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 frame 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.”