The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 25

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 coordinating 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.

  DEAD GIVEAWAY (1959)

  “Mendez?” said the young man in the blue-and-green tartan jacket. “Why, yes…sure I’ve heard of it. Why?”

  The clerk behind the desk looked again at the information screen. “That’s the destination we have on file for Scholar Duckworth, Mr. Turnbull. That was six months ago.” He looked up from the screen, waiting to see if Turnbull had any more questions.

  Turnbull tapped his teeth with a thumbnail for a couple of seconds, then shrugged slightly. “Any address given for him?”

  “Yes, sir. The Hotel Byron, Landing City, Mendez.”

  Turnbull nodded. “How much is the fare to Mendez?”

  The clerk thumbed a button which wiped the information screen clean, then replaced it with another list, which flowed upward for a few seconds, then stopped. “Seven hundred and eighty-five fifty, sir,” said the clerk. “Shall I make you out a ticket?”

  Turnbull hesitated. “What’s the route?”

  The clerk touched another control, and again the information on the screen changed. “You’ll take the regular shuttle from here to Luna, then take either the Stellar Queen or the Oriona to Sirius VI. From there, you will have to pick up a ship to the Central Worlds—either to Vanderlin or BenAbram—and take a ship from there to Mendez. Not complicated, really. The whole trip won’t take you more than three weeks, including stopovers.”

  “I see,” said Turnbull. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’ll let you know.”

  “Very well, sir. The Stellar Queen leaves on Wednesdays and the Oriona on Saturdays. We’ll need three days’ notice.”

  Turnbull thanked the clerk and headed toward the big doors that led out of Long Island Terminal, threading his way through the little clumps of people that milled around inside the big waiting room.

  He hadn’t learned a hell of a lot, he thought. He’d known that Duckworth had gone to Mendez, and he already had the Hotel Byron address. There was, however, some negative information there. The last address they had was on Mendez, and yet Scholar Duckworth couldn’t be found on Mendez. Obviously, he had not filed a change of address there; just as obviously, he had managed to leave the planet without a trace. There was always the possibility that he’d been killed, of course. On a thinly populated world like Mendez, murder could still be committed with little chance of being caught. Even here on Earth, a murderer with the right combination of skill and luck could remain unsuspected.

  But who would want to kill Scholar Duckworth?

  And why?

  Turnbull pushed the thought out of his mind. It was possible that Duckworth was dead, but it was highly unlikely. It was vastly more probable that the old scholar had skipped off for reasons of his own and that something had happened to prevent him from contacting Turnbull.

  After all, almost the same thing had happened in reverse a year ago.

  Outside the Terminal Building, Turnbull walked over to a hackstand and pressed the signal button on the top of the control column. An empty cab slid out of the traffic pattern and pulled up beside the barrier which separated the vehicular traffic from the pedestrian walkway. The gate in the barrier slid open at the same time the cab door did, and Turnbull stepped inside and sat down. He dialed his own number, dropped in the indicated number of coins, and then relaxed as the cab pulled out and sped down the freeway towards Manhattan.

  He’d been back on Earth now for three days, and the problem of Scholar James Duckworth was still bothering him. He hadn’t known anything about it until he’d arrived at his apartment after a year’s absence.

  * * * *

  The apartment door sighed a little as Dave Turnbull broke the electronic seal with the double key. Half the key had been in his possession for a year, jealousy guarded against loss during all the time he had been on Lobon; the other half had been kept by the manager of the Excelsior Apartments.

  As the door opened, Turnbull noticed the faint musty odor that told of long-unused and poorly circulated air. The conditioners had been turned down to low power for a year now.

  He went inside and allowed the door to close silently behind him. The apartment was just the same—the broad expanse of pale blue rug, the matching furniture, including the long, comfortable couch and the fat overstuffed chair—all just as he’d left them.

  He ran a finger experimentally over the top of the table near the door. There was a faint patina of dust covering the glossy surface, but it was very faint, indeed. He grinned to himself. In spite of the excitement of the explorations on Lobon, it was great to be home again.

  He went into the small kitchen, slid open the wall panel that concealed the apartment’s power controls, and flipped the switch from “maintenance” to “normal.” The lights came on, and there was a faint sigh from the air conditioners as they began to move the air at a more normal rate through the rooms.

  Then he walked over to the liquor cabinet, opened it, and surveyed the contents. There, in all their glory, sat the half dozen bottles of English sherry that he’d been dreaming about for twelve solid months. He took one out and broke the seal almost reverently.

  Not that there had been nothing to drink for the men on Lobon: the University had not been so blue-nosed as all that. But the choice had been limited to bourbon and Scotch. Turnbull, who was not a whisky drinker by choice, had longed for the mellow smoothness of Bristol Cream Sherry instead of the smok
iness of Scotch or the heavy-bodied strength of the bourbon.

  He was just pouring his first glass when the announcer chimed. Frowning, Turnbull walked over to the viewscreen that was connected to the little eye in the door. It showed the face of—what was his name? Samson? Sanders. That was it, Sanders, the building superintendent.

  Turnbull punched the opener and said: “Come in. I’ll be right with you, Mr. Sanders.”

  Sanders was a round, pleasant-faced, soft-voiced man, a good ten years older than Turnbull himself. He was standing just inside the door as Turnbull entered the living room; there was a small brief case in his hand. He extended the other hand as Turnbull approached.

  “Welcome home again, Dr. Turnbull,” he said warmly. “We’ve missed you here at the Excelsior.”

  Turnbull took the hand and smiled as he shook it. “Glad to be back, Mr. Sanders; the place looks good after a year of roughing it.”

  The superintendent lifted the brief case. “I brought up the mail that accumulated while you were gone. There’s not much, since we sent cards to each return address, notifying them that you were not available and that your mail was being held until your return.”

  He opened the brief case and took out seven standard pneumatic mailing tubes and handed them to Turnbull.

  Turnbull glanced at them. Three of them were from various friends of his scattered over Earth; one was from Standard Recording Company; the remaining three carried the return address of James M. Duckworth, Ph. Sch., U.C.L.A., Great Los Angeles, California.

  “Thanks, Mr. Sanders,” said Turnbull. He was wondering why the man had brought them up so promptly after his own arrival. Surely, having waited a year, they would have waited until they were called for.

  Sanders blinked apologetically. “Uh…Dr. Turnbull, I wonder if…if any of those contain money…checks, cash, anything like that?”

  “I don’t know. Why?” Turnbull asked in surprise.

  Sanders looked even more apologetic. “Well, there was an attempted robbery here about six months ago. Someone broke into your mailbox downstairs. There was nothing in it, of course; we’ve been putting everything into the vault as it came in. But the police thought it might be someone who knew you were getting money by mail. None of the other boxes were opened, you see, and—” He let his voice trail off as Turnbull began opening the tubes.