"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.