elf with the weight
of sentimental memory.

"We won't be back from Procyon for almost twenty years, Alan. You'll be
thirty-seven before we return to Earth again."

Alan grinned. "I have a hunch I'll be seeing you all before then, Dad. I
hope. Give everyone my best. So long, Dad."

"So long, Alan."

He turned away and rapidly descended the ramp. Avoiding Kelleher and the
cargo crew, for goodbyes would take too long, he trotted smoothly over
the spacefield, feeling curiously lighthearted now. Part of the quest
was over; Steve was back on board the _Valhalla_. But Alan knew the real
work was just beginning. He would search for the hyperdrive; perhaps
Hawkes would help him. Maybe he would succeed in his quest this time,
too. He had some further plans, in that event, but it was not time to
think of them now.

Hawkes was still standing at the edge of the field, and there was a
thoughtful smile on his face as Alan came running up to him.

"I guess you won your bet," Alan said, when he had his breath back.

"I almost always do. You owe me a hundred credits--but I'll defer
collection."

They made the trip back to York City in virtual silence. Either Hawkes
was being too tactful to ask the reasons for Alan's decision or
else--this seemed more likely, Alan decided--the gambler had already
made some shrewd surmises, and was waiting for time to bear him out.
Hawkes had known long before Alan himself realized it that he would not
leave with the _Valhalla_.

The Cavour Hyperdrive, that was the rainbow's end Alan would chase now.
He would accept Hawkes' offer, become the gambler's protege, learn a few
thing about life. The experience would not hurt him. And always in the
front of his mind he would keep the ultimate goal, of finding a
spacedrive that would propel a ship faster than the speed of light.

At the apartment in Hasbrouck, Hawkes offered him a drink. "To celebrate
our partnership," he explained.

Alan accepted the drink and tossed it down. It stung, momentarily; he
saw sadly he was never going to make much of a drinking man. He drew
something from his pocket, and Hawkes frowned.

"What's that?"

"My Tally. Every spaceman has one. It's the only way we can keep track
of our chronological ages when we're on board ship." He showed it to
Hawkes; it read _Year 17 Day 3_. "Every twenty-four hours of subjective
time that goes by, we click off another day. Every three hundred
sixty-five days another year is ticked off.