Hawkes scowled. "I forgot--I keep forgetting you're a spacer. Well, if
he's not using his own name any more it may make things really tough.
Gene-records make absolute identification possible. But if you don't
have one----"
Whistling tunelessly, Hawkes filled out the rest of the form. When it
came to REASON FOR APPLICATION, he wrote in, _Tracing of missing
relative_.
"That just about covers it," he said finally. "It's a pretty lame
application, but if we're lucky we may find him." He rolled the form up,
shoved it into a gray metal tube, and dropped it in a slot in the wall.
"What happens now?" Alan asked.
"Now we wait. The application goes downstairs and the big computer goes
to work on it. First thing they'll do is kick aside all the cards of men
named Steve Donnell. Then they'll check them all against the physical
description I supplied. Soon as they find a man who fits the bill,
they'll 'stat his card and send it up here to us. We copy down the
televector number and have them trace him down."
"The _what_ number?"
"You'll see," Hawkes said, grinning. "It's a good system. Just wait."
They waited. One minute, two, three.
"I hope I'm not keeping you from something important," Alan said,
breaking a long uncomfortable silence. "It's really good of you to take
all this time, but I wouldn't want to inconvenience you if----"
"If I didn't want to help you," Hawkes said sharply, "I wouldn't be
doing it. I'm Free Status, you know. That means I don't have any boss
except me. Max Hawkes, Esquire. It's one of the few compensations I have
for the otherwise lousy deal life handed me. So if I choose to waste an
hour or two helping you find your brother, don't worry yourself about
it."
A bell rang, once, and a gentle red light glowed over the slot. Hawkes
reached in and scooped out the container that sat there.
Inside he found a rolled-up slip of paper. He pulled it out and read the
message typed on it several times, pursing his lips.
"Well? Did they find him?"
"Read it for yourself," Hawkes said. He pushed the sheet over to Alan.
It said, in crisp capital letters, A SEARCH OF THE FILES REVEALS THAT
NO WORK CARD HAS BEEN ISSUED ON EARTH IN THE PAST TEN YEARS TO STEVE
DONNELL, MALE, WITH THE REQUIRED PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.
Alan's face fell. He tossed the slip to the table and said, "Well? What
do we do now?"
"Now," Hawkes said, "we go upstairs to the cubbyhole where they keep the
Free Status people registered. We go through the same business there. I
didn't really expect to find your brother here, but it was worth a look.
It's next to impossible for a ship-jumping starman to buy his way into a
guild and get a work card."
"Suppose he's not registered with the Free Status people?"
Hawkes smiled patiently. "Then, my dear friend, you go back to your ship
with your mission incomplete. If he's not listed upstairs, there's no
way on Earth you could possibly find him."
_Chapter Seven_
The sign over the office door said REGISTRY OF FREE-STATUS LABOR FORCE,
and under that ROOM 1104. Hawkes nudged the door open and they went in.
It was not an imposing room. A fat pasty-faced man sat behind a scarred
neoplast desk, scribbling his signature on forms that he was taking from
an immense stack. The room was lined with records of one sort or
another, untidy, poorly assembled. There was dust everywhere.
The man at the desk looked up as they entered and nodded to Hawkes.
"Hello, Max. Making an honest man of yourself at last?"
"Not on your life," Hawkes said. "I came up here to do some checking.
Alan, this is Hines MacIntosh, Keeper of the Records. Hines, want you to
meet a starman friend of mine. Alan Donnell."
"Starman, eh?" MacIntosh's pudgy face went suddenly grave. "Well, boy, I
hope you know how to get along on an empty stomach. Free Status life
isn't easy."
"No," Alan said. "You don't under----"
Hawkes cut him off. "He's just in the city on leave, Hines. His ship
blasts off in a couple of days and he figures to be on it. But he's
trying to track down his brother, who jumped ship nine years back."
MacIntosh nodded. "I suppose you drew a blank in the big room
downstairs?"
"Yes."
"Not surprising. We get these ship-jumping starmen all the time up here;
they never do get work cards, it seems. What's that thing on your
shoulder, boy?"
"He's from Bellatrix VII."
"Intelligent?"
"I should say so!" Rat burst in indignantly. "Just because I have a
certain superficial physiological resemblance to a particular species of
unpleasant Terran rodent----"
MacIntosh chuckled and said, "Ease up! I didn't mean to insult you,
friend! But you'll have to apply for a visa if you're going to stay here
more than three days."