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."

_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 anythi