ship?" he asked in a dazed voice.
"A notice," she said. She fished around in one of the big pockets of thegray 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.
WANTED _for_ BREACH OF CONTRACT
JAIM JAKOM DIEGO
AGE: 35 HEIGHT: 185 cm WEIGHT: 96 kg HAIR: black EYES: blue COMPLXN: fair
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
The Guesser looked at the picture that accompanied the notice. It was anold one, taken nearly fifteen years before. It didn't look much like himany more. But that didn't matter; even if he was never caught, he stillhad no place to go. A runaway had almost no chance of remaining arunaway for long. How would he eat? Where would he live?
He looked up from the sheet, into the woman's face. She looked back witha flat, unwavering gaze. He knew now why she had been addressing him asan equal, even though she knew he was Class Three.
"Why haven't you tried to collect the reward?" he asked. He feltsuddenly weak, and sat down again on the edge of the bed.
"Me, I need you." Then her eyes widened a trifle. "Pale you look, youdo. I get you something solid inside you. Nothing but soup I get downyou 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 hearnoises from the small kitchen. The woman began to talk, raising hervoice 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." Hehadn't realized how hungry he was.
"_Some_ kinds?" The woman's voice was puzzled. "They more than one kindof egg?" The kitchen was suddenly silent as she waited intently for theanswer.
"Yes," said The Guesser. "On other planets. What kind of eggs arethese?"
"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 ofViornis. Chickens were well-nigh universal; they could live off almostanything. 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, somesmaller, 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 Guesserhad wanted to yell at the woman to shut up, to leave him alone and notbother him with her ignorant questions that he could not answer becauseshe was inherently too stupid to understand. He had wondered why hehadn't yelled; surely it was not incumbent on a Three to answer thequestions of a Six.
But he _had_ answered, and after she stopped talking, he began to knowwhy. He wanted to talk and to be talked to. Anything to fill up the voidin his mind; anything to take the place of a world that had suddenlyvanished.
What would he be doing now, if this had not happened? Involuntarily, heglanced at his wrist, but the chronometer was gone.
He would have awakened, as always, at precisely 0600 ship time. He wouldhave dressed, and at 0630 he would have been at table, eating his mealin silence with the others of his class. At 0640, the meal would beover, and conversation would be allowed until 0645. Then, the inspectionof 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 ofa 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 termsthat would be understood by a woman of her limited vocabulary andintelligence. He was not too sure he succeeded, but it was a relief totalk about it. He could almost feel himself dropping into the routinethat he used in the orientation courses for young Guessers who had beenassigned to him for protection and instruction.
"Accurate predicting of this type is not capable of being taught to allmen; unless a man has within him the innate ability to be a Guesser, heis as incapable of learning Guessing as a blind man is incapable ofbeing taught to read." (It occurred to him at that moment to wonder howthe 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 merepossession of functioning eyes does not automatically give one theability to read, neither does the genetic inheritance of Guesserpotentialities enable one to make accurate, useful Guesses. To make thispotentiality into an ability requires years of hard work and practice.
"You must learn to concentrate, to focus your every attention on the jobat hand, to--"
He broke off suddenly. The woman was standing in the doorway, holding aplate and a steaming mug. Her eyes were wide with puzzlement andastonishment. "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. Youhurt?"
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 arejust a little blurry, that's all. From sleep."
She nodded, accepting his statements. "Here. You eat you this. Put somestuffing in you belly."
He ate, not caring what the food tasted like. He didn't speak, andneither did she, for which he was thankful. Conversation during a mealwould have been both meaningless and painful to him.
It was odd to think that, in a way, a Class Six had more freedom than hedid. 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 havehis food cooked and served by a Six didn't bother him, nor was hebothered by her hovering nearby. But if she had sat down with him toeat--
But she hadn't, so he dropped the thought from his mind.
Afterwards, he felt much better. He actually hadn't realized how hungryhe 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. Itwas as though, somewhere in the back of his mind, something keptwhispering that this was all nothing but a very bad dream and that he'dwake up in his cubicle aboard the _Naipor_ at any moment.Intellectually, he knew it wasn't true, but his emotional needs, coupledwith wishful thinking, had hamstrung his intellect.
However, he knew he couldn't stay here. The thought of living in a ClassSix 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 notbeen 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 likethis 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 ofus some place."
He looked at her quickly. "What do you mean?"
Her ga
ze came back from the distance, and her eyes focused squarely onhis. "The Misfits," she said in her flat voice. "We could go to theMisfits."