Starman's Quest

by Robert Silverberg

  _Chapter Thirteen_

  Things were not quite so easy in the Class B games parlors. Competitionwas rough. Some of the players were, like Alan, sharp newcomers just upfrom the bottom of the heap; others were former Class A men who weresliding 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 afteranother failed to meet the continuing qualifications for theintermediary class.

  Alan won fairly steadily--and Hawkes, of course, was a consistent winneron 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 bestefforts of the local weather-adjustment bureau. The cloud-seedersprovided a cooling rain-shower at about 0100 every night to wash awaythe day's grime. Alan was usually coming home at that time, and he wouldstand in the empty streets letting the rain pelt down on him, andenjoying it. Rain was a novelty for him; he had spent so much of hislife aboard the starship that he had had little experience with it. Hewas looking forward to the coming of winter, and with it snow.

  He hardly ever thought of the _Valhalla_. He disciplined himself to keepthoughts of the starship out of his mind, for he knew that once he beganregretting his decision there would be no stopping. Life on Earth wasendlessly fascinating; and he was confident that someday soon he wouldget 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 wereproper parts of the education of a virtuous young man--but on Earth,virtue was a negative accomplishment. You were either quick or dead. Anduntil he had an opportunity to start work on the hyperdrive, Alan knewhe had better learn how to survive on Earth. Hawkes was a master ofsurvival techniques; Alan was a good student.

  He had his first test on a muggy night early in September. He had spenthis evening at the Lido, a flossy games parlor in the suburb ofRidgewood, and had come away with better than seven hundred credits--thesecond 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 notarrange to meet when the evening was over; instead, they planned to comehome separately. Usually they talked for an hour or two each nightbefore turning in, Alan reviewing his evening's work and having Hawkespick out the weak points in his technique and show him the mistakes hehad made.

  Alan reached Hasbrouck about 0030 that evening. There was no moon; andin Hasbrouck the street-lighting was not as efficient as it was in morerespectable areas of York City. The streets were dark. Alan wasperspiring heavily from the humidity. But the faint hum of thecloud-seeders' helicopters could be heard; the evening rain was on theway. He decided to wait outside a while.

  The first drops splashed down at 0045. Alan grinned gleefully as thecool rain washed away the sweat that clung to him; while pedestriansscurried for cover, he gloried in the downpour.

  Darkness lay all around. Alan heard sudden footsteps; a moment later hefelt sharp pressure in the small of his back and a hand gripping hisshoulder.

  A quiet voice said, "Hand over your cash and you won't get hurt."

  Alan froze just an instant. Then the months of Hawkes' training cameinto play. He wiggled his back tentatively to see whether the knife waspenetrating his clothing. Good; it wasn't.

  In one quick motion he whirled and spun away, dancing off to the leftand clubbing down sharply on his opponent's knife-hand. A gruntedexclamation of pain rewarded him. He stepped back two steps; as hisattacker advanced, Alan drove a fist into his stomach and leaped lithelyaway again. This time his hand emerged holding the neutrino gun.

  "Stand where you are or I'll burn you," he said quietly. Theshadow-shrouded attacker made no move. Cautiously Alan kicked the fallenknife out of his reach without lowering his gun.

  "Okay," Alan said. "Come on over here in the light where I can see whoyou are. I want to remember you."

  But to his astonishment he felt strong arms slipping around his andpinioning him; a quick twist and his neutrino gun dropped from hisnumbed hands. The arms locked behind his back in an unbreakable fullnelson.

  Alan writhed, but it was no use. The hidden accomplice held him tightly.And now the other man came forward and efficiently went through hispockets. Alan felt more angry than afraid, but he wished Hawkes orsomeone else would come along before this thing went too far.

  Suddenly Alan felt the pressure behind his neck easing up. His captorwas releasing him. He poised, debating whether or not to whirl andattack, when a familiar voice said, "Rule Number One: never leave yourback unguarded for more than half a second when you're being held up.You see what happens."

  Alan was too stunned to reply for several moments. In a whisper he saidfinally, "Max?"

  "Of course. And lucky for you I'm who I am, too. John, step out here inthe light where he can see you. Alan, meet John Byng. Free Status, ClassB."

  The man who had originally attacked him came forward now, into the lightof the street-glow. He was shorter than Alan, with a lean, almostfleshless face and a scraggly reddish-brown beard. He looked cadaverous.His eyeballs were stained a peculiar yellowish tinge.

  Alan recognized him--a Class B man he had seen several times at variousparlors. It was not a face one forgot easily.

  Byng handed over the thick stack of bills he had taken from Alan. As hepocketed them, Alan said in some annoyance, "A very funny prank, Max.But suppose I had burned your friend's belly, or he had stabbed me?"

  Hawkes chuckled. "One of the risks of the game, I guess. But I know youtoo well to think that you'd burn down an unarmed man, and John didn'tintend to stab you. Besides, I was right here."

  "And what was the point of this little demonstration?"

  "Part of your education, m'boy. I was hoping you'd be held up by one ofthe local gangs, but they didn't oblige, so I had to do it myself. WithJohn's help, of course. Next time remember that there may be anaccomplice hiding in the shadows, and that you're not safe just becauseyou've caught one man."

  Alan grinned. "Good point. And I guess this is the best way to learnit."

  The three of them went upstairs. Byng excused himself and vanished intothe extra room almost immediately; Hawkes whispered to Alan, "Johnny's adreamduster--a narcosephrine addict. In the early stages; you can spotit by the yellowing of the eyeballs. Later on it'll cripple him, but hedoesn't worry about later on."

  Alan studied the small, lean man when he returned. Byng was smiling--astrange unworldly smile. He held a small plastic capsule in his righthand.

  "Here's another facet of your education," he said. He looked at Hawkes."Is it okay?"

  Hawkes nodded.

  Byng said, "Take a squint at this capsule, boy. It'sdreamdust--narcosephrine. That's my kick."

  He tossed the capsule nonchalantly to Alan, who caught it and held it atarm's distance as if it were a live viper. It contained a yellow powder.

  "You twist the cap and sniff a little," Hawkes said. "But don't try itunless you hate yourself real bad. Johnny can testify to that."

  Alan frowned. "What does the stuff do?"

  "It's a stimulant--a nerve-stimulant. Enhances perception. It's madefrom a weed that grows only in dry, arid places--comes from EpsilonEridani IV originally, but the galaxy's biggest plantation is in theSahara. It's habit-forming--and expensive."

  "How much of it do you have to take to--to get the habit?"

  Byng's thin lips curled in a cynical scowl. "One sniff. And the drugtakes all your worries away. You're nine feet tall and the world's yourplaything, when you're up on dream dust. Everything you look at has sixdifferent colors." Bitterly Byng said, "Just one catch--after about ayear you stop feeling the effect. But not the craving. That stays withyou forever. Every night, one good sniff--at a hundred credits a sniff.And there's no cure."

  Alan shuddered. He had seen dreamdust addicts in the advancedstate--withered palsied old men of forty, unable to
eat, crippled,drying up and nearing death. All that for a year's pleasure!

  "Johnny used to be a starman," Hawkes said suddenly. "That's why Ipicked him for our little stunt tonight. I thought it was about time Iintroduced you two."

  Alan's eyes widened. "What ship?"

  "_Galactic Queen._ A dreamdust peddler came wandering through theEnclave one night and let me have a free sniff. Generous of him."

  "And you--became an addict?"

  "Five minutes later. So my ship left without me. That was eleven yearsago, Earthtime. Figure it out--a hundred credits a night for elevenyears."

  Alan felt cold inside. It could have happened to him, he thought--thatfree sniff. Byng's thin shoulders were quivering. The advanced stage ofaddiction was starting to set in.

  Byng was only the first of Hawkes' many friends that Alan met in thenext two weeks. Hawkes was the center of a large group of men in FreeStatus, not all of whom knew each other but who all knew Hawkes. Alanfelt a sort of pride in being the protege of such an important andwidely-known man as Max Hawkes, until he started discovering what sortof people Hawkes' friends were.

  There was Lorne Hollis, the loansman--one of the men Steve had borrowedfrom. Hollis was a chubby, almost greasy individual with flat milky grayeyes and a cold, chilling smile. Alan shook hands with him, and thenfelt like wiping off his hand. Hollis came to see them often.

  Another frequent visitor was Mike Kovak of the Bryson Syndicate--asharp-looking businessman type in ultra-modern suits, who spoke clearlyand well and whose specialty was forgery. There was Al Webber, anamiable, soft-spoken little man who owned a fleet of small ion-drivecargo ships that plied the spacelines between Earth and Mars, and whoalso exported dreamdust to the colony on Pluto, where the weed could notbe grown.

  Seven or eight others showed up occasionally at Hawkes' apartment. Alanwas introduced to them all, and then generally dropped out of theconversation, which usually consisted of reminiscences and gossip aboutpeople he did not know.

  But as the days passed, one thing became evident: Hawkes might not be acriminal himself, but certainly most of his friends operated on the farside of the law. Hawkes had seen to it that they stayed away from theapartment during the first few months of Alan's Earther education; butnow that the ex-starman was an accomplished gambler and fairly wellskilled in self-defense, all of Hawkes' old friends were returning onceagain.

  Day by day Alan increasingly realized how innocent and childlike astarman's life was. The _Valhalla_ was a placid little world of 176people, bound together by so many ties that there was rarely anyconflict. Here on Earth, though, life was tough and hard.

  He was lucky. He had stumbled into Hawkes early in his wanderings. Witha little less luck he might have had the same sort of life Steve hadhad ... or John Byng. It was not fun to think about that.

  Usually when Hawkes had friends visiting him late at night, Alan wouldsit up for a while listening, and then excuse himself and get somesleep. As he lay in bed he could hear low whispering, and once he woketoward morning and heard the conversation still going on. He strainedhis ears, but did not pick up anything.

  One night early in October he had come home from the games parlor and,finding nobody home, had gone immediately to sleep. Some time later heheard Hawkes and his friends come in, but he was too tired to get out ofbed and greet them. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

  But later that night he felt hands touching him, and he opened an eye tosee Hawkes bending over him.

  "It's me--Max. Are you awake?"

  "No," Alan muttered indistinctly.

  Hawkes shook him several times. "Come on--get up and put some clotheson. Some people here who want to talk to you."

  Only half comprehending, Alan clambered unwillingly from bed, dressed,and splashed cold water in his face. He followed Hawkes back inside.

  The living room was crowded. Seven or eight men were there--the onesAlan thought of as the inner circle of Hawkes' cronies. Johnny Byng,Mike Kovak, Al Webber, Lorne Hollis, and some others. Sleepily Alannodded at them and took a seat, wondering why Hawkes had dragged him outof bed for this.

  Hawkes looked at him sharply. "Alan, you know all these people, don'tyou?"

  Alan nodded. He was still irritated at Hawkes; he had been sound asleep.

  "You're now facing ninety per cent of what we've come to call the HawkesSyndicate," Hawkes went on. "These eight gentlemen and myself haveformed the organization recently for a certain specific purpose. More ofthat in a few minutes. What I got you out here to tell you was thatthere's room in our organization for one more man, and that you fit thenecessary qualifications."

  "Me?"

  Hawkes smiled. "You. We've all been watching you since you came to livewith me, testing you, studying you. You're adaptable, strong,intelligent. You learn fast. We had a little vote tonight, and decidedto invite you in."

  Alan wondered if he were still asleep or not. What was all this talk ofsyndicates? He looked round the circle, and realized that this bunchcould be up to no good.

  Hawkes said, "Tell him about it, Johnny."

  Byng leaned forward and blinked his drug-stained eyes. In a quiet voice,almost a purr, he said, "It's really very simple. We're going to stage agood old-fashioned hold-up. It's a proposition that'll net us each abouta million credits, even with the ten-way split. It ought to go offpretty easy but we need you in on it. As a matter of fact, I'd say youwere indispensable to the project, Alan."