"Gamble. I'm in the upper brackets, though. As I say: some of us have
the knack. I doubt if your brother does, though. After nine years he
wouldn't still be working the Atlas if he had any dough."
Alan shrugged that off. "How do we get there? I'd like to go right away.
I----"
"Patience, lad," Hawkes murmured. "There's plenty of time for that. When
does your ship leave?"
"Couple of days."
"Then we don't need to rush right over to the Atlas now. Let's get some
food in ourselves first. Then a good night's rest. We can go over there
tomorrow."
"But my brother----"
"Your brother," Hawkes said, "has been in York City for nine years, and
I'll bet he's spent every night for the last eight of them sitting in
the Atlas. He'll keep till tomorrow. Let's get something to eat."
_Chapter Eight_
They ate in a dark and unappealing restaurant three blocks from the
Central Directory Matrix Building. The place was crowded, as all Earth
places seemed to be. They stood on line for nearly half an hour before
being shown to a grease-stained table in the back.
The wall clock said 1732.
A robowaiter approached them, holding a menu board in its metal hands.
Hawkes leaned forward and punched out his order; Alan took slightly
longer about it, finally selecting protein steak, synthocoffee, and
mixed vegetables. The robot clicked its acknowledgement and moved on to
the next table.
"So my brother's a gambler," Alan began.
Hawkes nodded. "You say it as if you were saying, _so my brother's a
pickpocket_, or _so my brother's a cutpurse_. It's a perfectly
legitimate way of making a living." Hawkes' eyes hardened suddenly, and
in a flat quiet voice added, "The way to stay out of trouble on Earth is
to avoid being preachy, son. This isn't a pretty world. There are too
many people on it, and not many can afford the passage out to Gamma
Leonis IV or Algol VII or some of the nice uncluttered colony-worlds. So
while you're in York City keep your eyes wide and your mouth zippered,
and don't turn your nose up at the sordid ways people make their
livings."
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 starships. And
nobody 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
ship'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 glasses 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 glass 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 glass and held it before his eyes, staring at
the man opposite him through its translucent depths. Hawkes appeared
oddly distorted when viewed through the glass.
He grinned. He tried to propose a toast, but couldn't think of any
appropriate words, so he simply upended the glass 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 passed 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 ship. He wondered also how it would be if Steve did agree to
go back.
The old comradeship 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?"