Starman's Quest

Chapter Eleven

They adjourned to a small tavern three doors down 68th Avenue from the games parlor, an old-fashioned tavern with manually operated doors and stuffed moose heads over the bar. Alan and Hawkes took seats next to each other in a booth in back; Steve sat facing them.

The barkeep came scuttling out—no robot in here, just a tired-faced old man—and took their orders. Hawkes called for beer, Steve for whiskey; Alan did not order.

He sat staring at his brother’s oddly changed face. Steve was twenty-six. From Alan’s seventeen-year-old vantage-point, that seemed tremendously old, well past the prime of life.

He said, “The Valhalla landed on Earth a few days ago. We’re bound out for Procyon in a few days.”

“So?”

“The Captain would like to see you again, Steve.”

Steve stared moodily at his drink without speaking, for a long moment. Alan studied him. Less than two months had passed for Alan since Steve had jumped ship; he still remembered how his twin had looked. There had been something smouldering in Steve’s eyes then, a kind of rebellious fire, a smoky passion. That was gone now. It had burned out long ago. In its place Alan saw only tiny red veins—the bloodshot eyes of a man who had been through a lot, little of it very pleasant.

“Is that the truth?” Steve asked. “Would he like to see me? Or wouldn’t he just prefer to think I never was born at all?”

“No.”

“I know the Captain—Dad—pretty well. Even though I haven’t seen him in nine years. He’d never forgive me for jumping ship. I don’t want to pay any visits to the Valhalla, Alan.”

“Who said anything about visiting?”

“Then what were you talking about?”

“I was talking about going back into the Crew,” Alan said quietly.

The words seemed to strike Steve like physical blows. He shuddered a little and gulped down the drink he held clutched in tobacco-stained fingers. He looked up at Alan, finally.

“I can’t. It’s impossible. Flatly impossible.”

“But—”

Alan felt Hawkes’ foot kick him sharply under the table. He caught the hint, and changed the subject. There was time to return to it later.

“Okay, let’s skip it for now. Why don’t you tell me about your life on Earth these last nine years?”

Steve smiled sardonically. “There’s not much to tell, and what there is is a pretty dull story. I came across the bridge from the Enclave last time the Valhalla was in town, and came over into York City all set to conquer the world, become rich and famous, and live happily ever after. Five minutes after I set foot on the Earther side of the river I was beaten up and robbed by a gang of roving kids. It was a real fine start.”

He signalled the waiter for another drink. “I guess I must have drifted around the city for two weeks or more before the police found me and picked me up for vagrancy. By that time the Valhalla had long since hoisted for Alpha C—and didn’t I wish I was on it! Every night I used to dream I had gone back on the ship. But when I woke up I always found out I hadn’t.

“The police gave me an education in the ways of Earther life, complete with rubber hoses and stingrays, and when they were through with me I knew all about the system of work cards and free status. I didn’t have a credit to my name. So I drifted some more. Then I got sick of drifting and tried to find a job, but of course I couldn’t buy my way in to any of the hereditary guilds. Earth has enough people of her own; she’s not interested in finding jobs for kid spacemen who jump ship.

“So I starved a little. Then I got tired of starving. So about a year after I first jumped ship I borrowed a thousand credits from somebody foolish enough to lend them, and set myself up as a professional gambler on Free Status. It was the only trade I could find that didn’t have any entrance requirements.”

“Did you do well?”

“Yeah. Very well. At the end of my first six months I was fifteen hundred credits in debt. Then my luck changed; I won three thousand credits in a single month and got shifted up to Class B.” Steve laughed bitterly. “That was beautiful, up there. Inside of two more months I’d not only lost my three thousand, I was two thousand more in hock. And that’s the way it’s been going ever since. I borrow here, win a little to pay him back, or lose a little and borrow from someone else, win a little, lose a little—round and round and round. A swell life, Alan. And I still dream about the Valhalla once or twice a week.”

Steve’s voice was leaden, dreary. Alan felt a surge of pity. The swashbuckling, energetic Steve he had known might still be there, inside this man somewhere, but surrounding him were the scars of nine bitter years on Earth.

Nine years. It was a tremendous gulf.

Alan caught his breath a moment. “If you had the chance to go back into the Crew, no strings attached, no recriminations—would you take it?”

For an instant the old brightness returned to Steve’s eyes. “Of course I would! But—”

“But what?”

“I owe seven thousand credits,” Steve said. “And it keeps getting worse. That pot I won today, just before you came over to me, that was the first take I’d had in three days. Nine years and I’m still a Class C gambler. We can’t all be as good as Hawkes here. I’m lousy—but what other profession could I go into, on an overcrowded and hostile world like this one?”

Seven thousand credits, Alan thought. It was a week’s earnings for Hawkes—but Steve would probably be in debt the rest of his life.

“Who do you owe this money to?” Hawkes asked suddenly.

Steve looked at him. “The Bryson syndicate, mostly. And Lorne Hollis. The Bryson people keep a good eye on me, too. There’s a Bryson man three booths up who follows me around. If they ever saw me going near the spacefield they’d be pretty sure to cut me off and ask for their money. You can’t welsh on Bryson.”

“Suppose it was arranged that your debts be cancelled,” Hawkes said speculatively.

Steve shook his head. “No. I don’t want charity. I know you’re a Class A and seven thousand credits comes easy to you, but I couldn’t take it. Skip it. I’m stuck here on Earth for keeps, and I’m resigned to it. I made my choice, and this is what I got.”

“Listen to reason,” Alan urged. “Hawkes will take care of the money you owe. And Dad will be so happy to see you come back to the ship again—”

“Like Mars he’ll be happy! See me come back, beaten up and ragged, a washed-out old man at twenty-six? No, sir. The Captain blotted me out of his mind a long time ago, and he and I don’t have any further business together.”

“You’re wrong, Steve. He sent me into the Earther city deliberately to find you. He said to me, ‘Find Steve and urge him to come back to the ship.’ He’s forgiven you completely,” Alan lied. “Everyone’s anxious to have you come back on board.”

For a moment Steve sat silent, indecisive, frowning deeply. Then he made up his mind. He shook his head. “No—both of you. Thanks, but I don’t want any. Keep your seven thousand, Hawkes. And you, Alan—go back to the ship and forget all about me. I don’t even deserve a second chance.”

“You’re wrong!” Alan started to protest, but a second time Hawkes kicked him hard, and he shut up. He stared curiously at the gambler.

“I guess that about settles it,” Hawkes observed. “If the man wants to stay, we can’t force him.”

Steve nodded. “I have to stay on Earth. And now I’d better get back to the games parlor—I can’t waste any time, you know. Not with a seven thousand credit backlog to make up.”

“Naturally. But there’s time for one more drink, isn’t there? On me. Maybe you don’t want my money, but let me buy you a drink.”

Steve grinned. “Fair enough.”

He started to wave to the bartender, but Hawkes shot out an arm quickly and blocked off the gesture. “He’s an old man and he’s tired. I’ll go to the bar and order.” And before Steve could protest, Hawkes had slipped smoothly out of the booth and was on his way forward to the bar.

Alan sat facing his brother. He felt pity. Steve had been through a lot; the freedom he had longed for aboard ship had had a heavy price. And was it freedom, to sit in a crowded games parlor on a dirty little planet and struggle to get out of debt?

There was nothing further he could say to Steve. He had tried, and he had failed, and Steve would remain on Earth. But it seemed wrong. Steve did deserve a second chance. He had jumped ship and it had been a mistake, but there was no reason why he could not return to his old life, wiser for the experience. Still, if he refused—

Hawkes came back bearing two drinks—another beer for himself and a whiskey for Steve. He set them out on the table and said, “Well, drink up. Here’s hoping you make Class A and stay there.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, and drained his drink in a single loud gulp. His eyes widened; he started to say something, but never got the words out. He slumped down in his seat and his chin thumped ringingly against the table.

Alan looked at Hawkes in alarm. “What happened to him? Why’d he pass out?”

Hawkes smiled knowingly. “An ancient Earth beverage known as the Mickey Finn. Two drops of a synthetic enzyme in his drink; tasteless, but extremely effective. He’ll be asleep for ten hours or more.”

“How’d you arrange it?”

“I told the bartender it was in a good cause, and he believed me. You wait here, now. I want to talk to that Bryson man about your brother’s debts, and then we’ll spirit him out to the spaceport and dump him aboard the Valhalla before he wakes up.”

Alan grinned. He was going to have to do some explaining to Steve later, but by that time it would be too late; the starship would be well on its way to Procyon. It was a dirty trick to play, he thought, but it was justifiable. In Hawkes’ words, it was in a good cause.

Alan put his arms around his brother’s shoulders and gently lifted him out of the chair; Steve was surprisingly light, for all his lack of condition. Evidently muscle weighed more than fat, and Steve had gone to fat. Supporting his brother’s bulk without much trouble, Alan made his way toward the entrance to the bar. As he went past the bartender, the old man smiled at him. Alan wondered what Hawkes had said to him.

Right now Hawkes was three booths up, leaning over and taking part in an urgent whispered conference with a thin dark-faced man in a sharply tailored suit. They reached some sort of agreement; there was a handshake. Then Hawkes left the booth and slung one of Steve’s dangling arms around his own shoulder, easing the weight.

“There’s an Undertube that takes us as far as Carhill Boulevard and the bridge,” Hawkes said. “We can get a ground vehicle there that’ll go on through the Enclave and out to the spacefield.”

The trip took nearly an hour. Steve sat propped up between Alan and Hawkes, and every now and then his head would loll to one side or another, and he would seem to be stirring; but he never woke. The sight of two men dragging a third along between them attracted not the slightest attention as they left the Undertube and climbed aboard the spacefield bus. Apparently in York City no one cared much about what went on; it made no difference to the busy Earthers whether Steve were unconscious or dead.

The ground bus took them over the majestic arch of the bridge, rapidly through the sleepy Enclave—Alan saw nobody he recognized in the streets—and through the restricted area that led to the spacefield.

The spaceport was a jungle of ships, each standing on its tail waiting to blast off. Most of them were small two-man cargo vessels, used in travel between Earth and the colonies on the Moon, Mars, and Pluto, but here and there a giant starship loomed high above the others. Alan stood on tiptoes to search for the golden hull of the Valhalla, but he was unable to see it. Since the starship would be blasting off at the end of the week, he knew the crew was probably already at work on it, shaping it up for the trip. He belonged on it too.

He saw a dark green starship standing nearby; the Encounter , Kevin Quantrell’s ship. Men were moving about busily near the big ship, and Alan remembered that it had become obsolete during its last long voyage, and was being rebuilt.

A robot came sliding up to the three of them as they stood there at the edge of the landing field.

“Can I help you, please?”

“I’m from the starship Valhalla,” Alan said. “I’m returning to the ship. Would you take me to the ship, please?”

“Of course.”

Alan turned to Hawkes. The moment had come, much too suddenly. Alan felt Rat twitching at his cuff, as if reminding him of something.

Grinning awkwardly, Alan said, “I guess this is the end of the line, Max. You’d better not go out on the spacefield with us. I—I sort of want to thank you for all the help you’ve given me. I never would have found Steve without you. And about the bet we made—well, it looks like I’m going back on my ship after all, so I’ve won a thousand credits from you. But I can’t ask for it, of course. Not after what you did for Steve.”

He extended his hand. Hawkes took it, but he was smiling strangely.

“If I owed you the money, I’d pay it to you,” the gambler said. “That’s the way I work. The seven thousand I paid for Steve is extra and above everything else. But you haven’t won that bet yet. You haven’t won it until the Valhalla’s in space with you aboard it.”

The robot made signs of impatience. Hawkes said, “You’d better convoy your brother across the field and dump him on his ship. Save the goodbyes for later. I’ll wait right here for you. Right here.”

Alan shook his head. “Sorry, Max, but you’re wasting your time by waiting. The Valhalla has to be readied for blastoff, and once I check in aboard ship I can’t come back to visit. So this is goodbye, right here.”

“We’ll see about that,” Hawkes said. “Ten to one odds.”

“Ten to one,” Alan said. “And you’ve lost your bet.” But his voice did not sound very convincing, and as he started off across the field with Steve dragging along beside him he frowned, and did some very intense thinking indeed in the few minutes’ time it took him to arrive at the shining Valhalla. He was beginning to suspect that Hawkes might be going to win the bet after all.