But, I Don't Think

As every thinking man knows, every slave always yearns for the freedom his master denies him...
But, gentlemen, said the Physician, I really don't think we can consider any religion which has human sacrifice as an integral part as a humane religion.
At least, added the Painter with a chuckle, not as far as the victim is concerned.
The Philosopher looked irritated. Bosh! What if the victim likes it that way?
—THE IDLE WORSHIPERS
by R. Phillip Dachboden
The great merchantship Naipor settled her tens of thousands of tons of mass into her landing cradle on Viornis as gently as an egg being settled into an egg crate, and almost as silently. Then, as the antigravs were cut off, there was a vast, metallic sighing as the gigantic structure of the cradle itself took over the load of holding the ship in her hydraulic bath.
At that point, the ship was officially groundside, and the Naipor was in the hands of the ground officers. Space Captain Humbolt Reed sighed, leaned back in his desk chair, reached out a hand, and casually touched a trio of sensitized spots on the surface of his desk.
Have High Lieutenant Blyke bring The Guesser to my office immediately, he said, in a voice that was obviously accustomed to giving orders that would be obeyed.
Then he took his fingers off the spots without waiting for an answer.
In another part of the ship, in his quarters near the Fire Control Section, sat the man known as The Guesser. He had a name, of course, a regular name, like everyone else; it was down on the ship's books and in the Main Registry. But he almost never used it; he hardly ever even thought of it. For twenty of his thirty-five years of life, he had been a trained Guesser, and for fifteen of them he'd been The Guesser of Naipor .