"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: