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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!