Fifty Per Cent Prophet

by Randall Garrett

slightnoise that Taggert and Forsythe made as they entered. Only the womanwas aware that they had come in, but she didn't betray the fact.

  "Miss Tedesco?" Taggert called.

  She looked up from her clip board, smiled, and walked toward the twonewcomers. "Yes, Mr. Taggert?"

  "'Bout done?"

  "Almost. They're setting in the last component now."

  Taggert nodded absently. "Miss Tedesco, this is Dr. Peter Forsythe,whom I told you about. Dr. Forsythe, this is Miss Donna Tedesco; she'sthe computer technician who will be working with you."

  Miss Tedesco's smile was positively glittering. "I'm so pleased tomeet you, doctor; I know our work together will be interesting."

  "I trust it will," Forsythe said, beaming. Then a faint cloud seemed tocome over his features. "I'm afraid I must confess a certain ... er ...lack of knowledge in the realm of computerdom. Mr. Taggert attempted toexplain, but he, himself, has admitted that his knowledge of the detailsis ... er ... somewhat vague."

  "I'm not a computerman, myself," Taggert said, smiling. "Miss Tedescowill be able to give you the details better than I can."

  Miss Tedesco blinked. "You know the broad outline, surely? Of theproject, I mean."

  "Oh, yes, certainly," Forsythe said hurriedly. "We are attempting todetermine whether the actions of human beings can actually have anyeffect on the outcome of the prophecy itself. In other words, if it ispossible to avert, say, a disaster if it is foretold, or whether thevery foretelling itself assures the ultimate outcome."

  The woman nodded her agreement.

  "As I understand it," Forsythe continued, "we are going to get severalscore clients--or, rather, _subjects_--and I am to ... uh ... exercisemy talents, just as I have been doing for many years. The results areto be tabulated and run through the computers to see if there is anycorrelation between human activity taken as a result of the forecastand the actual foretold events themselves."

  "That's right," said Miss Tedesco. She looked at Taggert. "That's whatthe committee outlined, in general, isn't it?"

  "In general, yes," Taggert said.

  "But what about the details?" Forsythe asked doggedly. "I mean, justhow are we going to go about this? You must remember that I'm not atall familiar with ... er ... scientific research procedures."

  "Oh, we'll work all that out together," said Miss Tedesco brightly."You didn't think we'd plan a detailed work schedule without yourco-operation, did you?"

  "Well--" Forsythe said, swelling visibly with pride, "I suppose--"

  Taggert, glancing at his watch, interrupted. "I'll have to leave youtwo to work out your research schedule together. I have an appointmentin a few minutes." He grasped Forsythe's hand and pumped itvigorously. "I believe we'll get along fine, Dr. Forsythe. And Ibelieve our work here will be quite fruitful. Will you excuse me?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Taggert. And I want to thank you for this opportunityto do research work along these lines."

  Brian Taggert thanked Forsythe and hurried out with the air of a manwith important and urgent things on his mind.

  He went up the stairs to the office directly over the one he hadassigned to Forsythe and stepped in quietly. Two men were relaxed inlounge chairs, their eyes closed.

  _Meshing?_ Taggert asked wordlessly.

  _Meshing._

  Taggert closed the door carefully and went into his own office.

  * * * * *

  General Howard Layton, USSF, looked no different from any other SpaceForce officer, except that he was rather handsomer than most. Helooked as though he might have posed for recruiting posters at onetime, and, in point of fact, he had--back when he had been an ensignin the United States Navy's Submarine Service. He was forty-nine andlooked a prematurely graying thirty.

  He stood in the observation bunker at the landing area of St. ThomasSpacefield and watched through the periscope as a heavy rocket settleditself to the surface of the landing area. The blue-white tongue offlame touched the surface and splattered; then the heavy ship settledslowly down over it, as though it were sliding down a column of light.The column of light shortened--

  And abruptly vanished as the ship touched down.

  General Layton took his eyes away from the periscope. "Another oneback safely. Thank God."

  Nearby, the only other man in that room of the bunker, a rather shortcivilian, had been watching the same scene on a closed-circuit TVscreen. He smiled up at the general. "How many loads does that make,so far?"

  "Five. We'll have the job done before the deadline time."

  "Were you worried?"

  "A little. I still am, to be honest. What if nothing happens at theend of sixty days? The President isn't one of us, and he's only gonealong with the Society's recommendations so far because we've beenable to produce results. But"--he gestured outside, indicating thenewly-landed ship--"all this extra expense isn't going to set wellwith him if we goof this once."

  "I know," said the civilian. "But have you ever known Brian Taggert tobe wrong?"

  General Layton grinned. "No. And in a lesser man, that sort ofomniscience could be infernally irritating. How is he progressing withForsythe?"

  The civilian frowned. "We've got plenty of data so far, and the methodseems to be working well, but we don't have enough to theorize yet.

  "Forsythe just sits in his office and gives 'readings,' or whateveryou want to call them, to the subjects who come in. _TheMetaphysicist_ has been running an ad asking for volunteers, so wehave all kinds of people calling up for appointments. Forsythe is ashappy as a kid."

  "How about his predictions?"

  "Donna Tedesco is running data processing on them. She's in constantmental contact with him. So are Hughes and Matson, in the officeabove. The three of them are meshed together with each other--don'task me how; I'm no telepath--and they're getting a pretty good idea ofwhat's going on in Forsythe's mind.

  "Every once in a while, he gets a real flash of something, and itapparently comes pretty fast. The team is trying to analyze thefine-grain structure of the process now.

  "The rest of the time, he simply gives out with the old guff thatphony crystal-ball gazers have been giving out for centuries. Evenwhen he gets a real flash, he piles on a lot of intuitiveextrapolation. And the farther he gets from that central flash, theless reliable the predictions are."

  "Do you think we'll get theory and symbology worked out before thatmeteor is supposed to hit Moonbase One?" asked the general.

  The civilian shrugged. "Who knows? We'll have to take a lot on faithif we do, because there won't be enough time to check all hispredictions. Each subject is being given a report sheet with hisforecast on it, and he's supposed to check the accuracy of it as ithappens. And our agents are making spot checks on them just to makesure. It'll take time. All we can do is hope."

  "I suppose." General Layton took a quick look through the periscopeagain. The ship's air lock still hadn't opened; the air and groundwere still too hot. He looked back at the civilian. "What about theespionage reports?"

  The civilian tapped his briefcase. "I can give it to you in a capsule,verbally. You can look these over later."

  "Shoot."

  "The Soviets are getting worried, to put it bluntly. We can't hidethose rockets, you know. Their own Luna-based radar has been pickingup every one of them as they come in and leave. They're wondering whywe're making so many trips all of a sudden."

  "Have they done any theorizing?" the general asked worriedly.

  "They have." The civilian chuckled sardonically. "They've decidedwe're trying for another Mars shot--a big one, this time."

  The general exhaled sharply. "That's too close for comfort. How dothey figure?"

  "They figure we're amassing material at Moonbase One. They figure weintend to build the ship there, with the loads of stuff that we'resending up in the rockets."

  "_What?_" General Layton opened his mouth, then closed it. Then hebegan to laugh.

  The civilian joined him.

 
* * * * *

  Donna Tedesco pushed the papers across Brian Taggert's desk. "Checkthem yourself, Brian. I've gone over them six ways from Septuagesima,and I still can't see any other answer."

  Taggert frowned at the papers and tapped them with a thoughtfulfinger, but he didn't pick them up. "I'll take your word for it,Donna. At least for right now. If we get completely balled up, we'llgo over them together."

  "If you ask