been a nightmare, but reality. + +Full recollection flooded over him. + +Someone had shot him with a beamgun, that nasty little handweapon that +delivered in one powerful, short jolt the same energy that was doled out +in measured doses over a period of minutes in a standard nerve-burner. +He remembered jerking aside at the last second, just before the weapon +was fired, and it was evidently that which had saved his life. If the +beam had hit him in the head or spine, he'd be dead now. + +Then what? Guessing about something that had happened in the past was +futile, and, anyway, guessing didn't apply to situations like that. But +he thought he could pretty well figure out what had happened. + +After he'd been shot down, his assailant had probably dragged him off +somewhere and stripped him, and then dumped him bodily into the sewer. +The criminal had undoubtedly thought that The Guesser was dead; if the +body had been found, days or weeks later, it would be unidentifiable, +and probably dismissed as simply another unsolved murder. They were +rather common in low-class districts such as this. + +Which brought him back again to the room. + +He sat up in bed and looked around. Class Six Standard Housing. Hard, +gray, cast polymer walls--very plain. Ditto floor and ceiling. Single +glow-plate overhead. Rough, gray bedclothing. + +Someone had found him after that careening flight from the terror of the +sewer and had brought him here. Who? + +_Who?_ + +The sense of well-being he had felt upon awakening had long since +deserted him. What he felt now was a queer mixture of disgust and fear. +He had never known a Class Six. Even the lowest crewman on the _Naipor_ +was a Five. + +Uneasily, The Guesser climbed out of the bed. He was wearing a sack-like +gray dress that fell almost to his knees, and nothing else. He walked on +silent bare feet to the door. He could hear nothing beyond it, so he +twisted the handle carefully and eased it open a crack. + +And immediately he heard low voices. The first was a man's. + +"... Like you pick up dogs, hey." He sounded angry. "He bring trouble on +high, that'n. Look, you, at the face he got. He no Sixer, no, nor even +Fiver. Exec, that's what. Trouble." + +Then a woman's voice. "Exec, he?" A sharp laugh. "Naked, dirty-wet, +sick, he fall on my door. Since when Execs ask help from Sixer chippie +like I? And since when Execs talk like Sixer when they out of they head? +No fancy Exec talk, he, no." + +The Guesser didn't understand that. If the woman was talking about +him--and she must be--then surely he had not spoken the illiterate +patois of the Class Six people when he was delirious. + +The woman went on. "No, Lebby; you mind you business; me, I mind mine. +Here, you take you this and get some food. Now, go, now. Come back at +dark." + +The man grumbled something The Guesser didn't understand, but there +seemed to be a certain amount of resignation in his voice. Then a door +opened and closed, and there was a moment of silence. + + * * * * * + +Then he heard the woman's footsteps approaching the partially opened +door. And her voice said: "You lucky Lebby have he back to you when you +open the door. If he even see it move, he know you wake." + +The Guesser backed away from the door as she came in. + +She was a drab woman, with a colorlessness of face that seemed to match +the colorlessness of her clothing. Her hair was cropped short, and she +seemed to sag all over, as though her body were trying to conform to the +shapelessness of the dress instead of the reverse. When she forced a +smile to her face, it didn't seem to fit, as though her mouth were +unused to such treatment from the muscles. + +"How you feel?" she asked, stopping just inside the room. + +"I ... uh--" The Guesser hardly knew what to say. He was in a totally +alien environment, a completely unknown situation. "I'm fine," he said +at last. + +She nodded. "You get plenty sleep, all right. Like dead, except when you +talk to yourself." + +Then he _had_ spoken in delirium. "How ... how long was I out?" + +"Three days," she said flatly. "Almost four." She paused. "You ship +leave." + +"Leave?" The Guesser said blankly. "The _Naipor_? Gone?" It seemed as if +the world had dropped away from his feet, leaving him to fall endlessly +through nothingness. It was true, of course. It didn't take more than +twenty-four hours to unload the ship's holds, and, since there had been +no intention of reloading, there was no need to stay. He had long +overstayed the scheduled take-off time. + +It created a vacuum in his mind, a hole in his very being that could +never be filled by anything else. The ship was his whole life--his home, +his work, his security. + +"How did you know about the ship?" he asked in a dazed voice. + +"A notice," she said. She fished around in one of the big pockets of the +gray dress and her hand came out with a crumpled sheet of glossy paper. +She handed it to him silently. It was a Breach of Contract notice. + + WANTED + _for_ + BREACH OF CONTRACT + + JAIM JAKOM DIEGO + + AGE: 35 + HEIGHT: 185 cm + WEIGHT: 96 kg + HAIR: black + EYES: blue + COMPLXN: fair + + Jaim Jakom Diego, Spacetech 3rd Guesser, broke contract with + Interstellar Trade Corporation on 3/37/119 by failing to report for + duty aboard home merchantship _Naipor_ on that date. All citizens + are notified hereby that said Jaim Jakom Diego is unemployable + except by the ITC, and that he has no housing, clothing, nor + subsistance rights on any planet, nor any right to transportation + of any kind. + + STANDARD REWARD PLUS BONUS FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE ARREST OF + THIS MAN + +The Guesser looked at the picture that accompanied the notice. It was an +old one, taken nearly fifteen years before. It didn't look much like him +any more. But that didn't matter; even if he was never caught, he still +had no place to go. A runaway had almost no chance of remaining a +runaway for long. How would he eat? Where would he live? + +He looked up from the sheet, into the woman's face. She looked back with +a flat, unwavering gaze. He knew now why she had been addressing him as +an equal, even though she knew he was Class Three. + +"Why haven't you tried to collect the reward?" he asked. He felt +suddenly weak, and sat down again on the edge of the bed. + +"Me, I need you." Then her eyes widened a trifle. "Pale you look, you +do. I get you something solid inside you. Nothing but soup I get down +you so far, all three days. Soup. You sit, I be back." + +He nodded. He _was_ feeling sickish. + +She went into the other room, leaving the door open, and he could hear +noises from the small kitchen. The woman began to talk, raising her +voice a little so he could hear her. + +"You like eggs?" she asked. + +"Some kinds," said The Guesser. "But it doesn't matter. I'm hungry." He +hadn't realized how hungry he was. + +"_Some_ kinds?" The woman's voice was puzzled. "They more than one kind +of egg?" The kitchen was suddenly silent as she waited intently for the +answer. + +"Yes," said The Guesser. "On other planets. What kind of eggs are +these?" + +"Just ... just _eggs_." + +"I mean, what kind of animal do they come from?" + +"Chicken. What else lay eggs?" + +"Other birds." He wished vaguely that he knew more about the fauna of +Viornis. Chickens were well-nigh universal; they could live off almost +anything. But other fowl fared pretty well, too. He shrugged it off; +none of his business; leave that to the ecologists. + +"Birds?" the woman asked. It was an unfamiliar word to her. + +"Different kinds of chickens," he said tiredly. "Some bigger, some +smaller, some different colors." He hoped the answer would satisfy her. + +Evidently it did. She said, "Oh," and went on with what she was doing. + +The silence, after only a minute or two, became unbearable. The Guesser +had wanted to yell at the woman to shut up, to leave him alone and not +bother him with her ignorant questions that he could not answer because +she was inherently too stupid to understand. He had wondered why he +hadn't yelled; surely it was not incumbent on a Three to answer the +questions of a Six. + +But he _had_ answered, and after she stopped talking, he began to know +why. He wanted to talk and to be talked to. Anything to fill up the void +in his mind; anything to take the place of a world that had suddenly +vanished. + +What would he be doing now, if this had not happened? Involuntarily, he +glanced at his wrist, but the chronometer was gone. + +He would have awakened, as always, at precisely 0600 ship time. He would +have dressed, and at 0630 he would have been at table, eating his meal +in silence with the others of his class. At 0640, the meal would be +over, and conversation would be allowed until 0645. Then, the inspection +of the fire control system from 0650 until 0750. Then-- + +He forced his mind away from it, tried not to think of the pleasant, +regular orderly routine by which he had lived his life for a quarter of +a century and more. + +When the woman's voice came again, it was a relief. + +"What's a Guesser?" + +He told her as best he could, trying to couch his explanation in terms +that would be understood by a woman of her limited vocabulary and +intelligence. He was not too sure he succeeded, but it was a relief to +talk about it. He could almost feel himself dropping into the routine +that he used in the orientation courses for young Guessers who had been +assigned to him for protection and instruction. + +"Accurate predicting of this type is not capable of being taught to all +men; unless a man has within him the innate ability to be a Guesser, he +is as incapable of learning Guessing as a blind man is incapable of +being taught to read." (It occurred to him at that moment to wonder how +the Class Six woman had managed to read the Breach of Contract notice. +He would have to ask her later.) "On the other hand, just as the mere +possession of functioning eyes does not automatically give one the +ability to read, neither does the genetic inheritance of Guesser +potentialities enable one to make accurate, useful Guesses. To make this +potentiality into an ability requires years of hard work and practice. + +"You must learn to concentrate, to focus your every attention on the job +at hand, to--" + +He broke off suddenly. The woman was standing in the doorway, holding a +plate and a steaming mug. Her eyes were wide with puzzlement and +astonishment. "You mean _me_?" + +"No ... no." He shook his head. "I ... was thinking of something else." + +She came on in, carrying the food. "You got tears in your eyes. You +hurt?" + +He wanted to say _yes_. He wanted to tell her how he was hurt and why. +But the words wouldn't--or couldn't--come. "No," he said. "My eyes are +just a little blurry, that's all. From sleep." + +She nodded, accepting his statements. "Here. You eat you this. Put some +stuffing in you belly." + +He ate, not caring what the food tasted like. He didn't speak, and +neither did she, for which he was thankful. Conversation during a meal +would have been both meaningless and painful to him. + +It was odd to think that, in a way, a Class Six had more freedom than he +did. Presumably, she _could_ talk, if she wanted, even during a meal. + +And he was glad that she had not tried to eat at the same time. To have +his food cooked and served by a Six didn't bother him, nor was he +bothered by her hovering nearby. But if she had sat down with him to +eat-- + +But she hadn't, so he dropped the thought from his mind. + +Afterwards, he felt much better. He actually hadn't realized how hungry +he had been. + +She took the dishes out and returned almost immediately. + +"You thought what you going to do?" she asked. + +He shook his head. He hadn't thought. He hadn't even wanted to think. It +was as though, somewhere in the back of his mind, something kept +whispering that this was all nothing but a very bad dream and that he'd +wake up in his cubicle aboard the _Naipor_ at any moment. +Intellectually, he knew it wasn't true, but his emotional needs, coupled +with wishful thinking, had hamstrung his intellect. + +However, he knew he couldn't stay here. The thought of living in a Class +Six environment all the rest of his life was utterly repellent to him. +And there was nowhere else he could go, either. Even though he had not +been tried as yet, he had effectively been Declassified. + +"I suppose I'll just give myself over to the Corporation," he said. +"I'll tell them I was waylaid--maybe they'll believe it." + +"Maybe? Just only maybe?" + +He shrugged a little. "I don't know. I've never been in trouble like +this before. I just don't know." + +"What they going to do to you, you give up to them?" + +"I don't know that, either." + +Her eyes suddenly looked far off. "Me, I got an idea. Maybe get both of +us some place." + +He looked at her quickly. "What do you mean?" + +Her gaze came back from the distance, and her eyes focused squarely on +his. "The Misfits," she said in her flat voice. "We could go to the +Misfits." + + + + +III + + +The Guesser had been fighting the Misfits for twenty years, and hating +them for as long as he could remember. The idea that he could ever +become one of them had simply never occurred to him. Even the idea of +going to one of the Misfit Worlds was so alien that the very suggestion +of it was shocking to his mind. + +And yet, the suggestion that the Sixer woman had made did require a +little thinking over before he accepted or rejected it. + +The Misfits. What did he really know about them, anyway? + +They didn't call themselves Misfits, of course; that was a derogatory +name used by the Aristarchy. But the Guesser couldn't remember off hand +just what they _did_ call themselves. Their form of government was a +near-anarchic form of ochlocracy, he knew--mob rule of some sort, as +might be expected among such people. They were the outgrowth of an +ancient policy that had been used centuries ago for populating the +planets of the galaxy. + +There are some people who simply do not, will not, and can not fit in +with any kind of social organization--except the very flimsiest, +perhaps. Depending on the society in which they exist and the extent of +their own antisocial activities, they have been called, over the +centuries, everything from "criminals" to "pioneers." It was a matter of +whether they fought the unwelcome control of the society in power or +fled from it. + +The Guesser's knowledge of history was close to nonexistent, but he had +heard that the expansion to the stars from Earth--a planet he had never +been within a thousand parsecs of--had been accomplished by the +expedient of combining volunteers with condemned criminals and shipping +them off to newly-found Earth-type planets. After a generation had +passed, others came in--the civilizing types--and settled the planets, +making them part of the Aristarchy proper. + +(Or was the Aristarchy that old? The Guesser had a feeling that the +government at that time had been of a different sort, but he couldn't +for the life of him remember what it was. Perhaps it had been the +prototype of the Aristarchy, for certainly the present system of society +had existed for four or five centuries--perhaps more. The Guesser +realized that his knowledge of ancient history was as confused as +anyone's; after all, it wasn't his specialty. He remembered that when he +was a boy, he'd heard a Teacher Exec talk about the Geological Ages of +Earth and the Teacher had said that "cave men were _not_ contemporary +with the dinosaur." He hadn't known what it meant at the time, since he +wasn't supposed to be listening, anyway, to an Exec class, but he had +realized that the histories of times past often became mixed up with +each other.) + +At any rate, the process had gone along smoothly, even as the present +process of using Class Sevens and Declassified citizens did. But in the +early days there had not been the organization that existed in the +present Aristarchy; planets had become lost for generations at a time. +(The Guesser vaguely remembered that there had been wars of some kind +during that time, and that the wars had contributed to those losses.) +Some planets had civilized themselves without the intervention of the +Earth government, and, when the Earth government had come along, they +had fought integration with everything they could summon to help them. + +Most of the recalcitrant planets had eventually been subdued, but there +were still many "hidden planets" which were organized as separate +governments under a loose confederation. These were the Misfits. + +Because of the numerical superiority of the Aristarchy, and because it +operated in the open instead of skulking in the darkness of space, the +Misfits knew where Aristarchy planets were located, while the Aristarchy +was unable to search out every planet in the multimyriads of star +systems that formed the galaxy. + +Thus the Misfits had become pirates, preying on the merchantships of the +Aristarchy. Why? No one knew. (Or, at least, The Guesser corrected +himself, _he_ didn't know.) Such a non-sane culture would have non-sane +reasons. + +The Aristarchy occupied nearly all the planets of the galaxy that could +be inhabited by Man; that much The Guesser had been told. Just why +Earth-type planets should occur only within five thousand light-years of +the Galactic Center was a mystery to him, but, then, he was no +astrophysicist. + +But the Sixer woman said she had heard that the Aristarchy was holding +back facts; that there were planets clear out to the Periphery, all +occupied by Misfits; that the legendary Earth was one of those planets; +that-- + +A thousand things. All wrong, as The Guesser knew. But she was firmly +convinced that if anyone could get to a Misfit planet, they would be +welcomed. There were no Classes among the Misfits, she said. (The +Guesser dismissed that completely; a Classless society was ridiculous on +the face of it.) + +The Guesser had asked the woman why--if her statements were true--the +Misfits had not conquered the Aristarchy long ago. After all, if they +held the galaxy clear out to the Periphery, they had the Aristarchy +surrounded, didn't they? + +She had had no answer. + +And it had only been later that The Guesser realized that _he_ had an +answer. Indeed, that he himself, was a small, but significant part of +that answer. + +The Misfits had no Guessers. That was a fact that The Guesser knew from +personal experience. He had been in space battles with Misfit fleets, +and he had brought the _Naipor_ through those battles unscathed while +wreaking havoc and destruction among the massed ships of the Misfits. +They had no Guessers. (Or no _trained_ Guessers, he amended. The +potential might be there, but certainly the actuality was not.) + +And it occurred to him that the Misfits might have another kind of +trained talent. They seemed to be able to search out and find a single +Aristarchy ship, while it was impossible to even detect a Misfit fleet +until it came within attacking distance. Well, that, again, was not his +business. + + * * * * * + +But none of these considerations were important in the long run; none of +them were more than minor. The thing that made up The Guesser's mind, +that spurred him into action, was the woman's admission that she had a +plan for actually reaching Misfit planets. + +It was quite simple, really; they were to be taken prisoners. + +"They spaceships got no people inside, see you," she said, just as +though she knew what she were talking about. "They just want to catch +our ships, not kill 'em. So they send out a bunch of little ships on +they own, just to ... uh ... cripple our ships. It don't matter, they +little ships get hit, because they no one in them, see you. They trying +to get our ships in good shape, and people in them and stuff, that's +all." + +"Yes, yes," The Guesser had said impatiently, "but what's that to do +with us?" + +She waved a hand, as though she were a little flustered by his +peremptory tone. She wasn't, after all, used to talking with Class +Threes as equals, even though she knew that in this case the Three was +helpless. + +"I _tell_ you! I _tell_ you!" She paused to reorganize her thoughts. +"But I ask you: if we get on a ship, you can keep it from shooting the +Misfit ships?" + +The Guesser saw what she was driving at. It didn't make much sense yet, +but there was a glimmer of something there. + +"You mean," he said, "that you want to know whether it would be possible +for me to partially disable the fire-control system of a spaceship +enough to allow it to be captured by Misfit ships?" + +She nodded rapidly. "Yes ... I think, yes. Can you?" + +"Ye-e-es," The Guesser said, slowly and cautiously. "I could. But not by +just walking in and doing it. I mean, it would be almost impossible to +get aboard a ship in the first place, and without an official position I +couldn't do anything anyway." + +But she didn't look disappointed. Instead, she'd smiled a little. "I get +us on the ship," she said. "And you have official position. We do it." + +When she had gone on to explain, The Guesser's mind had boggled at her +audacity--at first. And then he'd begun to see how it might be possible. + +For it was not until then that the woman had given The Guesser +information which he hadn't thought to ask about before. The first was +her name: Deyla. The second was her job. + +She was a cleaning woman in Executive territory. + +And, as she outlined her plan for reaching the Misfits, The Guesser +began to feel despair slipping from his mind, to be replaced by hope. + + * * * * * + +The Guesser plodded solemnly along the street toward the tall, +glittering building which was near the center of Executive territory, +his feet moving carefully, his eyes focused firmly on the soft, textured +surface of the pavement. He was clad in the rough gray of a Class Six +laborer, and his manner was carefully tailored to match. As he was +approached by Fours and Fives, he stepped carefully to one side, keeping +his face blank, hiding the anger that seethed just beneath the surface. + +Around his arm was a golden brassard indicating that he was contracted +to a Class One, and in his pocket was a carefully forged card indicating +the same thing. No one noticed him; he was just another Sixer going to +his menial job. + +The front of the building bore a large glowing plaque which said: + +VIORNIS EXPORT CORPORATION + +But the front entrance was no place for a Sixer. He went on past it, +stepping aside regularly for citizens of higher class than his own +assumed Six. He made his way around to the narrow alley that ran past +the rear of the building. + +There was a Class Five guard armed with a heavy truncheon, standing by +the door that led into the workers entrance. The Guesser, as he had +been instructed by Deyla, had his card out as he neared the doorway. The +guard hardly even glanced at it before wagging a finger indicating that +The Guesser was to pass. He didn't bother to speak. + +The Guesser was trembling as he walked on in--partly in anger, partly in +fear. It seemed ridiculous that one glance had not told the guard that +he was not a Class Six. The Guesser was quite certain that he didn't +_look_ like a Sixer. But then, Fives were not very perceptive people, +anyway. + +The Guesser went on walking into the complex corridors of the lower part +of the building, following directions that had been given him by Deyla. +There was no hesitation on his part; his memory for things like that was +as near perfect as any record of the past can be. He knew her +instructions well enough to have navigated the building in the dark. + +Again, The Guesser found himself vaguely perturbed by the relative +freedom of Sixers. As long as they got their jobs done there was almost +no checking as to how they spent their time. Well, actually, the jobs to +which they were suited were rather trivial--some of them were actually +"made work." After all, in a well-run society, it was axiomatic that +everyone have basic job security; that's what kept everyone happy. + +Of course, there were plenty of Sixers working in construction and on +farms who were kept on their toes by overseers, but cleaning jobs and +such didn't need such supervision. A thing can only be so clean; there's +no quota to fill and exceed. + +After several minutes of walking and climbing stairs--Sixers did not use +lift chutes or drop chutes--he found the room where Deyla had told him +to meet her. It was a small storeroom containing cleaning tools and +supplies. She was waiting for him. + +And, now that the time had actually come for them to act on her plan, +fear showed on her face. The Guesser knew then that he had been right in +his decision. But he said nothing about that yet. + +"Now are you certain about the destination?" he asked before she could +speak. + +She nodded nervously. "Yes, yes. D'Graski's Planet. That's what he say." + +"Good." The Guesser had waited for three weeks for this day, but he had +known it would come eventually. D'Graski's Planet was the nearest repair +base; sooner or later, another ship had to make that as a port of call +from Viornis. He had told Deyla that the route to D'Graski's was the one +most likely to be attacked by Misfit ships, that she would have to wait +until a ship bound for there landed at the spaceport before the two of +them could carry out their plan. And now the ship was here. + +"What's the name of the ship?" he asked. + +"Th-the _Trobwell_." + +"What's the matter with you?" he asked, suddenly and harshly. + +She shivered. "Scared. Awful scared." + +"I thought so. Have you got the clothing?" + +"Y-yes." Then she broke down completely. "You got to help me! You got to +show me how to act like Exec lady! Show me how to talk! Otherwise, we +both get caught!" + +He shook her to quiet her. "Shut up!" When she had quieted, he said: +"You are right, of course; we'd both be caught if you were to slip up. +But I'm afraid it's too late to teach you now. It's always been too +late." + +"Wha-what ... what you mean?" + +"Never mind. Where's the traveling case?" + +She pointed silently towards a shelf, one of many that lined the room. + +The Guesser went over and pulled out a box of cleaning dust-filters. +Behind it was a gold-and-blue traveling case. The girl had spent months +stealing the little things inside it, bit by bit, long before The +Guesser had come into her life, dreaming of the day when she would +become an Exec lady. Not until he had come had she tried to project that +dream into reality. + +The Guesser thumbed the opener, and the traveling case split into +halves. The sight of the golden uniform of a Class One Executive gleamed +among the women's clothing. And she had forgotten no detail; the +expensive beamgun and holster lay beneath the uniform. + +He picked it up carefully, almost reverently. It was the first time he'd +held one since he'd been beamed down himself, so long ago. He turned the +intensity knob down to the "stun" position. + +"We going to put them on _here_?" she asked in a hushed voice. "Just +walk out? Me, I scared!" + +He stood up, the stun gun in his hand, its muzzle pointed toward the +floor. "Let me tell you something," he said, keeping his voice as kindly +as he could. "Maybe it will keep you out of further trouble. You could +never pass as an Exec. Never. It wouldn't matter how long you tried to +practice, you simply couldn't do it. Your mind is incapable of it. Your +every word, your every mannerism, would be a dead giveaway." + +There was shock slowly coming over her face. "You not going to take me," +she said, in her soft, flat voice. + +"No." + +"How I ever going to get to Misfits? How?" There were tears in her eyes, +just beginning to fill the lower lids. + +"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid your idealized Misfits just don't +exist. The whole idea is ridiculous. Their insane attacks on us show +that they have unstable, warped minds--and don't tell me about +machine-operated or robot-controlled ships. You don't build a machine to +do a job when a human being is cheaper. Your fanciful Misfit nation +would have dissolved long ago if it had tried to operate on the +principle that a lower-class human is worth more than a machine. + +"You'll be better off here, doing your job; there are no such havens as +Classless Misfit societies." + +She was shaking her head as he spoke, trying to fight away the words +that were shattering her cherished dream. And the words were having +their effect because she believed him, because he believed himself. + +"No," she was saying softly. "No, no, no." + +The Guesser brought up the gun muzzle and shot her where she stood. + + * * * * * + +Half an hour later, The Guesser was fighting down his own fear. He was +hard put to do it, but he managed to stride purposefully across the +great spacefield toward the towering bulk of the _Trobwell_ without +betraying that fear. + +If they caught him now-- + +He closed his mind against the thought and kept on walking. + +At the base of the landing cradle, a Class Four guard was standing +stolidly. He bowed his head and saluted as The Guesser walked by. + +_It's so easy!_ The Guesser thought. _So incredibly easy!_ + +Even the captain of the ship would only be a Class Two Exec. No one +would question him--no one would _dare_ to. + +A lieutenant looked up, startled as he entered the ship itself, and +saluted hurriedly. + +"It's an honor to have you aboard, great sir," he said apologetically, +"but you realize, of course, that we are taking off in a very few +minutes." + +Words choked suddenly in the Guesser's throat, and he had to swallow +hard before he could speak. "I know that. I'm ... I'm going with you." + +The lieutenant's eyes widened a trifle. "No orders have been taped to +that effect, great sir." + +_This is it!_ thought The Guesser. He would either put it over now or +he'd be lost--completely. + +He scowled. "Then tape them! I will apologize to the captain about this +last-minute change, but I want no delay in take-off. It is absolutely +vital that I reach D'Graski's Planet quickly!" + +The lieutenant blanched a little. "Sorry, great sir! I'll see that the +orders are taped. You wish a cabin?" + +"Certainly. I presume you have an adequate one?" + +"I'm sure we do, great sir; I'll have the Quarters Officer set one up +for you immediately." + +"Excellent," said The Guesser. "Excellent." + +Fifteen minutes later, the _Trobwell_ lifted from the planet exactly on +schedule. The Guesser, in his assigned room, breathed a deep sigh of +relief. He was on his way to D'Graski's Planet at last! + + * * * * * + +"Tell me, great sir," said the captain, "what do you think the final +decision on this case should be?" He shoved the sheaf of papers across +the desk to The Guesser. + +The Guesser looked at them unseeingly, his mind in a whirl. For five +days now, the captain of the _Trobwell_ had been handing him papers and +asking him questions of that sort. And, since he was the ranking Exec, +he was expected to give some sort of answer. + +This one seemed even more complex than the others, and none of them had +been simple. He forced his eyes to read the print, forced his mind to +absorb the facts. + +These were not clear-cut problems of the kind he had been dealing with +all his life. Computing an orbit mentally was utterly simple compared +with these fantastic problems. + +It was a question of a choice of three different types of cargoes, to be +carried to three different destinations. Which would be the best choice? +The most profitable from an energy standpoint, as far as the ship was +concerned, considering the relative values of the cargoes? What about +relative spoilage rates as compared with fluctuating markets? + +The figures were all there, right before him in plain type. But they +meant nothing. Often, he had been unable to see how there was any +difference between one alternative and another. + +Once, he had been handed the transcripts of a trial on ship, during +which two conflicting stories of an incident had been told by witnesses, +and a third by the defendant. How could one judge on something like +that? And yet he had been asked to. + +He bit his lower lip in nervousness, and then stopped immediately as he +realized that this was no time to display nerves. + +"I should say that Plan B was the best choice," he said at last. It was +a wild stab at nothing, he realized, and yet he could do no better. Had +he made a mistake? + +The captain nodded gravely. "Thank you, great sir. You've been most +helpful. The making of decisions is too important to permit of its being +considered lightly." + +The Guesser could take it no longer. "It was a pleasure to be of +assistance," he said as he stood up, "but there are certain of my own +papers to be gone over before we reach D'Graski's Planet. I trust I +shall be able to finish them." + +The captain stood up quickly. "Oh, certainly, great sir. I hope I +haven't troubled you with my rather minor problems. I shan't disturb you +again during the remainder of the trip." + +The Guesser thanked him and headed for his cabin. He lay on his bed for +hours with a splitting headache. If it weren't for the fact that he had +been forced to go about it this way, he would never have tried to +impersonate an Executive. Never! + +He wasn't even sure he could carry it off for the rest of the trip. + +Somehow, he managed to do it. He kept to himself and pretended that the +blue traveling bag held important papers for him to work on, but he +dreaded mealtimes, when he was forced to sit with the captain and two +lieutenants, chattering like monkeys as they ate. And he'd had to talk, +too; being silent might ruin the impression he had made. + +He hated it. A mouth was built for talking and eating, granted--but not +at the same time. Of course, the Execs had it down to a fine art; they +had a great deal more time for their meals than a Class Three, and they +managed to eat a few bites while someone else was talking, then talk +while the other ate. It was disconcerting and The Guesser never +completely got the hang of co-ordinating the two. + +Evidently, however, none of the three officers noticed it. + +By the time the _Trobwell_ reached D'Graski's Planet, he was actually +physically ill from the strain. One of the worst times had come during +an attack by Misfit ships. He had remained prone on his bed, his mind +tensing at each change of acceleration in the ship. Without the screens +and computer to give him data, he couldn't Guess, and yet he kept +trying; he couldn't stop himself. What made it worse was the knowledge +that his Guesses were coming out wrong almost every time. + +When the ship finally settled into the repair cradle, The Guesser could +hardly keep his hands from shaking. He left the ship feeling broken and +old. But as his feet touched the ground, he thought to himself: _I made +it! In spite of everything, I made it!_ + +And then two men walked toward him--two men wearing blue uniforms of a +ship's Disciplinary Corps. He not only recognized their faces, but he +saw the neat embroidery on the lapels. + +It said: _Naipor_. + + + + +IV + + +Space Captain Humbolt Reed, commander of the _Naipor_, looked at his +Master Guesser and shook his head. "I ought to have you shot. +Declassification is too good for you by far. Impersonating an Executive! +How did you ever think you'd get away with it?" He paused, then barked: +"Come on! Explain!" + +"It was the only way I could think of to get back to the _Naipor_, great +sir," said The Guesser weakly. + +The captain leaned back slowly in his seat. "Well, there's one +extenuating circumstance. The officers of the _Trobwell_ reported that +you were a fine source of amusement during the trip. They enjoyed your +clownish performance very much. + +"Now, tell me exactly why you didn't show up for take-off on Viornis." + +The Guesser explained what had happened, his voice low. He told about +having something thrown at him, about the beamgun being fired at him. He +told about the girl, Deyla. He told everything in a monotonous +undertone. + +The captain nodded when he was through. "That tallies. It fits with the +confession we got." + +"Confession, sir?" The Guesser looked blank. + +Captain Reed sighed. "You're supposed to be a Guesser. Tell me, do you +think I personally, could beam you from behind?" + +"You're the captain, sir." + +"I don't mean for disciplinary purposes," the captain growled. "I mean +from ambush." + +"Well ... no, sir. As soon as I knew you were there, I'd be able to +Guess where you'd fire. And I wouldn't be there." + +"Then what kind of person would be able to throw something at you so +that you'd Guess, so that you'd dodge, and be so preoccupied with that +first dodging that you'd miss the Guess on the aiming of the beamgun +because of sheer physical inertia? What kind of person would know +exactly where you'd be when you dodged? What kind of person would know +exactly where to aim that beamgun?" + +The Guesser had seen what was coming long before the captain finished +his wordy interrogation. + +"Another Guesser, sir," he said. His eyes narrowed. + +"Exactly," said Captain Reed. "Your apprentice, Kraybo. He broke down +during a Misfit attack on the way here; he was never cut out to be a +Master Guesser, and even though he tried to kill you to get the job, he +couldn't handle it. He cracked completely as soon as he tried to +co-ordinate alone. We've actually missed you, Master Guesser." + +"May I see to the disciplining of Kraybo, sir?" The Guesser asked +coldly. + +"You're too late. He's been declassified." The captain looked down at +the papers on his desk. "You may consider yourself reinstated, Master +Guesser, since the fault was not yours. + +"However, masquerading as an Exec, no matter how worthy your motives, +cannot be allowed to go unpunished. You will report to the Discipline +Master for a three-and-three every day for the next five days. And you +will not be allowed to leave the ship during the time we remain in +repair dock. Dismissed." + +"Thank you, great sir." The Guesser turned on his heel and marched out, +heading for the Discipline Master. + +It was good to be home again. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's But, I Don't Think, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUT, I DON'T THINK *** + +***** This file should be named 24005.txt or 24005.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/0/0/24005/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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