The Randall Garrett Omnibus: Eleven SF Classics

by Randall Garrett

  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 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.

  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.

  THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH BENEDICT BREADFRUIT

  # 4

  "But what will they do with the robot when it becomes too decrepit to move?” persisted the boy.

  Breadfruit pointed to a large vat of bubbling acid in the public square. “They'll throw him in the pool, yonder, son."

  DAMNED IF YOU DON'T

  You can and you can't;

  You will and you won't.

  You'll be damn'd if you do;

  You'll be damn'd if you don't.

  -LORENZO DOW; “Definition of Calvinism"

  The workshop-laboratory was a mess.

  Sam Bending looked it over silently; his jaw muscles were hard and tense, and his eyes were the same.

  To repeat what Sam Bending thought when he saw the junk that had been made of thousands of dollars worth of equipment would not be inadmissible in a family magazine, because Bending was not particularly addicted to four-letter vulgarities. But he was a religious man-in a lax sort of way-so repeating what ran through his mind that gray Monday in February of 1981 would be unfair to the memory of Samson Francis Bending.

  Sam Bending folded his hands over his chest. It was not an attitude of prayer; it was an attempt to keep those big, gorillalike hands from smashing something. The fingers intertwined, and the hands tried to crush each other, which was a good way to keep them from actually crushing anything else.

  He stood there at the door for a full minute-just looking.

  The lab-as has been said-was a mess. It would have looked better if someone had simply tossed a grenade in it and had done with it. At least the results would have been random and more evenly dispersed.

  But whoever had gone about the wrecking of the lab had gone about it in a workmanlike way. Whoever had done the job was no amateur. The vandal had known his way about in a laboratory, that was obvious. Leads had been cut carefully; equipment had been shoved aside without care as to what happened to it, but with great care that the shover should not be damaged by the shoving; the invader had known exactly what he was after, and exactly how to get to it.

  And he-whoever he was-had gotten his hands on what he wanted.

  The Converter was gone.

  * * * *

  Sam Bending took his time in regaining his temper. He had to. A man who stands six feet three, weighs three hundred pounds, and wears a forty-eight size jacket can't afford to lose his temper very often or he'll end up on the wrong end of a homicide charge. That three hundred pounds was composed of too much muscle and too little fat for Sam Bending to allow it to run amok.

  At last, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his tense nerves, muscles, and tendons sag-he pretended someone had struck him with a dose of curare. He let his breath out slowly and opened his eyes again.

  The lab still looked the same, but it no longer irritated him. It was something to be accepted as done. It was something to investigate, and-if possible-avenge. But it was no longer something to worry about or lose his temper over.

  I should have expected it, he thought wryly. They'd have to do something about it, wouldn't they?

  But the funny thing was that he hadn't expected it-not in modern, law-abiding America.

  He reached over to the wall switch to turn on the lights, but before his hand touched it, he stopped the motion and grinned to himself. No point in turning on the switch when he knew perfectly well that there was no power behind it. Still—

  His fingers touched the switch anyway. And nothing happened.

  He shrugged and went over to the phone.

  He let his eyes wander over the wreckage as his right index finger spun the dial. Actually, the room wasn't as much of a shambles as it had looked on first sight. The-burglar?-hadn't tried to get at anything but the Converter. He hadn't known exactly where it was, but he'd been able to follow the leads to its hiding place. That meant that he knew his beans about power lines, anyway.

  It also meant that he hadn't been an ordinary burglar. There were plenty of other things around for a burglar to make money out of. Unless he knew what it was, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of stealing the Converter.

  On the other hand, if he had—

  "Police Department,” said a laconic voice from the speaker. At the same time, the blue-clad image of a police officer appeared on the screen. He looked polite, but he also looked as though he expected nothing more than a routine call.

  Bending gave the cop's sleeve a quick glance and said: “Sergeant, my name is Samson Bending. Bending Consultants, 3991 Marden-you'll find it in the phone book. Someone broke into my place over the weekend, and I'd appreciate it if you'd send someone around."

  The sergeant's face showed that he still thought it was routine. “Anything missing, sir?"

  "I'm not sure,” said Bending carefully. “I'll have to make a check. I haven't touched anything. I thought I'd leave that for the detectives. But you can see for yourself what's happened."

  He stepped back from the screen and the Leinster cameras automatically adjusted for the greater distance to the background.

  "Looks like you had a visitor, all right,” said the police officer. “What is that? A lab of some kind you've got there?"

  "That's right,” Bending said. “You can check it with the Register."

  "Will do, Mr. Bending,” agreed the sergeant. “We'll send the Technical Squad around in any case.” He paused, and Sam could see that he'd pressed an alarm button. There was more interest in his manner, too. “Any signs that it might be kids?” he asked.

  Sam shrugged. “Hard to tell. Might be. Might not.” He knew good and well that it wasn't a JD gang that had invaded his lab. He grinned ingratiatingly. “I figure you guys can tell me more about that than I could tell you."

  The sergeant nodded. “Sure. O.K., Mr. Bending; you just hold on. Don't touch anything; we'll have a copter out there as soon as we can. O.K.?"

  "O.K.,” Sam agreed. He cut off as the cop's image began to collapse.

  * * * *

  Sam Bending didn't obey the cop's order to touch nothing. He couldn't afford to-not at this stage of the game. He looked over everything-the smashed oscilloscopes, the overturned computer, the ripped-out meters-everything. He lifted a couple of instruments that had been toppled to the floor, raising them carefully with a big screwdriver, used as a lever. When he was through, he was convinced that he knew exactly who the culprit was.

  Oh, he didn't know the name of the man, or men, who had actually committed the crime. Those things were, for the moment, relatively unimportant. The police might find them, but that could wait. The thing that was important was that Bending was certain within his own mind who had paid to have the lab robbed.

  Not that he could make any accusations to the police, of course. That wouldn't do at all. But he knew. He was quite certain.

  He left the lab itself and went into the outer rooms, the three rooms that constituted the clients’ waiti
ng room, his own office, and the smaller office of Nita Walder, the girl who took care of his files and correspondence.

  A quick look told him that nothing in the offices had been disturbed. He shrugged his huge shoulders and sat down on the long couch in the waiting room.

  Much good it may do them, he thought pleasantly. The Converter won't be worth the stuff it's made of if they try to open it.

  He looked at the clock on the wall and frowned. It was off by five hours. Then he grinned and looked at his wrist watch. Of course the wall clock was Off. It had stopped when the power had been cut off. When the burglars had cut the leads to the Converter, everything in the lab had stopped.

  It was eight seventeen. Sam Bending lit a cigarette and leaned back to wait for the cops. United States Power Utilities, Monopolated, had overstepped themselves this time.

  * * * *

  Bending Consultants, as a title for a business, was a little misleading because of the plural ending of the last word. There was only one consultant, and that was Samson Francis Bending. His speciality was the engineering design of atomic power plants-both the old fashioned heavy-metal kind and the newer, more elegant, stellarators, which produced power by hydrogen-to-helium conversion.

  Bending made good money at it. He wasn't a millionaire by any means, but he had enough money to live comfortably on and enough extra to experiment around on his own. And, primarily, it had always been the experimentation that had been the purpose of Bending Consultants; the consulting end of the business had always been a monetary prop for the lab itself. His employees-mostly junior engineers and engineering draftsmen-worked in the two-story building next door to the lab. Their job was to make money for the company under Bending's direction while Bending himself spent as much time as he could fussing around with things that interested him.

  The word “genius” has several connotations, depending on how one defines a genius. Leaving aside the Greek, Roman and Arabic definitions, a careful observer will find that there are two general classes of genius: the “partial” genius, and the “general” genius. Actually, such a narrow definition doesn't do either kind justice, but defining a human being is an almost impossible job, anyway, so we'll have to do the best we can with the tools we have to work with.