Starman's Quest Part 14

Alan felt his face go red, and he was happy to have the trays of food arrive at that moment, causing some sort of distraction. "Sorry, Max. I didn't mean to sound preachy."

"I know, kid. You lead a pretty sheltered life on those stars.h.i.+ps. And n.o.body can adjust to Earthside life in a day. How about a drink?"

Alan started to say that he didn't drink, but kept the words back. He was on Earth, now, not aboard the _Valhalla_; he wasn't required to keep s.h.i.+p's regs. And he didn't want to be trying to look superior. "Okay.

How about Scotch--is that the stuff MacIntosh was drinking?"

"Fair enough," Hawkes said.

He signalled for a robot waiter, and after a moment the robot slithered up to them. Hawkes punched a lever on the robot's stomach and the metal creature began to click and glow. An instant later a panel in its stomach slid open and two gla.s.ses appeared within. The robot's wiry tentacles reached in, took out the drinks, and set them on the table.

Hawkes dropped a coin in a slot in the robot's side, and the machine bustled away, its service completed.

"There you are," Hawkes said, pointing to the gla.s.s of amber-colored liquid. "Drink up." As if to set an example he lifted his own drink and tossed it down in one gulp, with obvious pleasure.

Alan picked up the little gla.s.s and held it before his eyes, staring at the man opposite him through its translucent depths. Hawkes appeared oddly distorted when viewed through the gla.s.s.

He grinned. He tried to propose a toast, but couldn't think of any appropriate words, so he simply upended the gla.s.s and drained its contents. The stuff seemed to burn its way down his throat and explode in his stomach; the explosion rose through his gullet and into his brain. For a moment he felt as if the top of his head had been blown off. His eyes watered.

"Pretty potent stuff!"

"It's the best there is," Hawkes said. "Those boys really know the formulas."

Alan felt a wave of dizziness, but it pa.s.sed quickly; all that was left was a pleasant inner warmth, now. He pulled his tray toward him and attacked the synthetic meat and vegetables.

He ate quietly, making no attempt at conversation. Soft music bubbled up around them. He thought about his brother. So Steve was a gambler! And doing poorly at it, Hawkes said. He wondered if Steve would want to go back on the s.h.i.+p. He wondered also how it would be if Steve did agree to go back.

The old comrades.h.i.+p would be gone, he realized sadly. They had shared everything for seventeen years, grown up together, played together, worked together. Up till six weeks ago they had been so close that Alan could almost read Steve's mind, and Steve Alan's. They made a good team.

But that was finished, now. Steve would be a stranger to him aboard the _Valhalla_--an older, perhaps wiser man, with nine solid years of tough Earther life behind him. He would not be able to help but regard Alan as a kid, a greenhorn; it was natural. They would never be comfortable in each other's presence, with the old easy familiarity that was so close to telepathy. That nine-year gulf would see to that.

"Thinking about your brother, aren't you?"

Alan blinked. "How did you know?"

Grinning, Hawkes said, "A gambler has to know how to figure things. And it's written in permoscript all over your forehead anyway. You're wondering what the first face-to-face meeting's going to be like. I'll bet on it."

"I won't cover the bet. You'd win."

"You want to know how it'll be? I can tell you, Alan: you'll feel sick.

Sick and bewildered and ashamed of the guy who used to be your brother.

But that'll pa.s.s. You'll look behind the things the nine years did to him, and you'll see your brother back there. He'll see you, too. It won't be as bad as you're expecting."

Somehow Alan felt relieved. "You're sure of that?"

Hawkes nodded. "You know, I'm taking such a personal interest in this business because I've got a brother too. _Had_ a brother."

"Had?"

"Kid about your age. Same problem I had, too: no guild. We were born into the street sweepers' guild, but neither of us could go for that, so we checked out and took Free Status. I went into gambling. He hung around the Enclave. He always wanted to be a s.p.a.cer."

"What happened to him?"

"He pulled a fast one. Stars.h.i.+p was in town and looking for a new galley-boy. Dave did some glib talking and got aboard. It was a fluke thing, but he made it."

"Which s.h.i.+p?" Alan asked.

"_Startreader_. Bound out on a hop to Beta Crucis XVIII. 465 light-years." Hawkes smiled faintly. "He left a year, year and a half ago. The s.h.i.+p won't be back on Earth again for nine hundred thirty years or so. I don't figure to be around that long." He shook his head. "Let's get out of here. People waiting for tables."

Out in the street again, Alan noticed that the sun was low in the sky; it was past 1800, and getting along toward evening. But the streets were not getting dark. From everywhere a soft glow was beginning to radiate--from the pavement, the buildings, everywhere. It was a gentle gleaming brightness that fell from the air; there was no perceptible change from day-illumination to night-illumination.

But it was getting late. And they would miss him back at the Enclave--unless Captain Donnell had discovered that Alan had gone into the Earther city, in which case he wouldn't be missed at all. Alan remembered sharply the way the Captain had calmly blotted the name of his son Steve from the _Valhalla's_ roster as if Steve had never existed.

"Are we going to go over to the Atlas now?"

Hawkes shook his head. "Not unless you want to go in there alone?"

"Huh?"

"I can't go in there with you. I've got an A card, and that's a Cla.s.s C joint."

"You mean even gambling places are cla.s.sified and regulated and everything?"

Hawkes nodded. "It has to be that way. This is a very complicated society you've stumbled into, Alan. Look: I'm a first-rate gamesman.

That's not boasting; it's empirical truth proven over and over again during the course of a fifteen-year career. I could make a fortune competing against beginners and dubs and has-beens, so they legislate against me. You make a certain annual income from gambling and you go into Cla.s.s A, and then you can't enter any of the lower-cla.s.s joints like the Atlas. You slip under the Cla.s.s A minimum three years in a row and you lose your card. I stay over the minimum."

"So I'll have to go after Steve myself. Well, in that case, thanks for all the help, and if you'll show me which Shoot I take to get to the Atlas----"

"Not so fast, son." Hawkes grasped Alan's wrist. "Even in a Cla.s.s C dump you can lose plenty. And you can't just stand around hunting for your brother. Unless you're there as a learner you'll have to play."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"I'll take you to a Cla.s.s A place tonight. You can come in as a learner; they all know me. I'll try to show you enough about the game so you don't get rooked. Then you can stay over at my place and tomorrow we'll go up to the Atlas and look around for your brother. I'll have to wait outside, of course."

Alan shrugged. He was beginning to realize he was a little nervous about the coming meeting with Steve--and perhaps, he thought, a little extra delay would be useful. And he still had plenty of time to get back to the _Valhalla_ after he saw Steve, even if he stayed in the city overnight.

"Well?" Hawkes said.

"Okay. I'll go with you."

This time they took the Undertube, which they reached by following a glowing sign and then an underground pa.s.sageway. Alan rode down behind Hawkes on the moving ramp and found himself in a warm, brightly-lit underground world with stores, restaurants, newsboys hawking telefax sheets, milling swarms of homebound commuters.

They reached the entrance to a tube and Hawkes handed him a small oval object with figures engraved on it. "That's your tube-token. It goes in the slot."

They pa.s.sed through the turnstile and followed signs indicating the West Side Tube. The tube was a long sleek affair, windowless, shaped like a bullet. The tube was already packed with commuters when they got aboard; there were no empty seats, of course, and everyone seemed to be jostling everyone else for the right to stand upright. The sign at the end of the tube said, _Tube X#3174-WS_.

The trip took only a few minutes of seemingly effortless gliding, and then they emerged far on the other side of the giant city. The neighborhood they were in was considerably less crowded; it had little of the mad hubbub of the downtown district.

A neon sign struck his eyes at once: SUPERIOR GAMES PARLOR. Under that in smaller letters was: CLa.s.s A ESTABLISHMENT. A robot stood outside, a gleaming replica of the one he had tussled with earlier in the day.

"Cla.s.s A only," the robot said as they came near. "This Games Parlor is for Cla.s.s A only."