Starman's Quest Part 21

Hawkes was still standing at the edge of the field, and there was a thoughtful 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 defer collection."

They made the trip back to York City in virtual silence. Either Hawkes was being too tactful to ask the reasons for Alan's decision or else--this seemed more likely, Alan decided--the gambler had already made some shrewd surmises, and was waiting for time to bear him out.

Hawkes had known long before Alan himself realized it that he would not leave 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 few thing about life. The experience would not hurt him. And always in the front of his mind he would keep the ultimate goal, of finding a s.p.a.cedrive that would propel a ship faster than the speed of light.

At the apartment in Hasbrouck, Hawkes offered him a drink. "To celebrate our partnership," he explained.

Alan accepted the drink and tossed it down. It stung, momentarily; he saw sadly he was never going to make much of a drinking man. He drew something from his pocket, and Hawkes frowned.

"What's that?"

"My Tally. Every s.p.a.ceman has one. It's the only way we can keep track of our chronological ages when we're on board ship." He showed it to Hawkes; it read _Year 17 Day 3_. "Every twenty-four hours of subjective time that goes by, we click off another day. Every three hundred sixty-five days another year is ticked off. But I guess I won't be needing this any more."

He tossed it in the disposal unit. "I'm an Earther now. Every day that goes by is just one day; objective time and subjective time are equal."

Hawkes grinned cheerfully. "A little plastic doodad to tell you how old you are, eh? Well, that's all behind you now." He pointed to a b.u.t.ton in the wall. "There's the operating control for your bed; I'll sleep in back, where I did last night. First thing tomorrow we'll get you a decent set of clothes, so you can walk down the street without having people yell '_s.p.a.cer!_' at you. Then I want you to meet a few people--friends of mine. And then we start breaking you in at the Cla.s.s C tables."

The first few days of life with Hawkes were exciting ones. The gambler bought Alan new clothing, modern stuff with self-sealing zippers and pressure b.u.t.tons, made of filmy clinging materials that were incredibly more comfortable than the rough cloth of his _Valhalla_ uniform. York City seemed less strange to him with each pa.s.sing hour; he studied Undertube routes and Overshoot maps until he knew his way around the city fairly well.

Each night about 1800 they would eat, and then it was time to go to work. Hawkes' routine brought him to three different Cla.s.s A gambling parlors, twice each week; on the seventh day he always rested. For the first week Alan followed Hawkes around, standing behind him and observing his technique. When the second week began, Alan was on his own, and he began to frequent Cla.s.s C places near the A parlors Hawkes used.

But when he asked Hawkes whether he should take out a Free Status registration, the gambler replied with a quick, snappish, "Not yet."

"But why? I'm a professional gambler, since last week. Why shouldn't I register?"

"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 down on 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 menace in the calm blue eyes. In suddenly ominous tones he said, "I don't want you 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 his shipboard superiors and obeying them. Hawkes probably knew best. In any case, he was dependent on the older man right now, and did not want to anger him unnecessarily. Hawkes was wealthy; it might take money to build a hyperdrive ship, when the time came. Alan was flatly cold-blooded about it, and the concept surprised and amused him when he realized 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 losing seven hundred credits of Hawkes' money, even though he did manage to win a three-hundred-credit stake one evening.

But Hawkes was not worried. "You'll make the grade, Alan. A few more weeks, days maybe, while you learn the combinations, limber up your fingers, pick up the knack of thinking fast--you'll get there."

"I'm glad _you're_ so optimistic." Alan felt downcast. He had dropped three hundred credits that evening, and it seemed to him that his fumbling fingers would never learn to set up the combinations fast enough. He was just like Steve, a born loser, without the knack the game required. "Oh, well, it's your money."

"And I expect you to double it for me some day. I've got a five-to-one bet out now that you'll make Cla.s.s B before fall."

Alan snorted doubtfully. In order to make Cla.s.s B, he would have to make average winnings of two hundred credits a night for ten days running, or else win three thousand credits within a month. It seemed a hopeless task.

But, as usual, Hawkes won the bet. Alan's luck improved as May pa.s.sed and June dwindled; at the beginning of July he hit a hot streak when he seemed to be marching up to the winner's rostrum every other round, and the other Cla.s.s C patrons began to grumble. The night he came home with six hundred newly-won credits, Hawkes opened a drawer and took out a slim, 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 know you're carrying cash out of the game parlors every night."

Alan held the cool gray weapon, whose muzzle could spit a deadly stream of energized neutrinos, undetectable, ma.s.sless, and fatal. "If I'm held up I'm supposed to use this?"

"Just the first time," Hawkes said. "If you do the job right, you won't need 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 within easy reach whenever he left the apartment. His skill at the game continued to increase; it was, he saw, just like astrogation, and with growing confidence he learned to project his moves three and sometimes four numbers ahead.

On a warm night in mid-July the proprietor of the games hall Alan frequented 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 two weeks. Comes to close to three thousand credits, altogether. Which means you'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 of gray plastic, and imprinted on it in yellow were the letters, CLa.s.s B.

He had been promoted.

_Chapter Thirteen_

Things were not quite so easy in the Cla.s.s B games parlors. Compet.i.tion was rough. Some of the players were, like Alan, sharp newcomers just up from the bottom of the heap; others were former Cla.s.s A men who were sliding down again, but still did well enough to hang on in Cla.s.s B.

Every day, some of the familiar faces were gone, as one man after another failed to meet the continuing qualifications for the intermediary cla.s.s.

Alan won fairly steadily--and Hawkes, of course, was a consistent winner on the Cla.s.s 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 best efforts of the local weather-adjustment bureau. The cloud-seeders provided a cooling rain-shower at about 0100 every night to wash away the day's grime. Alan was usually coming home at that time, and he would stand in the empty streets letting the rain pelt down on him, and enjoying it. Rain was a novelty for him; he had spent so much of his life aboard the starship that he had had little experience with it. He was looking forward to the coming of winter, and with it snow.

He hardly ever thought of the _Valhalla_. He disciplined himself to keep thoughts of the starship out of his mind, for he knew that once he began regretting his decision there would be no stopping. Life on Earth was endlessly fascinating; and he was confident that someday soon he would get a chance to begin tracking down the Cavour hyperdrive.