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_.