The Seventh Science Fiction Megapack

by Robert Silverberg

  “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?

  Steve. He looked down the row for Steve.

  And then the board lit up again, and for the first time he was playing.

  He set up a tentative pattern; golden streaks flitted across the board, mingling with red and blue blinkers. Then the first number came. Alan integrated it hastily and realized he had constructed a totally worthless pattern; he wiped his board clean and set up new figures, based on the one number he had. Already, he knew, he was hopelessly far behind the others.

  But he kept with it as the minutes crawled past. Sweat dribbled down his face and neck. He had none of Hawkes’ easy confidence with the board’s controls; this game was hard work for a beginner. Later, perhaps, some of the steps would become automatic, but now—

  “Seventy-eight sub twelve over thirteen,” came the droning instructions, and Alan pulled levers and twisted ratchets to keep his pattern true. He saw the attraction the game held for the people of Earth: it required such deep concentration, such careful attention, that one had no time to ponder other problems. It was impossible to think and compete at the same time. The game offered perfect escape from the harsh realities of Earther existence.

  “Six hundred twelve sigma five.”

  Again Alan recompensated. His nerves tingled; he felt he must be close to victory. All thought of what he had come here for slipped away; Steve was forgotten. Only the flashing board counted, only the game.

  Five more numbers went by. Suddenly the gong rang, indicating that someone had achieved a winning pattern, and it was like the fall of a headsman’s axe to Alan. He had lost. That was all he could think of. He had lost.

  The winner was the dreamy-eyed youth at Table 166, who accepted his winnings without a word and took his seat. As Alan drew out another five-credit piece for the next round, he realized what he was doing.

  He was being caught up in the nerve-stretching excitement of the game. He was forgetting Steve, forgetting the waiting Hawkes outside.

  He stretched back in his seat and peered as far down the row as he could see. No sign of Steve there; he had to be on the other side of the croupier. Alan decided to do his best to win; that way he could advance to the rostrum and scan the other half of the hall.

  But the game fled by too quickly; he made a false computation on the eleventh number and watched in dismay as his pattern drew further and further away from the numbers being called off. He drove himself furiously, trying to make amends, but it was impossible. The winner was the man at Table 217, on the other side. He was a lantern-jawed giant with the powerful fram
e of a longshoreman, and he laughed in pleasure as he collected his money.

  Three more rounds went by; Alan picked up increasing skill at the game, but failed to win. He saw his shortcoming, but could not do anything to help it: he was unable to extrapolate ahead. Hawkes was gifted with the knack of being able to extend probable patterns two or three moves into the future; Alan could only work with the given, and so he never made the swift series of guesses which led to victory. He had spent nearly an hour in the parlor now, fruitlessly.

  The next round came and went. “Table 111 takes us for a hundred fifty credits,” came the croupier’s cry. Alan relaxed, waiting for the lucky winner to collect and for the next round to begin.

  The winner reached the centrally located rostrum. Alan looked at him. He was tall, fairly young—in his thirties, perhaps—with stooped shoulders and a dull glazedness about his eyes. He looked familiar.

  Steve.

  Feeling no excitement now that the quest had reached success, Alan slipped from his seat and made his way around the croupier’s rostrum and down the far aisle. Steve had already taken his seat at Table 111. Alan came up behind him, just as the gong sounded to signal the new round.

  Steve was hunched over the board, calculating with almost desperate fury. Alan touched his shoulder.

  “Steve?”

  Without looking up Steve snapped, “Get out of here, whoever you are! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Steve, I—”

  A robot sidled up to Alan and grasped him firmly by the arm. “It is forbidden to disturb the players while they are engaged in the game. We will have to eject you from this parlor.”

  Angrily Alan broke loose from the robot’s grasp and leaned over Steve. He shook him by the shoulder, roughly, trying to shake loose his mind from the flickering games board.

  “Steve, look up! It’s me—Alan—your brother!”

  Steve slapped at Alan’s hand as he would at a fly. Alan saw other robots converging on him from various points in the room. In a minute they’d hurl him out into the street.

  Recklessly he grabbed Steve by the shoulders and spun him around in his seat. A curse tumbled from Steve’s lips; then he fell strangely silent.

  “You remember me, Steve? Your brother Alan. Your twin brother, once.”

  Steve had changed, certainly. His hair was no longer thick and curly; it seemed to have straightened out, and darkened a little. Wrinkles seamed his forehead; his eyes were deep-set and surrounded by lines. He was slightly overweight, and it showed. He looked terribly tired. Looking at him was like looking at a comic mirror that distorted and altered your features. But there was nothing comic about Steve’s appearance.

  In a hoarse whisper he said, “Alan?”

  “Yes.”

  Alan felt robot arms grasping him firmly. He struggled to break loose, and saw Steve trying to say something, only no words were coming. Steve was very pale.

  “Let go of him!” Steve said finally, “He—he wasn’t disturbing me.”

  “He must be ejected. It is the rule.”

  Conflict traced deep lines on Steve’s face. “All right, then. We’ll both leave.”

  The robots released Alan, who rubbed his arms ruefully. Together they walked up the aisle and out into the street.

  Hawkes stood waiting there.

  “I see you’ve found him. It took long enough.”

  “M-Max, this is my brother, Steven Donnell.” Alan’s voice was shaky with tension. “Steve, this is a friend of mine. Max Hawkes.”

  “You don’t need to tell me who he is,” Steve said. His voice was deeper and harsher than Alan remembered it. “Every gamesman knows Hawkes. He’s the best there is.” In the warm daylight, Steve looked even older than the twenty-six years that was his chronological age. To Alan’s eyes he seemed to be a man who had been kicked around by life, a man who had not yet given up but who knew he didn’t stand much of a chance for the future.

  And he looked ashamed. The old sparkle was gone from his brother’s eyes. Quietly Steve said, “Okay, Alan. You tracked me down. Call me whatever names you want to call me and let me get about my business. I don’t do quite as well as your friend Hawkes, and I happen to be in need of a lot of cash in a hurry.”

  “I didn’t come to call you names. Let’s go someplace where we can talk,” Alan said. “There’s a lot for us to talk about.”

  STARMAN’S QUEST, by Robert Silverberg (Part 2)

  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 s
tarved 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.”