"Yes."
Alan felt robot arms grasping him firmly. He struggled to break loose,
and saw Steve trying to say something, only no words were coming. Steve
was very pale.
"Let go of him!" Steve said finally, "He--he wasn't disturbing me."
"He must be ejected. It is the rule."
Conflict traced deep lines on Steve's face. "All right, then. We'll both
leave."
The robots released Alan, who rubbed his arms ruefully. Together they
walked up the aisle and out into the street.
Hawkes stood waiting there.
"I see you've found him. It took long enough."
"M-Max, this is my brother, Steven Donnell." Alan's voice was shaky with
tension. "Steve, this is a friend of mine. Max Hawkes."
"You don't need to tell me who he is," Steve said. His voice was deeper
and harsher than Alan remembered it. "Every gamesman knows Hawkes. He's
the best there is." In the warm daylight, Steve looked even older than
the twenty-six years that was his chronological age. To Alan's eyes he
seemed to be a man who had been kicked around by life, a man who had not
yet given up but who knew he didn't stand much of a chance for the
future.
And he looked ashamed. The old sparkle was gone from his brother's eyes.
Quietly Steve said, "Okay, Alan. You tracked me down. Call me whatever
names you want to call me and let me get about my business. I don't do
quite as well as your friend Hawkes, and I happen to be in need of a lot
of cash in a hurry."
"I didn't come to call you names. Let's go someplace where we can talk,"
Alan said. "There's a lot for us to talk about."
_Chapter Eleven_
They adjourned to a small tavern three doors down 68th Avenue from the
games parlor, an old-fashioned tavern with manually operated doors and
stuffed moose heads over the bar. Alan and Hawkes took seats next to
each other in a booth in back; Steve sat facing them.
The barkeep came scuttling out--no robot in here, just a tired-faced old
man--and took their orders. Hawkes called for beer, Steve for whiskey;
Alan did not order.
He sat staring at his brother's oddly changed face. Steve was
twenty-six. From Alan's seventeen-year-old vantage-point, that seemed
tremendously old, well past the prime of life.
He said, "The _Valhalla_ landed on Earth a few days ago. We're bound out
for Procyon in a few days."
"So?"
"The Captain would like to see you again, Steve."
Steve stared moodily at his drink without speaking, for a long moment.
Alan studied him. Less than two months had passed for Alan since Steve
had jumped ship; he still remembered how his twin had looked. There had
been something smouldering in Steve's eyes then, a kind of rebellious
fire, a smoky passion. That was gone now. It had burned out long ago. In
its place Alan saw only tiny red veins--the bloodshot eyes of a man who
had been through a lot, little of it very pleasant.
"Is that the truth?" Steve asked. "_Would_ he like to see me? Or
wouldn't he just prefer to think I never was born at all?"
"No."
"I know the Captain--Dad--pretty well. Even though I haven't seen him in
nine years. He'd never forgive me for jumping ship. I don't want to pay
any visits to the _Valhalla_, Alan."
"Who said anything about visiting?"
"Then what _were_ you talking about?"
"I was talking about going back into the Crew," Alan said quietly.
The words seemed to strike Steve like physical blows. He shuddered a
little and gulped down the drink he held clutched in tobacco-stained
fingers. He looked up at Alan, finally.
"I can't. It's impossible. Flatly impossible."
"But----"
Alan felt Hawkes' foot kick him sharply under the table. He caught the
hint, and changed the subject. There was time to return to it later.
"Okay, let's skip it for now. Why don't you tell me about your life on
Earth these last nine years?"
Steve smiled sardonically. "There's not much to tell, and what there is
is a pretty dull story. I came across the bridge from the Enclave last
time the _Valhalla_ was in town, and came over into York City all set
to conquer the world, become rich and famous, and live happily ever
after. Five minutes after I set foot on the Earther side of the river I
was beaten up and robbed by a gang of roving kids. It was a real fine
start."
He signalled the waiter for another drink. "I guess I must have drifted
around the city for two weeks or more before the police found me and
picked me up for vagrancy. By that time the _Valhalla_ had long since
hoisted for Alpha C--and didn't I wish I was on it! Every night I used
to dream I had gone back on the ship. But when I woke up I always found
out I hadn't.
"The police gave me an education in the ways of Earther life, complete
with rubber hoses and stingrays, and when they were through with me I
knew all about the system of work cards and free status. I didn't have a
credit to my name. So I drifted some more. Then I got sick of drifting
and tried to find a job, but of course I couldn't buy my way in to any
of the hereditary guilds. Earth has enough people of her own; she's not
interested in finding jobs for kid spacemen who jump ship.
"So I starved a little. Then I got tired of starving. So about a year
after I first jumped ship I borrowed a thousand credits from somebody
foolish enough to lend them, and set myself up as a professional gambler
on Free Status. It was the only trade I could find that didn't have any
entrance requirements."
"Did you do well?"
"Yeah. Very well. At the end of my first six months I was fifteen
hundred credits in debt. Then my luck changed; I won three thousand
credits in a single month and got shifted up to Class B." Steve laughed
bitterly. "That was beautiful, up there. Inside of two more months I'd
not only lost my three thousand, I was two thousand more in hock. And
that's the way it's been going ever since. I borrow here, win a little
to pay him back, or lose a little and borrow from someone else, win a
little, lose a little--round and round and round. A swell life, Alan.
And I still dream about the _Valhalla_ once or twice a week."
Steve's voice was leaden, dreary. Alan felt a surge of pity. The
swashbuckling, energetic Steve he had known might still be there, inside
this man somewhere, but surrounding him were the scars of nine bitter
years on Earth.
Nine years. It was a tremendous gulf.
Alan caught his breath a moment. "If you had the chance to go back into
the Crew, no strings attached, no recriminations--would you take it?"
For an instant the old brightness returned to Steve's eyes. "Of course I
would! But----"
"But what?"
"I owe seven thousand credits," Steve said. "And it keeps getting worse.
That pot I won today, just before you came over to me, that was the
first take I'd had in three days. Nine years and I'm still a Class C
gambler. We can't all be as good as Hawkes here. I'm lousy--but what
other profession could I go into, on an overcrowded and hostile world
like this one?"
Seven thousand credits, Alan thought. It was a week's earnings for
Hawkes--but Steve would probably be in debt the rest of his life.
"Who do you owe this money to?" Hawkes asked suddenly.
Steve looked at him. "The Bryson syndicate, mostly. And Lorne Hollis.
The Bryson people keep a good eye on me, too. There's a Bryson man
three booths up who follows me around. If they ever saw me going near
the spacefield they'd be pretty sure to cut me off and ask for their
money. You can't welsh on Bryson."
"Suppose it was arranged that your debts be cancelled," Hawkes said
speculatively.
Steve shook his head. "No. I don't want charity. I know you're a Class A
and seven thousand credits comes easy to you, but I couldn't take it.
Skip it. I'm stuck here on Earth for keeps, and I'm resigned to it. I
made my choice, and this is what I got."
"Listen to reason," Alan urged. "Hawkes will take care of the money you
owe. And Dad will be so happy to see you come back to the ship
again----"
"Like Mars he'll be happy! See me come back, beaten up and ragged, a
washed-out old man at twenty-six? No, sir. The Captain blotted me out of
his mind a long time ago, and he and I don't have any further business
together."
"You're wrong, Steve. He sent me into the Earther city deliberately to
find you. He said to me, 'Find Steve and urge him to come back to the
ship.' He's forgiven you completely," Alan lied. "Everyone's anxious to
have you come back on board."
For a moment Steve sat silent, indecisive, frowning deeply. Then he made
up his mind. He shook his head. "No--both of you. Thanks, but I don't
want any. Keep your seven thousand, Hawkes. And you, Alan--go back to
the ship and forget all about me. I don't even deserve a second chance."
"You're wrong!" Alan started to protest, but a second time Hawkes kicked
him hard, and he shut up. He stared curiously at the gambler.
"I guess that about settles it," Hawkes observed. "If the man wants to
stay, we can't force him."
Steve nodded. "I have to stay on Earth. And now I'd better get back to
the games parlor--I can't waste any time, you know. Not with a seven
thousand credit backlog to make up."
"Naturally. But there's time for one more drink, isn't there? On me.
Maybe you don't want my money, but let me buy you a drink."