The Captain's lean, tough face had some new lines on it; his eyes were
darkly shadowed, and he looked as if he hadn't slept much the night
before. But he took Alan's hand and squeezed it warmly--in a fatherly
way, not a Captainly one. Then he glanced at the sleeping form behind
Alan.
"I--went into the city, Dad. And found Steve."
Something that looked like pain came into Captain Donnell's eyes, but
only for an instant. He smiled. "It's strange, seeing the two of you
like this. So you brought back Steve, eh? We'll have to put him back on
the roster. Why is he asleep? He looks like he's out cold."
"He is. It's a long story, Dad."
"You'll have to explain it to me later, then--after blastoff."
Alan shook his head. "No, Dad. Steve can explain it when he wakes up,
tonight. Steve can tell you lots of things. I'm going back to the city."
"What?"
It was easy to say, now--the decision that had been taking vague form
for several hours, and which had crystallized as he trudged across the
spacefield toward the _Valhalla_. "I brought you back Steve, Dad. You
still have one son aboard ship. I want off. I'm resigning. I want to
stay behind on Earth. By our charter you can't deny such a request."
Captain Donnell moistened his lips slowly. "Agreed, I can't deny. But
why, Alan?"
"I think I can do more good Earthside. I want to look for Cavour's old
notebooks; I think he developed the hyperdrive, and if I stay behind on
Earth maybe I can find it. Or else I can build my own. So long, Dad. And
tell Steve that I wish him luck--and that he'd better do the same for
me." He glanced at Rat. "Rat, I'm deeding you to Steve. Maybe if he had
had you instead of me, he never would have jumped ship in the first
place."
He looked around, at his father, at Steve, at Rat. There was not much
else he could say. And he knew that if he prolonged the farewell scene
too long, he'd only be burdening his father and himself with the weight
of sentimental memory.
"We won't be back from Procyon for almost twenty years, Alan. You'll be
thirty-seven before we return to Earth again."
Alan grinned. "I have a hunch I'll be seeing you all before then, Dad. I
hope. Give everyone my best. So long, Dad."
"So long, Alan."
He turned away and rapidly descended the ramp. Avoiding Kelleher and the
cargo crew, for goodbyes would take too long, he trotted smoothly over
the spacefield, feeling curiously lighthearted now. Part of the quest
was over; Steve was back on board the _Valhalla_. But Alan knew the real
work was just beginning. He would search for the hyperdrive; perhaps
Hawkes would help him. Maybe he would succeed in his quest this time,
too. He had some further plans, in that event, but it was not time to
think of them now.
Hawkes was still standing at the edge of the field, and there was a
thoughtful smile on his face as Alan came running up to him.
"I guess you won your bet," Alan said, when he had his breath back.
"I almost always do. You owe me a hundred credits--but I'll defer
collection."
They made the trip back to York City in virtual silence. Either Hawkes
was being too tactful to ask the reasons for Alan's decision or
else--this seemed more likely, Alan decided--the gambler had already
made some shrewd surmises, and was waiting for time to bear him out.
Hawkes had known long before Alan himself realized it that he would not
leave with the _Valhalla_.
The Cavour Hyperdrive, that was the rainbow's end Alan would chase now.
He would accept Hawkes' offer, become the gambler's protege, learn a few
thing about life. The experience would not hurt him. And always in the
front of his mind he would keep the ultimate goal, of finding a
spacedrive that would propel a ship faster than the speed of light.
At the apartment in Hasbrouck, Hawkes offered him a drink. "To celebrate
our partnership," he explained.
Alan accepted the drink and tossed it down. It stung, momentarily; he
saw sadly he was never going to make much of a drinking man. He drew
something from his pocket, and Hawkes frowned.
"What's that?"
"My Tally. Every spaceman has one. It's the only way we can keep track
of our chronological ages when we're on board ship." He showed it to
Hawkes; it read _Year 17 Day 3_. "Every twenty-four hours of subjective
time that goes by, we click off another day. Every three hundred
sixty-five days another year is ticked off. But I guess I won't be
needing this any more."
He tossed it in the disposal unit. "I'm an Earther now. Every day that
goes by is just one day; objective time and subjective time are equal."
Hawkes grinned cheerfully. "A little plastic doodad to tell you how old
you are, eh? Well, that's all behind you now." He pointed to a button in
the wall. "There's the operating control for your bed; I'll sleep in
back, where I did last night. First thing tomorrow we'll get you a
decent set of clothes, so you can walk down the street without having
people yell '_Spacer!_' at you. Then I want you to meet a few
people--friends of mine. And then we start breaking you in at the Class
C tables."
* * * * *
The first few days of life with Hawkes were exciting ones. The gambler
bought Alan new clothing, modern stuff with self-sealing zippers and
pressure buttons, made of filmy clinging materials that were incredibly
more comfortable than the rough cloth of his _Valhalla_ uniform. York
City seemed less strange to him with each passing hour; he studied
Undertube routes and Overshoot maps until he knew his way around the
city fairly well.
Each night about 1800 they would eat, and then it was time to go to
work. Hawkes' routine brought him to three different Class A gambling
parlors, twice each week; on the seventh day he always rested. For the
first week Alan followed Hawkes around, standing behind him and
observing his technique. When the second week began, Alan was on his
own, and he began to frequent Class C places near the A parlors Hawkes
used.
But when he asked Hawkes whether he should take out a Free Status
registration, the gambler replied with a quick, snappish, "Not yet."
"But why? I'm a professional gambler, since last week. Why shouldn't I
register?"
"Because you don't need to. It's not required."
"But I want to. Gosh, Max, I--well, I sort of want to put my name down
on something. Just to show I belong here on Earth. I want to register."
Hawkes looked at him strangely, and it seemed to Alan there was menace
in the calm blue eyes. In suddenly ominous tones he said, "I don't want
you signing your name to anything, Alan. Or registering for Free Status.
Got that?"
"Yes, but----"
"No buts! Got it?"
Repressing his anger, Alan nodded. He was used to taking orders from his
shipboard superiors and obeying them. Hawkes probably knew best. In any
case, he was dependent on the older man right now, and did not want to
anger him unnecessarily. Hawkes was wealthy; it might take money to
build a hyperdrive ship, when the time came. Alan was flatly
cold-blooded about it, and the concept surprised and amused him when he
realized just how single-minded he had become since resigning from the
_Valhalla_.
He turned the single-mindedness to good use at the gaming tables first.
During his initial ten days as a professional, he succeeded in losing
seven hundred credits of Hawkes' money, even though he did manage to win
a three-hundred-credit stake one evening.
But Hawkes was not worried. "You'll make the grade, Alan. A few more
weeks, days maybe, while you learn the combinations, limber up your
fingers, pick up the knack of thinking fast--you'll get there."
"I'm glad _you're_ so optimistic." Alan felt downcast. He had dropped
three hundred credits that evening, and it seemed to him that his
fumbling fingers would never learn to set up the combinations fast
enough. He was just like Steve, a born loser, without the knack the game
required. "Oh, well, it's your money."
"And I expect you to double it for me some day. I've got a five-to-one
bet out now that you'll make Class B before fall."
Alan snorted doubtfully. In order to make Class B, he would have to make
average winnings of two hundred credits a night for ten days running, or
else win three thousand credits within a month. It seemed a hopeless
task.
But, as usual, Hawkes won the bet. Alan's luck improved as May passed
and June dwindled; at the beginning of July he hit a hot streak when he
seemed to be marching up to the winner's rostrum every other round, and
the other Class C patrons began to grumble. The night he came home with
six hundred newly-won credits, Hawkes opened a drawer and took out a
slim, sleek neutrino gun.
"You'd better carry this with you from now on," the gambler said.
"What for?"
"They're starting to notice you now. I hear people talking. They know
you're carrying cash out of the game parlors every night."
Alan held the cool gray weapon, whose muzzle could spit a deadly stream
of energized neutrinos, undetectable, massless, and fatal. "If I'm held
up I'm supposed to use this?"
"Just the first time," Hawkes said. "If you do the job right, you won't
need to use it any more. There won't be any second time."
As it turned out, Alan had no need for the gun, but he carried it within
easy reach whenever he left the apartment. His skill at the game
continued to increase; it was, he saw, just like astrogation, and with
growing confidence he learned to project his moves three and sometimes
four numbers ahead.
On a warm night in mid-July the proprietor of the games hall Alan
frequented most regularly stopped him as he entered.
"You're Donnell, aren't you?"
"That's right. Anything wrong?"
"Nothing much, except that I've been tallying up your take the past two
weeks. Comes to close to three thousand credits, altogether. Which means
you're not welcome around this parlor any more. Nothing personal, son.
You'd better carry this with you next time out."
Alan took the little card the proprietor offered him. It was made of
gray plastic, and imprinted on it in yellow were the letters, CLASS B.
He had been promoted.
_Chapter Thirteen_
Things were not quite so easy in the Class B games parlors. Competition
was rough. Some of the players were, like Alan, sharp newcomers just up
from the bottom of the heap; others were former Class A men who were
sliding down again, but still did well enough to hang on in Class B.
Every day, some of the familiar faces were gone, as one man after
another failed to meet the continuing qualifications for the
intermediary class.
Alan won fairly steadily--and Hawkes, of course, was a consistent winner
on the Class A level. Alan turned his winnings over to the older man,
who then allowed him to draw any cash he might need without question.
The summer rolled on through August--hot and sticky, despite the best
efforts of the local weather-adjustment bureau. The cloud-seeders
provided a cooling rain-shower at about 0100 every night to wash away
the day's grime. Alan was usually coming home at that time, and he would
stand in the empty streets letting the rain pelt down on him, and
enjoying it. Rain was a novelty for him; he had spent so much of his
life aboard the starship that he had had little experience with it. He
was looking forward to the coming of winter, and with it snow.
He hardly ever thought of the _Valhalla_. He disciplined himself to keep
thoughts of the starship out of his mind, for he knew that once he began
regretting his decision there would be no stopping. Life on Earth was
endlessly fascinating; and he was confident that someday soon he would
get a chance to begin tracking down the Cavour hyperdrive.
Hawkes taught him many things--how to wrestle, how to cheat at cards,
how to throw knives. None of the things Alan learned from Hawkes were
proper parts of the education of a virtuous young man--but on Earth,
virtue was a negative accomplishment. You were either quick or dead. And
until he had an opportunity to start work on the hyperdrive, Alan knew
he had better learn how to survive on Earth. Hawkes was a master of
survival techniques; Alan was a good student.
He had his first test on a muggy night early in September. He had spent
his evening at the Lido, a flossy games parlor in the suburb of
Ridgewood, and had come away with better than seven hundred credits--the
second best single night he had ever had. He felt good about things.
Hawkes was working at a parlor far across the city, and so they did not
arrange to meet when the evening was over; instead, they planned to come
home separately. Usually they talked for an hour or two each night
before turning in, Alan reviewing his evening's work and having Hawkes
pick out the weak points in his technique and show him the mistakes he
had made.
Alan reached Hasbrouck about 0030 that evening. There was no moon; and
in Hasbrouck the street-lighting was not as efficient as it was in more
respectable areas of York City. The streets were dark. Alan was
perspiring heavily from the humidity. But the faint hum of the
cloud-seeders' helicopters could be heard; the evening rain was on the
way. He decided to wait outside a while.
The first drops splashed down at 0045. Alan grinned gleefully as the
cool rain washed away the sweat that clung to him; while pedestrians
scurried for cover, he gloried in the downpour.
Darkness lay all around. Alan heard sudden footsteps; a moment later he
felt sharp pressure in the small of his back and a hand gripping his
shoulder.