Chapter 10

Alan woke early the next morning, but it was Rat, not Hawkes, who pulled him 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 were on a silence strike.”

“There wasn’t anything I wanted to say, so I kept quiet. But I want to say some things now, before your new friend wakes up.”

The Bellatrician had been silent all the past evening, tagging along behind Alan and Hawkes like a faithful pet, but keeping his mouth closed. “Go ahead and say them, then,” Alan told him.

“I don’t like this fellow Hawkes. I think you’re in for trouble if you stick 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’ll need.”

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 you one thing, Alan: I’m going back to the Valhalla, whether you are or not. 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 go back?”

“I heard you. I say you’re going to lose that bet. I say this Hawkes is going to fast-talk you into staying here--and if I had any need for money I’d put down a side-bet on Hawkes’ side.”

Alan laughed. “You think you know me better than I know myself. I never for a minute thought of jumping ship.”

“Has my advice ever steered you wrong? I’m older than you are, Alan, and ten or twenty times smarter. I can see where you’re heading. And--”

Alan grew suddenly angry. “Nag, nag, nag! You’re worse than an old woman! Why don’t you keep quiet the way you did last night, and leave me alone? I know what I’m doing, and when I want your advice I’ll ask for it.”

“Have it your own way,” Rat said. His tone was mildly reproachful. Alan felt abashed at having scolded the little alien that way, but he did not know how to make proper amends; besides, he was annoyed at Rat’s preachiness. He and Rat had been together too long. The Bellatrician probably thought he was still only ten years old and in need of constant advice.

He rolled over and went back to sleep. About an hour later, he was awakened again, this time by Hawkes. He dressed and they ate--good real food, no synthetics, served by Hawkes’ autochef--and then set out for the Atlas Games Parlor, 68th Avenue and 423rd Street, in Upper York City. The time was 1327 when they emerged on the street. Hawkes assured him that Steve would already be at “work”; most unsuccessful gamblers started 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 68th Avenue.

When they were a block away Alan spotted the sign, blinking on and off in watery red letters: ATLAS GAMES PARLOR. A smaller sign proclaimed the parlor’s Class C status, which allowed any mediocre player to make use of its facilities.

As they drew near Alan felt a tingle of excitement. This was what he had come to the Earther city for in the first place--to find Steve. For weeks he had been picturing the circumstances of this meeting; now it was about to take place.

The Atlas was similar to the other games parlor where Alan had had the set-to with the robohuckster; it was dark-windowed and a shining blue robot 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 be there, he thought; he won’t be there.

Hawkes took a wad of bills from his wallet. “Here’s two hundred credits for you to use at the tables while you’re looking around. I’ll have to wait outside. There’d be a royal uproar if a Class A man ever set foot inside a place like the Atlas.”

Alan smiled nervously. He was pleased that Hawkes was unable to come with him; he wanted to handle the problem by himself, for a change. And he was not anxious for the gambler to witness the scene between him and Steve.

If Steve were inside, that is.

He nodded tightly and walked toward the door. The robohuckster outside chattered at him, “Come right on, sir, step inside. Five credits can get you a hundred here. Right this way.”

“I’m going,” Alan said. He passed through the photobeam and into the games parlor. Another robot came sliding up to him and scanned his features.

“This is a Class C establishment, sir. If your card is any higher than Class 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 had told 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 Atlas was a good bit dingier than the Class A parlor he had been in the night before; 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 computations and changing their light-patterns.

Alan slid a five-credit piece into the slot and, while waiting for the round to finish and the next to begin, looked around at his fellow patrons. In the semi-dark that prevailed it was difficult to make out faces. He would have trouble recognizing Steve.

A musky odor hung low over the hall, sweet, pungent, yet somehow unpleasant. He realized he had experienced that odor before, and tried to remember--yes. Last night in the other games parlor he had smelled a wisp of the fragrance, and Hawkes had told him it was a narcotic cigarette. It lay heavy in the stale air of the Class C parlor.

Patrons stared with fanatic intensity at the racing pattern of lights before them. Alan glanced from one to the next. A baldhead whose dome glinted bright gold in the dusk knotted his hands together in an anguish of indecision. A slim, dreamy-eyed young man gripped the sides of the table frenziedly as the numbers spiralled upward. A fat woman in her late forties, hopelessly dazed by the intricate game, slumped wearily in her seat.

Beyond that he could not see. There were other patrons on the far side of the rostrum; perhaps Steve was over there. But it was forbidden for anyone to wander through the rows of tables searching for a particular player.

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 a twisted shuffle; his body shook palsiedly. Hawkes had warned him of these, too--the dreamdust addicts, who in the late stages of their addiction became hollow shells of men, barely able to walk. He took his hundred credits and returned to his table without smiling. Alan shuddered and looked away. Earth was not a pretty world. Life was good if you had the stream running with you, as Hawkes did--but for each successful one like Hawkes, how many fought unsuccessfully against the current and were swept away into dreamdust or worse?