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But, I Don't Think

<h2>II</h2> Of course, came the thought, a very good way to put out a fire is to pour cold water on it. That's a very good idea. At least, it had put out the fire. Fire? What fire? The fire in his body, the scalding heat that had been quenched by the cold water. Slowly, as though it were being turned on through a sluggishly turning rheostat, consciousness came back to The Guesser. He began to recognize the sensations in his body. There was a general, all-over dull ache, punctuated here and there by sharper aches. There was the dampness and the chill. And there was the queer, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. At first, he did not think of how he had gotten where he was, nor did he even wonder about his surroundings. There seemed merely to be an absolute urgency to get out of wherever he was and, at the same time, an utter inability to do so. He tried to move, to shift position, but his muscles seemed so terribly tired that flexing them was a high-magnitude effort. After several tries, he got his arms under his chest, and only then did he realize that he had been lying prone, his right cheek pressed against cold, slimy stone. He lifted himself a little, but the effort was too much, and he collapsed again, his body making a faint splash as he did so. He lay there for a while, trying to puzzle out his odd and uncomfortable environment. He seemed to be lying on a sloping surface with his head higher than his feet. The lower part of his body was immersed in chill, gently-moving water. And there was something else— The smell. It was an incredible stench, an almost overpowering miasma of decay. He moved his head then, and forced his eyes open. There was a dim, feeble glow from somewhere overhead and to his right, but it was enough to show him a vaulted ceiling a few feet above him. He was lying in some sort of tube which— And then the sudden realization came. He was in a sewer. The shock of it cleared his mind a little, and gave added strength to his muscles. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and began crawling toward the dim light. It wasn't more than eight or ten feet, but it seemed to take an eternity for him to get there. Above him was a grating, partially covered with a soggy-looking sheet of paper. The light evidently came from a glow-plate several yards away. He lay there, exhausted and aching, trying to force his brain into action, trying to decide what to do next. He'd have to lift the grating, of course; that much was obvious. And he'd have to stand up to do that. Did he have the strength? Only one way to find out. Again he pushed himself to his hands and knees, and it seemed easier this time. Then, bracing himself against the curving wall of the sewer, he got to his feet. His knees were weak and wobbly, but they'd hold. They had to hold. The top of the sewer duct was not as far off as it had seemed; he had to stoop to keep from banging his head against the grating. He paused in that position to catch his breath, and then reached up, first with one hand and then with the other, to grasp the grating. Then, with all the strength he could gather, he pushed upwards. The hinged grate moved upwards and banged loudly on the pavement. There remained the problem of climbing out of the hole. The Guesser never knew how he solved it. Somehow, he managed to find himself out of the sewer and lying exhausted on the pavement. He knew that there was some reason why he couldn't just lie there forever, some reason why he had to hide where he couldn't be seen. It was not until that moment that he realized that he was completely naked. He had been stripped of everything, including the chronometer on his wrist. With an effort, he heaved himself to his feet again and began running, stumbling drunkenly, yet managing somehow to keep on his feet. He had to find shelter, find help. Somewhere in there, his mind blanked out again. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> He awoke feeling very tired and weak, yet oddly refreshed, as though he had slept for a long time. When his eyes opened, he simply stared at the unfamiliar room for a long time without thinking—without really caring to think. He only knew that he was warm and comfortable and somehow safe, and it was such a pleasant feeling after the nightmare of cold and terror that he only wanted to enjoy it without analyzing it. But the memory of the nightmare came again, and he couldn't repress it. And he knew it hadn't been a nightmare, but reality. Full recollection flooded over him. Someone had shot him with a beamgun, that nasty little handweapon that delivered in one powerful, short jolt the same energy that was doled out in measured doses over a period of minutes in a standard nerve-burner. He remembered jerking aside at the last second, just before the weapon was fired, and it was evidently that which had saved his life. If the beam had hit him in the head or spine, he'd be dead now. Then what? Guessing about something that had happened in the past was futile, and, anyway, guessing didn't apply to situations like that. But he thought he could pretty well figure out what had happened. After he'd been shot down, his assailant had probably dragged him off somewhere and stripped him, and then dumped him bodily into the sewer. The criminal had undoubtedly thought that The Guesser was dead; if the body had been found, days or weeks later, it would be unidentifiable, and probably dismissed as simply another unsolved murder. They were rather common in low-class districts such as this. <hr style="width: 45%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus2.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr style="width: 45%;" /> Which brought him back again to the room. He sat up in bed and looked around. Class Six Standard Housing. Hard, gray, cast polymer walls—very plain. Ditto floor and ceiling. Single glow-plate overhead. Rough, gray bedclothing. Someone had found him after that careening flight from the terror of the sewer and had brought him here. Who? Who? The sense of well-being he had felt upon awakening had long since deserted him. What he felt now was a queer mixture of disgust and fear. He had never known a Class Six. Even the lowest crewman on the Naipor was a Five. Uneasily, The Guesser climbed out of the bed. He was wearing a sack-like gray dress that fell almost to his knees, and nothing else. He walked on silent bare feet to the door. He could hear nothing beyond it, so he twisted the handle carefully and eased it open a crack. And immediately he heard low voices. The first was a man's. "... Like you pick up dogs, hey." He sounded angry. "He bring trouble on high, that'n. Look, you, at the face he got. He no Sixer, no, nor even Fiver. Exec, that's what. Trouble." Then a woman's voice. "Exec, he?" A sharp laugh. "Naked, dirty-wet, sick, he fall on my door. Since when Execs ask help from Sixer chippie like I? And since when Execs talk like Sixer when they out of they head? No fancy Exec talk, he, no." The Guesser didn't understand that. If the woman was talking about him—and she must be—then surely he had not spoken the illiterate patois of the Class Six people when he was delirious. The woman went on. "No, Lebby; you mind you business; me, I mind mine. Here, you take you this and get some food. Now, go, now. Come back at dark." The man grumbled something The Guesser didn't understand, but there seemed to be a certain amount of resignation in his voice. Then a door opened and closed, and there was a moment of silence. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> Then he heard the woman's footsteps approaching the partially opened door. And her voice said: "You lucky Lebby have he back to you when you open the door. If he even see it move, he know you wake." The Guesser backed away from the door as she came in. She was a drab woman, with a colorlessness of face that seemed to match the colorlessness of her clothing. Her hair was cropped short, and she seemed to sag all over, as though her body were trying to conform to the shapelessness of the dress instead of the reverse. When she forced a smile to her face, it didn't seem to fit, as though her mouth were unused to such treatment from the muscles. "How you feel?" she asked, stopping just inside the room. "I ... uh—" The Guesser hardly knew what to say. He was in a totally alien environment, a completely unknown situation. "I'm fine," he said at last. She nodded. "You get plenty sleep, all right. Like dead, except when you talk to yourself." Then he had spoken in delirium. "How ... how long was I out?" "Three days," she said flatly. "Almost four." She paused. "You ship leave." <hr style="width: 45%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus3.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr style="width: 45%;" /> "Leave?" The Guesser said blankly. "The Naipor? Gone?" It seemed as if the world had dropped away from his feet, leaving him to fall endlessly through nothingness. It was true, of course. It didn't take more than twenty-four hours to unload the ship's holds, and, since there had been no intention of reloading, there was no need to stay. He had long overstayed the scheduled take-off time. It created a vacuum in his mind, a hole in his very being that could never be filled by anything else. The ship was his whole life—his home, his work, his security. "How did you know about the ship?" he asked in a dazed voice. "A notice," she said. She fished around in one of the big pockets of the gray dress and her hand came out with a crumpled sheet of glossy paper. She handed it to him silently. It was a Breach of Contract notice. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> WANTED </div> <div class="stanza"> for </div> <div class="stanza"> BREACH OF CONTRACT </div> <div class="stanza"> JAIM JAKOM DIEGO </div> <div class="stanza"> AGE: 35 HEIGHT: 185 cm WEIGHT: 96 kg HAIR: black EYES: blue COMPLXN: fair </div> </div> <div class="blockquot">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 </div> 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." He looked at her quickly. "What do you mean?" Her gaze came back from the distance, and her eyes focused squarely on his. "The Misfits," she said in her flat voice. "We could go to the Misfits." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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