“How can they do that?”
Hawkes nudged a tiny sliver of metal embedded in a ring on his finger. “Here’s my televector transmitter. Everyone who has a work card or Free Status carries one, either on a ring or in a locket round his neck or somewhere else. Some people have them surgically embedded in their bodies. They give off resonance waves, each one absolutely unique; there’s about one chance in a quadrillion of a duplicate pattern. The instruments here can pick up a given pattern and tell you exactly where the person you’re looking for is.”
“So we can find Steve without much trouble!”
“Probably.” Hawkes’ face darkened. “I’ve known it to happen that the televector pattern picks up a man who’s been at the bottom of the sea for five years. But don’t let me scare you; Steve’s probably in good shape.”
He took out the slip of paper on which he had jotted down Steve’s televector code number and transferred the information to an application blank.
“This system,” Alan said. “It means no one can possibly hide anywhere on Earth unless he removes his televector transmitter.”
“You can’t do that, though. Strictly illegal. An alarm goes out whenever someone gets more than six inches from his transmitter, and he’s picked up on suspicion. It’s an automatic cancellation of your work card if you try to fool with your transmitter—or if you’re Free Status a fine of ten thousand credits.”
“And if you can’t pay the fine?”
“Then you work it off in Government indenture, at a thousand credits a year—chopping up rocks in the Antarctica Penitentiary. The system’s flawless. It has to be. With Earth as overpopulated as it is, you need some system of tracking down people—otherwise crime would be ten times as prevalent as it is now.”
“There still is crime?”
“Oh, sure. There’s always somebody who needs food bad enough to rob for it, even though it means a sure arrest. Murder’s a little less common.” Hawkes fed the requisition slip into the slot. “You’d be surprised what a deterrent the televector registry system is. It’s not so easy to run off to South America and hide when anybody at all can come in here and find out exactly where you are.”
A moment went by. Then the slot clicked and a glossy pink slip came rolling out.
Alan looked at it. It said:
TELEVECTOR REGISTRY 21 May 3876 Location of Donnell Steve, YC83-10j6490k37618 Time: 1643:21
There followed a street map covering some fifteen square blocks, and a bright red dot was imprinted in the center of the map.
Hawkes glanced at the map and smiled. “I thought that was where he would be!”
“Where’s that?”
“68th Avenue and 423rd Street.”
“Is that where he lives?” Alan asked.
“Oh, no. The televector tells you where he is right now. I’d venture to say that was his—ah—place of business.”
Alan frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“That happens to be the address of the Atlas Games Parlor. Your brother Steve probably spends most of his working day there, when he has enough cash to get in. I know the place. It’s a cheap joint where the payoffs are low but easy. It’s the kind of place a low-budget man would frequent.”
“You mean Steve’s a gambler?”
Hawkes smiled. “Most Free Status men are. It’s one of the few ways we can earn a living without getting a work card. There isn’t any gamblers’ guild. There are a few other ways, too, but they’re a lot less savory, and the televector surveillance makes it hard for a man to stay in business for long.”
Alan moistened his lips. “What do you do?”
“Gamble. I’m in the upper brackets, though. As I say: some of us have the knack. I doubt if your brother does, though. After nine years he wouldn’t still be working the Atlas if he had any dough.”
Alan shrugged that off. “How do we get there? I’d like to go right away. I—”
“Patience, lad,” Hawkes murmured. “There’s plenty of time for that. When does your ship leave?”
“Couple of days.”
“Then we don’t need to rush right over to the Atlas now. Let’s get some food in ourselves first. Then a good night’s rest. We can go over there tomorrow.”
“But my brother—”
“Your brother,” Hawkes said, “has been in York City for nine years, and I’ll bet he’s spent every night for the last eight of them sitting in the Atlas. He’ll keep till tomorrow. Let’s get something to eat.”
Chapter Eight
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!”