es 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