of time, and sent Max to his death?

No. It was inconceivable that this soft-spoken man would have done such
a thing. Alan banished the thought.

"Max knew he was going to be killed," he said. "And yet he went ahead
with it. Why?"

"Maybe he wanted to die," Gainer suggested. "Maybe he was bored with
life, bored with always winning, bored with things as they were. The man
was never born who could figure out Max Hawkes, anyway. You must have
found that out yourself."

Gainer rose. "I'll have to be moving along, now. But let me give you
some suggestions, first."

"Sir?"

"Go downtown and get yourself registered in Free Status. Have them give
you a televector number. You're going to be an important person when you
get all that money. And be very careful about who your friends are. Max
could take care of himself; you may not be so lucky, son."

"Is there going to be an investigation of the robbery?" Alan asked.

"It's under way already. You may be called down for questioning, but
don't let it worry you. I turned a copy of Max's will over to them
today, and that exonerates you completely."

It was strangely empty in the apartment that night; Alan wished Gainer
had stayed longer. He walked through the dark rooms, half expecting Max
to come home. But Max wasn't coming home.

Alan realized he had been tremendously fond of Hawkes. He had never
really shown it; he had never demonstrated much warmth toward the
gambler, especially in the final days when they both lived under the
pressure of the planned robbery. But Alan knew he owed much to Hawkes,
rogue and rascal though he was. Hawkes had been basically a good man,
gifted--_too_ gifted, perhaps--whose drives and passions led him beyond
the bounds of society. And at thirty-five he was dead, having known in
advance that his last day was at hand.

The next few days were busy ones. Alan was called to Security
headquarters for questioning, but he insisted he knew nothing about the
robbery or Hawkes' friends, and the document Hawkes had left seemed to
bear him out. He was cleared of all complicity in the robbery.

He next went to the Central Directory Matrix and registered in Free
Status. He was given a televector transmitter--it was surgically
embedded in the fleshy part of his thigh--and he accepted a drink from
fat old Hines MacIntosh in remembrance of Hawkes.

He spoke briefly with MacIntosh about the process of collecting on
Hawkes' estate, and learned it was a co