"I _am_ rich," Hawkes said in a tone that made Alan feel tremendously
foolish. "If I got much richer too fast I'd wind up with a soft burn in
the belly from a disgruntled customer. Look here, boy: how long would
_you_ go back to that casino if one player took 80% of the pots, and a
hundred people competed with you for the 20% he left over? You'd win
maybe once a month, if you played full time every day. In a short time
you'd be broke, unless you quit playing first. So I ease up. I let the
others win about half the time. I don't want _all_ the money the mint
turns out--just some of it. It's part of the economics of the game to
let the other guys take a few pots."
Alan nodded. He understood. "And you don't want to make them too jealous
of you. So you made sure you lost consistently for the final half hour
or so, and that took the edge off your earlier winning in their minds."
"That's the ticket!"
The Undertube pulled out of the station and shot bullet-like through its
dark tunnel. Silently, Alan thought about his night's experience. He saw
he still had much, very much to learn about life on Earth.
Hawkes had a gift--the gift of winning. But he didn't abuse that gift.
He concealed it a little, so the people who lacked his talent did not
get too jealous of him. Jealousy ran high on Earth; people here led
short ugly lives, and there was none of the serenity and friendliness of
life aboard a starship.
He felt very tired, but it was just physical fatigue; he felt wide awake
mentally. Earth life, for all its squalor and brutality, was
tremendously exciting compared with shipboard existence. It was with a
momentary pang of something close to disappointment that he remembered
he would have to report back to the _Valhalla_ in several days; there
were so many fascinating aspects of Earth life he still wanted to
explore.
The Undertube stopped at a station labelled _Hasbrouck_. "This is where
we get off," Hawkes told him.
They took a slidewalk to street level. The street was like a canyon,
with towering walls looming up all around. And some of the gigantic
buildings seemed quite shabby-looking by the street-light. Obviously
they were in a less respectable part of the city.
"This is Hasbrouck," Hawkes said. "It's a residential section. And
there's where I live."
He pointed to the tarnished chrome entrance of one of the biggest and
shabbiest of the buildings on the street. "Be it ever so humble, there's
no place like North Hasbrouck Arms. It's the sleaziest, cheapest, most
run-down tenement in one hemisphere, but I love it. It's a real palace."
Alan followed him through a gate that had once been imposing; now it
swung open rather rustily as they broke the photobeam in front of it.
The lobby was dark and dimly lit, and smelled faintly musty.
Alan was unprepared for the shabbiness of the house where the gambler
lived. A moment after he spoke, he realized the question was highly
impertinent, but by then it was too late: "I don't understand, Max. If
you make so much money gambling, why do you live in a place like this?
Aren't there any better--I mean----"
An unreadable expression flitted briefly across the gambler's lean face.
"I know what you mean. Let's just say that the laws of this planet
discriminate slightly against Free Status people like yours truly. They
require us to live in approved residences."
"But this is practically a slum."
"Forget the _practically_. This is the raw end of town, and no denying
it. But I have to live here." They entered a creaky old elevator
decorated with too much chrome, most of it chipped, and Hawkes pressed
_106_. "When I first moved in here, I made up my mind I'd bribe my way
into a fancier neighborhood as soon as I had the cash. But by the time I
had enough to spare I didn't feel like moving, you see. I'm sort of
lazy."
The elevator stopped with a jarring jolt at the hundred-sixth floor.
They passed down a narrow, poorly-lit corridor. Hawkes paused suddenly
in front of a door, pressed his thumb against the doorplate, and waited
as it swung open in response to the imprint of his fingerprints against
the sensitive electronic grid.
"Here we are," he said.
It was a three-room apartment that looked almost as old and as
disreputable as the rooms in the Enclave. But the furniture was new and
attractive; these were not the rooms of a poor man. An elaborate audio
system took up one entire wall; elsewhere, Alan saw books of all kinds,
tapes, a tiny mounted globe of light-sculpture within whose crystal
interior abstract colors flowed kaleidoscopically, a handsome robot bar.
Hawkes gestured Alan to a seat; Alan chose a green lounge-chair with
quivering springs and stretched out. He did not want to go to sleep; he
wanted to stay up half the night and talk.
The gambler busied himself at the bar a moment and returned with two
drinks. Alan looked at the glass a moment: the drink was bright yellow
in color, sparkling. He sipped it. The flavor was gentle but striking, a
mixture of two or three tastes and textures that chased each other round
Alan's tongue.
"I like it. What is it?"
"Wine from Antares XIII. I bought it for a hundred credits a bottle
last year. Still have three bottles left, too. I go easy on it; the next
ship from Antares XIII won't be in for fourteen more years."
The drink made Alan mellow and relaxed. They talked a while, and he
hardly noticed the fact that the time was getting along toward 0300 now,
long past his shiptime bunk-hour. He didn't care. He listened to every
word Hawkes had to say, drinking it in with the same delight he felt
when drinking the Antarean wine. Hawkes was a complex, many-faceted
character; he seemed to have been everywhere on Earth, done everything
the planet had to offer. And yet there was no boastfulness in his tone
as he spoke of his exploits; he was simply stating facts.
Apparently his income from gambling was staggering; he averaged nearly a
thousand credits a night, night in and night out. But a note of
plaintiveness crept into his voice: success was boring him, he had no
further goals to shoot for. He stood at the top of his profession, and
there were no new worlds for him to conquer. He had seen and done
everything, and lamented it.
"I'd like to go to space someday," he remarked. "But of course that's
out. I wouldn't want to rip myself away from the year 3876 forever. You
don't know what I'd give to see the suns come up over Albireo V, or to
watch the thousand moons of Capella XVI. But I can't do it." He shook
his head gravely. "Well, I better not dream. I like Earth and I like the
sort of life I lead. And I'm glad I ran into you, too--we'll make a good
team, you and me, Donnell."
Alan had been lulled by the sound of Hawkes' voice--but he snapped to
attention now, surprised. "Team? What are you talking about?"
"I'll take you on as my protege. Make a decent gambler out of you. Set
you up. We can go travelling together, see the world again. You've been
to space; you can tell me what it's like out there. And----"
"Hold on," Alan said sharply. "You've got things mixed up a little bit.
I'm going to Procyon on the _Valhalla_ at the end of this week. I
appreciate everything you've done for me, but if you think I'm going to
jump ship permanently and spend the rest of my life----"
"You'll stay on Earth, all right," Hawkes said confidently. "You're in
love with the place. You know yourself you don't want to spend the next
seven decades of your life shuttling around in your old man's starship.
You'll check out and stay here. I know you will."
"I'll bet you I don't!"
"That bet is herewith covered," Hawkes drawled. "I never pass up a sure
thing. Is ten to one okay--your hundred against my thousand that you'll
stay?"
Alan scowled angrily. "I don't want to bet with you, Max. I'm going back
on the _Valhalla_. I----"
"Go ahead. Take my money, if you're so sure."
"All right, I will! A thousand credits won't hurt me!" Suddenly he had
no further desire to listen to Hawkes talk; he rose abruptly and gulped
down the remainder of his drink.
"I'm tired. Let's get some sleep."
"Fair enough," Hawkes said. He got up, touched a button in the wall, and
a panel slid back, exposing a bed. "You sack out here. I'll wake you in
the morning and we'll go looking for your brother Steve."
_Chapter Ten_
Alan woke early the next morning, but it was Rat, not Hawkes, who pulled
him out of sleep. The little extra-terrestrial was nibbling on his ear.
Bleary-eyed, Alan sat up and blinked. "Oh--it's you. I thought you were
on a silence strike."
"There wasn't anything I wanted to say, so I kept quiet. But I want to
say some things now, before your new friend wakes up."
The Bellatrician had been silent all the past evening, tagging along
behind Alan and Hawkes like a faithful pet, but keeping his mouth
closed. "Go ahead and say them, then," Alan told him.
"I don't like this fellow Hawkes. I think you're in for trouble if you
stick with him."
"He's going to take me to the Atlas to get Steve."
"You can get to the Atlas yourself. He's given you all the help you'll
need."
Alan shook his head. "I'm no baby. I can take care of myself, without
_your_ help."
The little alien creature shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I'll tell you
one thing, Alan: I'm going back to the _Valhalla_, whether you are or
not. I don't like Earth, or Hawkes either. Remember that."
"Who said I was staying here? Didn't you hear me bet Max that I'd go
back?"
"I heard you. I say you're going to lose that bet. I say this Hawkes is
going to fast-talk you into staying here--and if I had any need for
money I'd put down a side-bet on Hawkes' side."
Alan laughed. "You think you know me better than I know myself. I never
for a minute thought of jumping ship."
"Has my advice ever steered you wrong? I'm older than you are, Alan, and
ten or twenty times smarter. I can see where you're heading. And----"
Alan grew suddenly angry. "Nag, nag, nag! You're worse than an old
woman! Why don't you keep quiet the way you did last night, and leave me
alone? I know what I'm doing, and when I want your advice I'll ask for
it."
"Have it your own way," Rat said. His tone was mildly reproachful. Alan
felt abashed at having scolded the little alien that way, but he did not
know how to make proper amends; besides, he _was_ annoyed at Rat's
preachiness. He and Rat had been together too long. The Bellatrician
probably thought he was still only ten years old and in need of constant
advice.
He rolled over and went back to sleep. About an hour later, he was
awakened again, this time by Hawkes. He dressed and they ate--good real
food, no synthetics, served by Hawkes' autochef--and then set out for
the Atlas Games Parlor, 68th Avenue and 423rd Street, in Upper York
City. The time was 1327 when they emerged on the street. Hawkes assured
him that Steve would already be at "work"; most unsuccessful gamblers
started making the rounds of the parlors in early afternoon.
They took the Undertube back to the heart of the city and kept going,
into the suburb of Upper York. Getting out at the 423rd Street terminal,
they walked briskly through the narrow crowded streets toward 68th
Avenue.
When they were a block away Alan spotted the sign, blinking on and off
in watery red letters: ATLAS GAMES PARLOR. A smaller sign proclaimed the
parlor's Class C status, which allowed any mediocre player to make use
of its facilities.
As they drew near Alan felt a tingle of excitement. This was what he had
come to the Earther city for in the first place--to find Steve. For
weeks he had been picturing the circumstances of this meeting; now it
was about to take place.
The Atlas was similar to the other games parlor where Alan had had the
set-to with the robohuckster; it was dark-windowed and a shining blue
robot stood outside, urging passersby to step inside and try their luck.
Alan moistened his dry lips; he felt cold and numb inside. He won't be
there, he thought; he won't be there.
Hawkes took a wad of bills from his wallet. "Here's two hundred credits
for you to use at the tables while you're looking around. I'll have to
wait outside. There'd be a royal uproar if a Class A man ever set foot
inside a place like the Atlas."
Alan smiled nervously. He was pleased that Hawkes was unable to come
with him; he wanted to handle the problem by himself, for a change. And
he was not anxious for the gambler to witness the scene between him and
Steve.
_If_ Steve were inside, that is.
He nodded tightly and walked toward the door. The robohuckster outside
chattered at him, "Come right on, sir, step inside. Five credits can get
you a hundred here. Right this way."
"I'm going," Alan said. He passed through the photobeam and into the
games parlor. Another robot came sliding up to him and scanned his
features.
"This is a Class C establishment, sir. If your card is any higher than
Class C you cannot compete here. Would you mind showing me your card,
sir?"
"I don't have any. I'm an unrated beginner." That was what Hawkes had
told him to say. "I'd like a single table, please."
He was shown to a table to the left of the croupier's booth. The Atlas
was a good bit dingier than the Class A parlor he had been in the night
before; its electroluminescent light-panels fizzed and sputtered,
casting uncertain shadows here and there. A round was in progress;
figures were bent busily over their boards, altering their computations
and changing their light-patterns.
Alan slid a five-credit piece into the slot and, while waiting for the
round to finish and the next to begin, looked around at his fellow
patrons. In the semi-dark that prevailed it was difficult to make out
faces. He would have trouble recognizing Steve.
A musky odor hung low over the hall, sweet, pungent, yet somehow
unpleasant. He realized he had experienced that odor before, and tried
to remember--yes. Last night in the other games parlor he had smelled a
wisp of the fragrance, and Hawkes had told him it was a narcotic
cigarette. It lay heavy in the stale air of the Class C parlor.
Patrons stared with fanatic intensity at the racing pattern of lights
before them. Alan glanced from one to the next. A baldhead whose dome
glinted bright gold in the dusk knotted his hands together in an anguish
of indecision. A slim, dreamy-eyed young man gripped the sides of the
table frenziedly as the numbers spiralled upward. A fat woman in her
late forties, hopelessly dazed by the intricate game, slumped wearily in
her seat.
Beyond that he could not see. There were other patrons on the far side
of the rostrum; perhaps Steve was over there. But it was forbidden for
anyone to wander through the rows of tables searching for a particular
player.
The gong rang, ending the round. "Number 322 wins a hundred credits,"
barked the croupier.
The man at Table 322 shambled forward for his money. He walked with a
twisted shuffle; his body shook palsiedly. Hawkes had warned him of
these, too--the dreamdust addicts, who in the late stages of their
addiction became hollow shells of men, barely able to walk. He took his
hundred credits and returned to his table without smiling. Alan
shuddered and looked away. Earth was not a pretty world. Life was good
if you had the stream running with you, as Hawkes did--but for each
successful one like Hawkes, how many fought unsuccessfully against the
current and were swept away into dreamdust or worse?
Steve. He looked down the row for Steve.
And then the board lit up again, and for the first time he was playing.
He set up a tentative pattern; golden streaks flitted across the board,
mingling with red and blue blinkers. Then the first number came. Alan
integrated it hastily and realized he had constructed a totally
worthless pattern; he wiped his board clean and set up new figures,
based on the one number he had. Already, he knew, he was hopelessly far
behind the others.
But he kept with it as the minutes crawled past. Sweat dribbled down his
face and neck. He had none of Hawkes' easy confidence with the board's
controls; this game was hard work for a beginner. Later, perhaps, some
of the steps would become automatic, but now----
"Seventy-eight sub twelve over thirteen," came the droning instructions,
and Alan pulled levers and twisted ratchets to keep his pattern true. He
saw the attraction the game held for the people of Earth: it required
such deep concentration, such careful attention, that one had no time to
ponder other problems. It was impossible to think and compete at the
same time. The game offered perfect escape from the harsh realities of
Earther existence.
"Six hundred twelve sigma five."
Again Alan recompensated. His nerves tingled; he felt he must be close
to victory. All thought of what he had come here for slipped away; Steve
was forgotten. Only the flashing board counted, only the game.
Five more numbers went by. Suddenly the gong rang, indicating that
someone had achieved a winning pattern, and it was like the fall of a
headsman's axe to Alan. He had lost. That was all he could think of. He
had lost.
The winner was the dreamy-eyed youth at Table 166, who accepted his
winnings without a word and took his seat. As Alan drew out another
five-credit piece for the next round, he realized what he was doing.
He was being caught up in the nerve-stretching excitement of the game.
He was forgetting Steve, forgetting the waiting Hawkes outside.
He stretched back in his seat and peered as far down the row as he could
see. No sign of Steve there; he had to be on the other side of the
croupier. Alan decided to do his best to win; that way he could advance
to the rostrum and scan the other half of the hall.
But the game fled by too quickly; he made a false computation on the
eleventh number and watched in dismay as his pattern drew further and
further away from the numbers being called off. He drove himself
furiously, trying to make amends, but it was impossible. The winner was
the man at Table 217, on the other side. He was a lantern-jawed giant
with the powerful frame of a longshoreman, and he laughed in pleasure as
he collected his money.
Three more rounds went by; Alan picked up increasing skill at the game,
but failed to win. He saw his shortcoming, but could not do anything to
help it: he was unable to extrapolate ahead. Hawkes was gifted with the
knack of being able to extend probable patterns two or three moves into
the future; Alan could only work with the given, and so he never made
the swift series of guesses which led to victory. He had spent nearly an
hour in the parlor now, fruitlessly.
The next round came and went. "Table 111 takes us for a hundred fifty
credits," came the croupier's cry. Alan relaxed, waiting for the lucky
winner to collect and for the next round to begin.
The winner reached the centrally located rostrum. Alan looked at him. He
was tall, fairly young--in his thirties, perhaps--with stooped shoulders
and a dull glazedness about his eyes. He looked familiar.
Steve.
Feeling no excitement now that the quest had reached success, Alan
slipped from his seat and made his way around the croupier's rostrum and
down the far aisle. Steve had already taken his seat at Table 111. Alan
came up behind him, just as the gong sounded to signal the new round.
Steve was hunched over the board, calculating with almost desperate
fury. Alan touched his shoulder.
"Steve?"
Without looking up Steve snapped, "Get out of here, whoever you are!
Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Steve, I----"
A robot sidled up to Alan and grasped him firmly by the arm. "It is
forbidden to disturb the players while they are engaged in the game. We
will have to eject you from this parlor."
Angrily Alan broke loose from the robot's grasp and leaned over Steve.
He shook him by the shoulder, roughly, trying to shake loose his mind
from the flickering games board.
"Steve, look up! It's me--Alan--your brother!"
Steve slapped at Alan's hand as he would at a fly. Alan saw other robots
converging on him from various points in the room. In a minute they'd
hurl him out into the street.
Recklessly he grabbed Steve by the shoulders and spun him around in his
seat. A curse tumbled from Steve's lips; then he fell strangely silent.
"You remember me, Steve? Your brother Alan. Your _twin_ brother, once."
Steve had changed, certainly. His hair was no longer thick and curly; it
seemed to have straightened out, and darkened a little. Wrinkles seamed
his forehead; his eyes were deep-set and surrounded by lines. He was
slightly overweight, and it showed. He looked terribly tired. Looking
at him was like looking at a comic mirror that distorted and altered
your features. But there was nothing comic about Steve's appearance.