_Chapter Ten_
Alan woke early the next morning, but it was Rat, not Hawkes, who pulledhim 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 wereon a silence strike."
"There wasn't anything I wanted to say, so I kept quiet. But I want tosay some things now, before your new friend wakes up."
The Bellatrician had been silent all the past evening, tagging alongbehind Alan and Hawkes like a faithful pet, but keeping his mouthclosed. "Go ahead and say them, then," Alan told him.
"I don't like this fellow Hawkes. I think you're in for trouble if youstick 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'llneed."
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 youone thing, Alan: I'm going back to the _Valhalla_, whether you are ornot. 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 goback?"
"I heard you. I say you're going to lose that bet. I say this Hawkes isgoing to fast-talk you into staying here--and if I had any need formoney I'd put down a side-bet on Hawkes' side."
Alan laughed. "You think you know me better than I know myself. I neverfor a minute thought of jumping ship."
"Has my advice ever steered you wrong? I'm older than you are, Alan, andten or twenty times smarter. I can see where you're heading. And----"
Alan grew suddenly angry. "Nag, nag, nag! You're worse than an oldwoman! Why don't you keep quiet the way you did last night, and leave mealone? I know what I'm doing, and when I want your advice I'll ask forit."
"Have it your own way," Rat said. His tone was mildly reproachful. Alanfelt abashed at having scolded the little alien that way, but he did notknow how to make proper amends; besides, he _was_ annoyed at Rat'spreachiness. He and Rat had been together too long. The Bellatricianprobably thought he was still only ten years old and in need of constantadvice.
He rolled over and went back to sleep. About an hour later, he wasawakened again, this time by Hawkes. He dressed and they ate--good realfood, no synthetics, served by Hawkes' autochef--and then set out forthe Atlas Games Parlor, 68th Avenue and 423rd Street, in Upper YorkCity. The time was 1327 when they emerged on the street. Hawkes assuredhim that Steve would already be at "work"; most unsuccessful gamblersstarted 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 68thAvenue.
When they were a block away Alan spotted the sign, blinking on and offin watery red letters: ATLAS GAMES PARLOR. A smaller sign proclaimed theparlor's Class C status, which allowed any mediocre player to make useof its facilities.
As they drew near Alan felt a tingle of excitement. This was what he hadcome to the Earther city for in the first place--to find Steve. Forweeks he had been picturing the circumstances of this meeting; now itwas about to take place.
The Atlas was similar to the other games parlor where Alan had had theset-to with the robohuckster; it was dark-windowed and a shining bluerobot 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 bethere, he thought; he won't be there.
Hawkes took a wad of bills from his wallet. "Here's two hundred creditsfor you to use at the tables while you're looking around. I'll have towait outside. There'd be a royal uproar if a Class A man ever set footinside a place like the Atlas."
Alan smiled nervously. He was pleased that Hawkes was unable to comewith him; he wanted to handle the problem by himself, for a change. Andhe was not anxious for the gambler to witness the scene between him andSteve.
_If_ Steve were inside, that is.
He nodded tightly and walked toward the door. The robohuckster outsidechattered at him, "Come right on, sir, step inside. Five credits can getyou a hundred here. Right this way."
"I'm going," Alan said. He passed through the photobeam and into thegames parlor. Another robot came sliding up to him and scanned hisfeatures.
"This is a Class C establishment, sir. If your card is any higher thanClass 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 hadtold 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 Atlaswas a good bit dingier than the Class A parlor he had been in the nightbefore; 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 computationsand changing their light-patterns.
Alan slid a five-credit piece into the slot and, while waiting for theround to finish and the next to begin, looked around at his fellowpatrons. In the semi-dark that prevailed it was difficult to make outfaces. He would have trouble recognizing Steve.
A musky odor hung low over the hall, sweet, pungent, yet somehowunpleasant. He realized he had experienced that odor before, and triedto remember--yes. Last night in the other games parlor he had smelled awisp of the fragrance, and Hawkes had told him it was a narcoticcigarette. It lay heavy in the stale air of the Class C parlor.
Patrons stared with fanatic intensity at the racing pattern of lightsbefore them. Alan glanced from one to the next. A baldhead whose domeglinted bright gold in the dusk knotted his hands together in an anguishof indecision. A slim, dreamy-eyed young man gripped the sides of thetable frenziedly as the numbers spiralled upward. A fat woman in herlate forties, hopelessly dazed by the intricate game, slumped wearily inher seat.
Beyond that he could not see. There were other patrons on the far sideof the rostrum; perhaps Steve was over there. But it was forbidden foranyone to wander through the rows of tables searching for a particularplayer.
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 atwisted shuffle; his body shook palsiedly. Hawkes had warned him ofthese, too--the dreamdust addicts, who in the late stages of theiraddiction became hollow shells of men, barely able to walk. He took hishundred credits and returned to his table without smiling. Alanshuddered and looked away. Earth was not a pretty world. Life was goodif you had the stream running with you, as Hawkes did--but for eachsuccessful one like Hawkes, how many fought unsuccessfully against thecurrent 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. Alanintegrated it hastily and realized he had constructed a totallyworthless pattern; he wiped his board clean and set up new figures,based on the one number he had. Already, he knew, he was hopelessly farbehind the others.
But he kept with it as the minutes crawled past. Sweat dribbled down hisface and neck. He had none of Hawkes' easy confidence with the board'scontrols; this game was hard work for a beginner. Later, perhaps, someof 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. Hesaw the attraction the game held for the people of Earth: it requiredsuch deep concentration, such careful attention, that one had no time toponder other problems. It was impossible to think and compete at thesame time. The game offered perfect escape from the harsh realities ofEarther existence.
"Six hundred twelve sigma five."
Again Alan recompensated. His nerves tingled; he felt he must be closeto victory. All thought of what he had come here for slipped away; Stevewas forgotten. Only the flashing board counted, only the game.
Five more numbers went by. Suddenly the gong rang, indicating thatsomeone had achieved a winning pattern, and it was like the fall of aheadsman's axe to Alan. He had lost. That was all he could think of. Hehad lost.
The winner was the dreamy-eyed youth at Table 166, who accepted hiswinnings without a word and took his seat. As Alan drew out anotherfive-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 couldsee. No sign of Steve there; he had to be on the other side of thecroupier. Alan decided to do his best to win; that way he could advanceto the rostrum and scan the other half of the hall.
But the game fled by too quickly; he made a false computation on theeleventh number and watched in dismay as his pattern drew further andfurther away from the numbers being called off. He drove himselffuriously, trying to make amends, but it was impossible. The winner wasthe man at Table 217, on the other side. He was a lantern-jawed giantwith the powerful frame of a longshoreman, and he laughed in pleasure ashe 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 tohelp it: he was unable to extrapolate ahead. Hawkes was gifted with theknack of being able to extend probable patterns two or three moves intothe future; Alan could only work with the given, and so he never madethe swift series of guesses which led to victory. He had spent nearly anhour in the parlor now, fruitlessly.
The next round came and went. "Table 111 takes us for a hundred fiftycredits," came the croupier's cry. Alan relaxed, waiting for the luckywinner to collect and for the next round to begin.
The winner reached the centrally located rostrum. Alan looked at him. Hewas tall, fairly young--in his thirties, perhaps--with stooped shouldersand a dull glazedness about his eyes. He looked familiar.
Steve.
Feeling no excitement now that the quest had reached success, Alanslipped from his seat and made his way around the croupier's rostrum anddown the far aisle. Steve had already taken his seat at Table 111. Alancame up behind him, just as the gong sounded to signal the new round.
Steve was hunched over the board, calculating with almost desperatefury. 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 isforbidden to disturb the players while they are engaged in the game. Wewill 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 mindfrom 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 robotsconverging on him from various points in the room. In a minute they'dhurl him out into the street.
Recklessly he grabbed Steve by the shoulders and spun him around in hisseat. 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; itseemed to have straightened out, and darkened a little. Wrinkles seamedhis forehead; his eyes were deep-set and surrounded by lines. He wasslightly overweight, and it showed. He looked terribly tired. Lookingat him was like looking at a comic mirror that distorted and alteredyour features. But there was nothing comic about Steve's appearance.
In a hoarse whisper he said, "Alan?"
"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. Stevewas 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 bothleave."
The robots released Alan, who rubbed his arms ruefully. Together theywalked 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 withtension. "Steve, this is a friend of mine. Max Hawkes."
"You don't need to tell me who he is," Steve said. His voice was deeperand harsher than Alan remembered it. "Every gamesman knows Hawkes. He'sthe best there is." In the warm daylight, Steve looked even older thanthe twenty-six years that was his chronological age. To Alan's eyes heseemed to be a man who had been kicked around by life, a man who had notyet given up but who knew he didn't stand much of a chance for thefuture.
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 whatevernames you want to call me and let me get about my business. I don't doquite as well as your friend Hawkes, and I happen to be in need of a lotof 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."
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