_Chapter Twelve_
He felt a little emotional pang, something like nostalgia, as the_Valhalla_ came into sight, standing by itself tall and proud at the farend of the field. A cluster of trucks buzzed around it, transferringfuel, bringing cargo. He spotted the wiry figure of Dan Kelleher, thecargo chief, supervising and shouting salty instructions to theperspiring men.
Alan tightened his grip on Steve's arm and moved forward. Kellehershouted, "You men back there, tighten up on that winch and give 'er ahoist! Tighten up, I say! Put some muscle into----" He broke off."Alan," he said, in a quiet voice.
"Hello, Dan. Is my father around?"
Kelleher was staring with frank curiosity at the slumped figure of SteveDonnell. "The Captain's off watch now. Art Kandin's in charge."
"Thanks," Alan said. "I'd better go see him."
"Sure. And----"
Alan nodded. "Yes. That's Steve."
He passed between the cargo hoists and clambered onto the escalatorrampway that led to the main body of the ship. It rose, conveying himseventy feet upward and through the open passenger hatch to the innersection of the towering starship.
He was weary from having carried Steve so long. He put the sleeping formdown against a window-seat facing one of the viewscreens, and said toRat, "You stay here and keep watch. If anyone wants to know who he is,tell them the truth."
"Right enough."
Alan found Art Kandin where he expected to find him--in the CentralControl Room, posting work assignments for the blastoff tomorrow. Thelanky, pudgy-faced First Officer hardly noticed as Alan stepped upbeside him.
"Art?"
Kandin turned--and went pale. "Oh--Alan. Where in blazes have you beenthe last two days?"
"Out in the Earther city. Did my father make much of a fuss?"
The First Officer shook his head. "He kept saying you just went out tosee the sights, that you hadn't really jumped ship. But he kept sayingit over and over again, as if he didn't really believe it, as if hewanted to convince himself you were coming back."
"Where is he now?"
"In his cabin. He's off-watch for the next hour or two. I'll ring him upand have him come down here, I guess."
Alan shook his head. "No--don't do that. Tell him to meet me on B Deck."He gave the location of the picture-viewscreen where he had parkedSteve, and Kandin shrugged and agreed.
Alan made his way back to the viewscreen. Rat looked up at him; he wassitting perched on Steve's shoulder.
"Anyone bother you?" Alan asked.
"No one's come by this way since you left," Rat said.
"Alan?" a quiet voice said.
Alan turned. "Hello, Dad."
The Captain's lean, tough face had some new lines on it; his eyes weredarkly shadowed, and he looked as if he hadn't slept much the nightbefore. But he took Alan's hand and squeezed it warmly--in a fatherlyway, not a Captainly one. Then he glanced at the sleeping form behindAlan.
"I--went into the city, Dad. And found Steve."
Something that looked like pain came into Captain Donnell's eyes, butonly for an instant. He smiled. "It's strange, seeing the two of youlike this. So you brought back Steve, eh? We'll have to put him back onthe 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 formfor several hours, and which had crystallized as he trudged across thespacefield toward the _Valhalla_. "I brought you back Steve, Dad. Youstill have one son aboard ship. I want off. I'm resigning. I want tostay behind on Earth. By our charter you can't deny such a request."
Captain Donnell moistened his lips slowly. "Agreed, I can't deny. Butwhy, Alan?"
"I think I can do more good Earthside. I want to look for Cavour's oldnotebooks; I think he developed the hyperdrive, and if I stay behind onEarth maybe I can find it. Or else I can build my own. So long, Dad. Andtell Steve that I wish him luck--and that he'd better do the same forme." He glanced at Rat. "Rat, I'm deeding you to Steve. Maybe if he hadhad you instead of me, he never would have jumped ship in the firstplace."
He looked around, at his father, at Steve, at Rat. There was not muchelse he could say. And he knew that if he prolonged the farewell scenetoo long, he'd only be burdening his father and himself with the weightof sentimental memory.
"We won't be back from Procyon for almost twenty years, Alan. You'll bethirty-seven before we return to Earth again."
Alan grinned. "I have a hunch I'll be seeing you all before then, Dad. Ihope. Give everyone my best. So long, Dad."
"So long, Alan."
He turned away and rapidly descended the ramp. Avoiding Kelleher and thecargo crew, for goodbyes would take too long, he trotted smoothly overthe spacefield, feeling curiously lighthearted now. Part of the questwas over; Steve was back on board the _Valhalla_. But Alan knew the realwork was just beginning. He would search for the hyperdrive; perhapsHawkes 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 tothink of them now.
Hawkes was still standing at the edge of the field, and there was athoughtful 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 defercollection."
They made the trip back to York City in virtual silence. Either Hawkeswas being too tactful to ask the reasons for Alan's decision orelse--this seemed more likely, Alan decided--the gambler had alreadymade some shrewd surmises, and was waiting for time to bear him out.Hawkes had known long before Alan himself realized it that he would notleave 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 fewthing about life. The experience would not hurt him. And always in thefront of his mind he would keep the ultimate goal, of finding aspacedrive that would propel a ship faster than the speed of light.
At the apartment in Hasbrouck, Hawkes offered him a drink. "To celebrateour partnership," he explained.
Alan accepted the drink and tossed it down. It stung, momentarily; hesaw sadly he was never going to make much of a drinking man. He drewsomething from his pocket, and Hawkes frowned.
"What's that?"
"My Tally. Every spaceman has one. It's the only way we can keep trackof our chronological ages when we're on board ship." He showed it toHawkes; it read _Year 17 Day 3_. "Every twenty-four hours of subjectivetime that goes by, we click off another day. Every three hundredsixty-five days another year is ticked off. But I guess I won't beneeding this any more."
He tossed it in the disposal unit. "I'm an Earther now. Every day thatgoes by is just one day; objective time and subjective time are equal."
Hawkes grinned cheerfully. "A little plastic doodad to tell you how oldyou are, eh? Well, that's all behind you now." He pointed to a button inthe wall. "There's the operating control for your bed; I'll sleep inback, where I did last night. First thing tomorrow we'll get you adecent set of clothes, so you can walk down the street without havingpeople yell '_Spacer!_' at you. Then I want you to meet a fewpeople--friends of mine. And then we start breaking you in at the ClassC tables."
* * * * *
The first few days of life with Hawkes were exciting ones. The gamblerbought Alan new clothing, modern stuff with self-sealing zippers andpressure buttons, made of filmy clinging materials that were incrediblymore comfortable than the rough cloth of his _Valhalla_ uniform. YorkCity seemed less strange to him with each passing hour; he studiedUndertube routes and Overshoot maps until he knew his way around thecity fairly well.
Each
night about 1800 they would eat, and then it was time to go towork. Hawkes' routine brought him to three different Class A gamblingparlors, twice each week; on the seventh day he always rested. For thefirst week Alan followed Hawkes around, standing behind him andobserving his technique. When the second week began, Alan was on hisown, and he began to frequent Class C places near the A parlors Hawkesused.
But when he asked Hawkes whether he should take out a Free Statusregistration, the gambler replied with a quick, snappish, "Not yet."
"But why? I'm a professional gambler, since last week. Why shouldn't Iregister?"
"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 downon 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 menacein the calm blue eyes. In suddenly ominous tones he said, "I don't wantyou 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 hisshipboard superiors and obeying them. Hawkes probably knew best. In anycase, he was dependent on the older man right now, and did not want toanger him unnecessarily. Hawkes was wealthy; it might take money tobuild a hyperdrive ship, when the time came. Alan was flatlycold-blooded about it, and the concept surprised and amused him when herealized 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 losingseven hundred credits of Hawkes' money, even though he did manage to wina three-hundred-credit stake one evening.
But Hawkes was not worried. "You'll make the grade, Alan. A few moreweeks, days maybe, while you learn the combinations, limber up yourfingers, pick up the knack of thinking fast--you'll get there."
"I'm glad _you're_ so optimistic." Alan felt downcast. He had droppedthree hundred credits that evening, and it seemed to him that hisfumbling fingers would never learn to set up the combinations fastenough. He was just like Steve, a born loser, without the knack the gamerequired. "Oh, well, it's your money."
"And I expect you to double it for me some day. I've got a five-to-onebet out now that you'll make Class B before fall."
Alan snorted doubtfully. In order to make Class B, he would have to makeaverage winnings of two hundred credits a night for ten days running, orelse win three thousand credits within a month. It seemed a hopelesstask.
But, as usual, Hawkes won the bet. Alan's luck improved as May passedand June dwindled; at the beginning of July he hit a hot streak when heseemed to be marching up to the winner's rostrum every other round, andthe other Class C patrons began to grumble. The night he came home withsix hundred newly-won credits, Hawkes opened a drawer and took out aslim, 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 knowyou're carrying cash out of the game parlors every night."
Alan held the cool gray weapon, whose muzzle could spit a deadly streamof energized neutrinos, undetectable, massless, and fatal. "If I'm heldup I'm supposed to use this?"
"Just the first time," Hawkes said. "If you do the job right, you won'tneed 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 withineasy reach whenever he left the apartment. His skill at the gamecontinued to increase; it was, he saw, just like astrogation, and withgrowing confidence he learned to project his moves three and sometimesfour numbers ahead.
On a warm night in mid-July the proprietor of the games hall Alanfrequented 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 twoweeks. Comes to close to three thousand credits, altogether. Which meansyou'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 ofgray plastic, and imprinted on it in yellow were the letters, CLASS B.He had been promoted.
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