Inside, it was what he had expected of a lower atomic age dwelling. Lumpy couches, blobby pictures on the wall, ridiculous curtains and overstuffed chairs.
Edgarson looked around warily, trying to figure out his next move. Either his patron was slightly off his track, or there was something unique about this planet. Depressive trough. Even citizens of the more sophisticated regions didn’t have that sort of knowledge at their fingertips.
“Are you a psychologist?” he asked Fals, sitting down on a chair.
“No,” Fals said. “I’m a fireman, usually.”
“Usually?”
“Yes. I’m on a vacation now. All of us are.”
“Then who fights the fires?”
“What fires?” Fals asked, surprised.
Edgarson was about to start over when the depressive sister came in.
“Oh, I’m tired,” she said, ignoring Edgarson and collapsing on the couch. “Tired and unhappy.”
Edgarson stared at her for a moment, before remembering his manners and standing up. The girl was as redheaded as her brother, but slim where he was corpulent. Ectomorph, had he said? Well, Hetta was slender, but she was also filled where a female ectomorph should be filled.
Edgarson felt his spirits brighten. Suicide could wait. This might prove interesting. There might even be some exploitable commercial angle.
For a while conversation was desultory. Fals turned on a little screen which seemed to be a primitive brother of solidovision. He was soon engrossed in what purported to be a comedy program.
The redheaded girl, Hetta, didn’t stir. Once she murmured something about the cruelty of the world, but it was too vague for Edgarson to answer.
Finally, she lifted herself off the couch and essayed a tentative smile.
“You see?” Fals whispered. “She’s out of the trough.”
Edgarson shook his head. A fireman who didn’t fight fires, but who had a pretty accurate psychological Knowledge. Well, he’d have to find out.
“I think I’ll make supper,” Hetta said, and jumped off the couch.
The meal was very pleasant. Hetta was fascinated by the great outside world she had never seen. She listened breathlessly to Edgarson’s tales of interstellar commerce, and of the ridiculous drop in the stock market on Moira II that had wrecked him.
She put the soup on the table and asked, “How could that happen?” Edgarson smiled at her charming naivete. “Weren’t you in a cycle?” she wanted to know. “Didn’t you know the market was going to drop?”
Edgarson did his best to explain how business worked. How you could occasionally detect trends, calculate rises, prepare for drops. But not always. And that, even at best, market calculation was guesswork.
“But that’s ridiculous,” Hetta said, frowning prettily. “How can you live in such an uncertain world? I’m glad it’s not that way here.”
“You must excuse my sister,” Fals said, smiling. “She doesn’t know anything of the outside world—”
Edgarson ignored him. “How does it work here?” he asked the girl.
“Why, it’s down in the books,” she said, as one would instruct a child. “The statistics books. If a business is going to be good, the statistics books tell you.”
“Aren’t the books ever wrong?” Edgarson asked, gently.
She shook her head. “Not during the cycle.”
Just then a bell clamored. Fals got up and answered the telephone.
“Yes, yes, yes. Hm. All right, I’ll check it.” He put down the receiver. “Fire in the 31st Warehouse district.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t believe it’s going to spread.”
“You might as well be sure,” Hetta said. “I’ll bring in the book.”
“Hang on,” Fals said into the telephone. Hetta struggled back with a fat volume. Edgarson walked over and watched.
The book was entitled Fire Statistics, City of Mif, Cycle B.
“Here it is,” Fals said, turning a page. “Margat Building, 31st Warehouse district. Just as I thought.”
Looking over his shoulder, Edgarson read: “Margat Building, probability 78.4% against a major fire before 18 Arget.”
“Hello,” Fals said into the telephone. “You’re not due for a fire before 18 Arget, and here it isn’t even IIovl yet. Don’t worry about it. I’ll burn itself out pretty soon.”
The man on the other end seemed to be giving him an argument. Fals said into the phone, sharply, “Don’t tell me, pal. I’m a fireman. It’s in the book. Probability 78.4 against. Call me if it spreads.” He hung up.
“That’s how it goes,” he said to Edgarson. “These warehouse owners would root a man out of bed for every little flash fire. I don’t know why they don’t read the statistics on their own buildings.”
“I don’t get it,” Edgarson said. “Was there a fire in that warehouse?”
“That’s what he said,” Fals said, finishing his soup. Hetta cleared the plates and brought in the meat course. “Probably a wastebasket or something. They always look bigger than they are.”
“But if he reported a fire—” Edgarson began.
“It can’t be a big fire,” Hetta told him. “Otherwise it would be down in the statistics.”
“Statistics can be wrong,” Edgarson said, remembering several beatings he had taken on sure things.
“Not these,” Fals said.
The telephone rang again. “Hello?” Fals said. “I thought so. Of course it burned itself out. No, you didn’t disturb me. Don’t worry about it. But please, buy a fire statistics book. That way, you won’t have to be calling the fire station all the time. I assure you, when a real fire is due, we’ll be on the spot—before it happens. Good night.”
“Could I see this fire book?” Edgarson asked. Fals handed him the big volume, and Edgarson leafed through it, reading entries at random.
“Joenson farm,” one entry read. “Probability 56% no major fire before 7 IIovl.”
“Mif State Park,” read another. “Prob. 64% no major fire before 1 Egl. Prob. 89% fire by 19 Egl, destroying fifty-four acres NE corner.”
The rest, of the entries followed the same pattern.
“I don’t understand this,” Edgarson said, closing the book. “I know you can determine a probability, even about fires. That’s how insurance works. But how can you know there won’t be a fire before the date the book gives? I mean, even if the probability is seventy percent—and I don’t see how that’s arrived at—there’s still a thirty percent chance that there’ll be a fire sooner.”
“Not here,” Fals said, with a touch of local pride. “Not on Porif. Any probability of fifty-one percent or better is as good as one hundred percent during the cycle. We don’t believe in exceptions here. What’s probable is certain.”
“Does that work with everything?” Edgarson asked.
“Of course,” Fals told him. “That’s why I knew I wouldn’t kill you with the car. The statistics for this cycle show that no one under fifty-four is going to be killed, except under certain specified circumstances which you didn’t come under.”
“How long is the cycle?” Edgarson asked.
“Ten years. Then a new one starts. Come in the library. I’ll show you some of the other books.”
Lining one whole wall was a set of books called Business Statistics, Cycle B. Leafing through them, Edgarson found that they contained predictions for every business on the planet through the present cycle. They showed the probable profit and loss figures weekly. The businesses that would bankrupt were down, as well as the ones that would boom.
Skimming, Edgarson read: “Jeenings Carbon, common stock. Selling, 145, 1 Marstt. In two weeks, prob. 56% to 189. Constant to Egl, 89% prob., then rise to 720. A period of leveling at 700, then a short steep incline to 842—” That was a summary, of course. A week by week breakdown followed.
“Is this true?” Edgarson asked.
Hetta glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, of course. The stock is at 189 right now. And the rest will foll
ow.”
“My Lord,” Edgarson said, and closed the book. If the entry were true, a man could make a fortune by investing now. Invest and sell when it reached 842. Make a profit of—
“Wait a minute,” he said. “This can’t be true. Everyone on the planet would buy this stuff. That would change the prediction.”
“No,” Fals said, grinning. “The probable purchases of stocks are estimated pretty closely. No one’s going to overload on one stock. We scatter our money around, buy good and bad. We Porifans don’t care so much for quick profits.”
Edgarson thought it over. He’d have to find out if this prediction business worked every time. If it did, he had stumbled on a gold mine.
A predictable stock market, he told himself. Predictable businesses, fire losses. They probably predicted earthquakes and floods, too. A smart man could make a fortune in a year. Or less.
Of course, he’d need some capital to invest at the start. He’d have to find some way of getting that.
Edgarson discovered, suddenly that Hetta was glancing at him. That was significant. But she was also pretending that she wasn’t looking at him. That was even more significant.
Edgarson decided that it might not be too difficult to raise the initial capital.
The next morning, Edgarson went to Fals’ library. The Porifan didn’t own all the statistics books, but he did have everything that pertained to the city of Mif, and its immediate area.
Ignoring breakfast, Edgarson began to read, skipping back and forth between the 190 volumes of Business Statistics, Cycle B. It was quite a book.
It told the future history of every business on the planet, and Edgarson was unable to doubt its validity. The conservative, quiet air of the books was almost proof in itself.
“Jacnx Mauf. Co. Common 23. 13 Luggat, rise’ to 26, prob. 76% 19 Luggat, rise to 28, prob. 93% 1 Mener, drop to 18, prob. 98%.”
How could he doubt it?
Edgarson made the attempt, in the spirit of caution. He ate breakfast at lunchtime and went to the Mif central library. According to the evidence in old newspapers and outdated statistics books, all previous predictions had been one hundred percent correct. One hundred percent!
Edgarson checked further. He found that a cycle lasted for ten revolutions of the planet around its primary—ten years. That there was a gap between cycles, evidently for the purpose of collecting and publishing the statistics for the next cycle. The cycles were always labeled A and B, one following another.
Checking one cycle against another, Edgarson found that there wasn’t much difference. Some new businesses, the closing of some old ones; a few points change in probability-ratings. But no real turnover.
Edgarson wasn’t interested in theories; he wanted profits. Still, he felt obliged to find out some of the reasons why. Accordingly, he dug into a stack of reference books.
Late that night, he walked back to Fals’ house. He had skimmed the history and psychology of Porif, and he was able to extrapolate a few answers from it.
According to their own psychology books, the people of Porif were simpler, less unpredictable than the complex peoples of Earth and the Belt Stars. It was possible to get a coherent, predictable picture of a Porifan’s personality; a feat impossible with an Earthman.
The hard thing, Edgarson knew, was individual psychology. Once you have that mastered, the psychology of aggregates is far simpler.
Edgarson found that the Porifans were conformists. Consciously and unconsciously they believed their own statistics, and wanted to preserve them. Individuals went out of their way to fit into their predicted niche. On perverse Moira II that would never work.
The favorite hobby of most planets is war. A very few are more interested in art, or religion. On Porif the passion was, and had always been, statistics and probabilities.
And nature seemed to help them. The perverse old lady had repealed the usual law of averages on Porif. Instead of a constant leveling process, high predictions stayed constant. So, if a fire started ahead of time, there was never a draft to fan it into a conflagration. If a man was in an auto accident before his predicted moment, he somehow was thrown clear.
Nature conspired to make Porif an understandable, predictable place to live.
A perfect place for an Earthman to make a quick fortune.
Edgarson slept on it. The next morning he walked down to Fals’ library to consider his problem again. Seating himself in Fals’ overstuffed chair, he popped a native variety of plum in his mouth and thought.
The first step in making a fortune was to raise capital, and the first step in raising capital was to marry Hetta. Securing some of her funds through marriage, he could speculate—if a sure thing can be called speculation. He had about six months until the end of cycle B. He could be rich by that time.
And marrying Hetta wouldn’t be too unpleasant a task, either. Edgarson liked ectomorphic redheads, properly filled.
No time like the present, he told himself. Hetta had gone to town, shopping, and Fals was off waiting for a fire to start on an outlying farm.
Edgarson pulled down the index to the Human Statistics book, Cycle B. (170 volumes, cross indexed). Hetta, he found, was on page 1189 of volume 28. Her classification was unstable ectomorph, female, auburn, 32-saa3b.
According to the book, a person of Hetta’s makeup had a primary five day elation-depression cycle; normal for auburn ectomorphs. The trough usually occurred at sunset of the third day. During that time, auburn ectomorphs desired comfort, poetry and understanding, soft music and beautiful sunsets.
Edgarson grinned, jotted the information on a pad and read on.
The elation-high occurred on the fifth day, and lasted for almost two hours. There was a strong tendency toward amorousness at such times (89% probability), and a desire for adventure, mystery, the unknown.
Edgarson grinned even wider, and read on.
Superimposed on all this was a longer, gentler cycle, characterized as a secondary tenderness swing, over a period of thirty-five days.
And a great deal more pertinent data.
Edgarson drew up a graph of Hetta’s cycles for the next month, with appropriate comments and advice to himself, and read the last paragraph.
Hetta’s instability was one common to ectomorphic redheads. A pathological tendency, very repressed, probability 1%.
Which, he knew, was Porif double-talk for never.
Armed with this data, Edgarson began his wooing.
“Let me tell you about the great planets,” he said to her at the height of her elation period. “Let me tell you about space.”
“Oh, please do,” Hetta said. “I so wish I could travel!”
“And why not?” Edgarson said, sliding his arm gently across the top of the couch. “Why not speed between the stars in a two-bunk scouter? Know the adventure of strange ports! The thrill of distant places!”
“How wonderful,” Hetta said, and didn’t flinch when the am gently touched her shoulder.
When he wasn’t wooing Hetta, Edgarson was busy with Business Statistics. He made up a list of ten businesses that were going to boom, figured out how long he would hold stock, what he would invest the profits in, how much he could buy on margin.
His profits at the end of a month, he estimated, would be in the hundred thousands.
“You are so delicate,” he said to her, at the extreme tip of her tenderness swing. “So fair, so gentle.”
“Am I?” Hetta asked.
“Yes,” Edgarson said, with a sigh. “I wish—”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” He sighed again, and proceeded to give her a fictitious account of his childhood. It served its purpose. All Hetta’s latent tenderness came to the fore.
“You poor boy,” she said.
The omnipresent arm was around her.
“I care for you, you know,” Edgarson said huskily, feeling ridiculous. He was used to the breezy give-and-take approach of Earth and Moira II. On civilized planets a def
inite understanding was reached within five minutes or so. But that wouldn’t work on Porif, or on a girl with Hetta’s character-coefficients.
Edgarson proceeded as a tender-hearted lover, wondering when Porif would emerge from its purple period.
While he wooed her, Edgarson extrapolated an easy ten billion dollar profit from the Business Statistics. He had it all figured out now; how he would make his initial profits, how much he would plough back, how much he would extend himself on margin, how much save.
And the other things. Land he was going to buy, farms and waterways. Insurance companies, banks, federal investments. The ten year cycle had only a few months to go. He wanted a measure of security during the gap between cycles.
The climax of his love-making came at the trough of Hetta’s depression. He bought her candy; he showered her with tenderness, love and understanding. A phonograph was playing Hetta’s favorite song at the moment Edgarson proposed. And to top it all, before their eyes was a magnificent, multicolored sunset; a sunset lovers dream of.
It wasn’t chance, of course. Edgarson had planned it carefully. The sunset had been listed in Weather Statistics, Cycle B, combined with Holinim’s Greater Book of Sunsets.
The proposal was a predictable success, odds 89.7% for. They were married three days later.
Armed with more of his wife’s money than even he had expected, Edgarson started to invest. He had five months to go, and he was going to make the most of it.
The statistics books were one hundred percent accurate. Edgarson’s profits came through exactly as he had planned. Down to the last decimal point, the books were right.
He tried to put his brother-in-law on to a few good things, but Fals was in a sullen period. He held on to a small block of mediocre stocks, resolutely, and refused to speculate.
“What’s the matter with you?” Edgarson asked him, one day when his profit had hit eight hundred thousand. “Don’t you believe in your own statistics?”
“Of course I do,” Fals said, glowering at him. “But this isn’t the way we do business here.”
Edgarson stared at him, baffled. He was unable to understand a man who didn’t take money when it was practically handed to him. It was the Porifans’ most inhuman characteristic.
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