Chapter 8

They ate in a dark and unappealing restaurant three blocks from the Central Directory Matrix Building. The place was crowded, as all Earth places seemed to be. They stood on line for nearly half an hour before being shown to a grease-stained table in the back.

The wall clock said 1732.

A robowaiter approached them, holding a menu board in its metal hands. Hawkes leaned forward and punched out his order; Alan took slightly longer about it, finally selecting protein steak, synthocoffee, and mixed vegetables. The robot clicked its acknowledgement and moved on to the next table.

“So my brother’s a gambler,” Alan began.

Hawkes nodded. “You say it as if you were saying, so my brother’s a pickpocket, or so my brother’s a cutpurse. It’s a perfectly legitimate way of making a living.” Hawkes’ eyes hardened suddenly, and in a flat quiet voice added, “The way to stay out of trouble on Earth is to avoid being preachy, son. This isn’t a pretty world. There are too many people on it, and not many can afford the passage out to Gamma Leonis IV or Algol VII or some of the nice uncluttered colony-worlds. So while you’re in York City keep your eyes wide and your mouth zippered, and don’t turn your nose up at the sordid ways people make their livings.”

Alan felt his face go red, and he was happy to have the trays of food arrive at that moment, causing some sort of distraction. “Sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to sound preachy.”

“I know, kid. You lead a pretty sheltered life on those starships. And nobody can adjust to Earthside life in a day. How about a drink?”

Alan started to say that he didn’t drink, but kept the words back. He was on Earth, now, not aboard the Valhalla; he wasn’t required to keep ship’s regs. And he didn’t want to be trying to look superior. “Okay. How about Scotch--is that the stuff MacIntosh was drinking?”

“Fair enough,” Hawkes said.

He signalled for a robot waiter, and after a moment the robot slithered up to them. Hawkes punched a lever on the robot’s stomach and the metal creature began to click and glow. An instant later a panel in its stomach slid open and two glasses appeared within. The robot’s wiry tentacles reached in, took out the drinks, and set them on the table. Hawkes dropped a coin in a slot in the robot’s side, and the machine bustled away, its service completed.

“There you are,” Hawkes said, pointing to the glass of amber-colored liquid. “Drink up.” As if to set an example he lifted his own drink and tossed it down in one gulp, with obvious pleasure.

Alan picked up the little glass and held it before his eyes, staring at the man opposite him through its translucent depths. Hawkes appeared oddly distorted when viewed through the glass.

He grinned. He tried to propose a toast, but couldn’t think of any appropriate words, so he simply upended the glass and drained its contents. The stuff seemed to burn its way down his throat and explode in his stomach; the explosion rose through his gullet and into his brain. For a moment he felt as if the top of his head had been blown off. His eyes watered.

“Pretty potent stuff!”

“It’s the best there is,” Hawkes said. “Those boys really know the formulas.”

Alan felt a wave of dizziness, but it passed quickly; all that was left was a pleasant inner warmth, now. He pulled his tray toward him and attacked the synthetic meat and vegetables.

He ate quietly, making no attempt at conversation. Soft music bubbled up around them. He thought about his brother. So Steve was a gambler! And doing poorly at it, Hawkes said. He wondered if Steve would want to go back on the ship. He wondered also how it would be if Steve did agree to go back.

The old comradeship would be gone, he realized sadly. They had shared everything for seventeen years, grown up together, played together, worked together. Up till six weeks ago they had been so close that Alan could almost read Steve’s mind, and Steve Alan’s. They made a good team.

But that was finished, now. Steve would be a stranger to him aboard the Valhalla--an older, perhaps wiser man, with nine solid years of tough Earther life behind him. He would not be able to help but regard Alan as a kid, a greenhorn; it was natural. They would never be comfortable in each other’s presence, with the old easy familiarity that was so close to telepathy. That nine-year gulf would see to that.

“Thinking about your brother, aren’t you?”

Alan blinked. “How did you know?”

Grinning, Hawkes said, “A gambler has to know how to figure things. And it’s written in permoscript all over your forehead anyway. You’re wondering what the first face-to-face meeting’s going to be like. I’ll bet on it.”

“I won’t cover the bet. You’d win.”

“You want to know how it’ll be? I can tell you, Alan: you’ll feel sick. Sick and bewildered and ashamed of the guy who used to be your brother. But that’ll pass. You’ll look behind the things the nine years did to him, and you’ll see your brother back there. He’ll see you, too. It won’t be as bad as you’re expecting.”

Somehow Alan felt relieved. “You’re sure of that?”

Hawkes nodded. “You know, I’m taking such a personal interest in this business because I’ve got a brother too. Had a brother.”

“Had?”

“Kid about your age. Same problem I had, too: no guild. We were born into the street sweepers’ guild, but neither of us could go for that, so we checked out and took Free Status. I went into gambling. He hung around the Enclave. He always wanted to be a spacer.”

“What happened to him?”

“He pulled a fast one. Starship was in town and looking for a new galley-boy. Dave did some glib talking and got aboard. It was a fluke thing, but he made it.”

“Which ship?” Alan asked.

“Startreader. Bound out on a hop to Beta Crucis XVIII. 465 light-years.” Hawkes smiled faintly. “He left a year, year and a half ago. The ship won’t be back on Earth again for nine hundred thirty years or so. I don’t figure to be around that long.” He shook his head. “Let’s get out of here. People waiting for tables.”