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."