Robert Silverberg - Starman's Quest

One of the policemen stepped forward—a broad man with a wide slab of a face, red, like raw meat. “This man has placed some serious charges against you. Let’s see your work card.”

“I’m a starman. I don’t have a work card.”

“Even worse. We’d better take you down for questioning. You starmen come in here and try to—”

“Just a minute, officer.” The warm mellow voice belonged to the smiling man on the bench. “This boy doesn’t mean any trouble. I can vouch for him myself.”

“And who are you? Let’s see your card!”

Still smiling, the man reached into a pocket and drew forth his wallet. He handed a card over to the policeman—and Alan noticed that a blue five-credit note went along with the card.

The policeman made a great show of studying the card and succeeded in pocketing the bill with the same effortless sleight-of-hand that the other had used in handing it over.

“Max Hawkes, eh? That you? Free status?”

The man named Hawkes nodded.

“And this Spacer’s a pal of yours?”

“We’re very good friends.”

“Umm. Okay. I’ll leave him in your custody. But see to it that he doesn’t get into any more jams.”

The policeman turned away, signalling to his companions. The fruit vender stared vindictively at Alan for a moment, but saw he would have no revenge. He, too, left.

Alan was alone with his unknown benefactor.

“I GUESS I owe you thanks,” Alan said. “If they had hauled me off I’d be in real trouble.”

Hawkes nodded. “They’re very quick to lock people up when they don’t have work cards. But police salaries are notoriously low. A five-credit bill slipped to the right man at the right time can work wonders.”

“Five credits, was it? Here—”

Alan started to fumble in his pocket, but Hawkes checked him with a wave of his hand. “Never mind. I’ll write it off to profit and loss. What’s your name, spacer, and what brings you to York City?”

“I’m Alan Donnell, of the starship Valhalla . I’m an Unspecialized Crewman. I came over from the Enclave to look for my brother.”

Hawkes’ lean face assumed an expression of deep interest. “He’s a starman too?”

“He—was.”

“Was?”

“He jumped ship last time we were here. That was nine years ago Earthtime. I’d like to find him, though. Even though he’s so much older now.”

“How old is he now?”

“Twenty-six. I’m seventeen. We used to be twins, you see. But the Contraction—you understand about the Contraction, don’t you?”

Hawkes nodded thoughtfully, eyes half-closed. “Mmm—yes, I follow you. While you made your last space jump he grew old on Earth. And you want to find him and put him back on your ship, is that it?”

“That’s right. Or at least talk to him and find out if he’s all right where he is. But I don’t know where to start looking. This city is so big—and there are so many other cities all over Earth—”

Hawkes shook his head. “You’ve come to the right one. The Central Directory Matrix is here. You’ll be able to find out where he’s registered by the code number on his work card. Unless,” Hawkes said speculatively, “he doesn’t have a work card. Then you’re in trouble.”

“Isn’t everyone supposed to have a work card?”

“I don’t,” Hawkes said.

“But—”

“You need a work card to hold a job. But to get a job, you have to pass guild exams. And in order to take the exams you have to find a sponsor who’s already in the guild. But you have to post bond for your sponsor, too—five thousand credits. And unless you have the work card and have been working, you don’t have the five thousand, so you can’t post bond and get a work card. See? Round and round.”

Alan’s head swam. “Is that what they meant when they said I was unrotational?”

“No, that’s something else. I’ll get to that in a second. But you see the work setup? The guilds are virtually hereditary, even the fruit venders’ guild. It’s next to impossible for a newcomer to crack into a guild—and it’s pretty tough for a man in one guild to move up a notch. You see, Earth’s a terribly overcrowded planet—and the only way to avoid cutthroat job competition is to make sure it’s tough to get a job. It’s rough on a starman trying to bull his way into the system.”

“You mean Steve may not have gotten a work card? In that case how will I be able to find him?”

“It’s harder,” Hawkes said. “But there’s also a registry of Free Status men—men without cards. He isn’t required to register there, but if he did you’d be able to track him down eventually. If he didn’t, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. You just can’t find a man on Earth if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Free Status? Isn’t that what the policeman said—”

“I was in?” Hawkes nodded. “Sure, I’m Free Status. Out of choice, though, not necessity. But that doesn’t matter much right now. Let’s go over to the Central Directory Matrix Building and see if we can find any trail for your brother.”

They rose. Alan saw that Hawkes was tall, like himself; he walked with easygoing grace. Questioningly Alan twitched his shoulder-blade in a signal that meant, What do you think of this guy, Rat?

Stick with him , Rat signalled back. He sounds okay.

The streets seemed a great deal less terrifying now that Alan had a companion, someone who knew his way around. He didn’t have the feeling that all eyes were on him, any more; he was just one of the crowd. It was good to have Hawkes at his side, even if he didn’t fully trust the older man.

“The Directory Building’s way across town,” Hawkes said. “We can’t walk it. Undertube or Overshoot?”

“What?”

“I said, do you want to take the Undertube or the Overshoot? Or doesn’t it matter to you what kind of transportation we take?”

Alan shrugged. “One’s as good as any other.”

Hawkes fished a coin out of his pocket and tossed it up. “Heads for Overshoot,” he said, and caught the coin on the back of his left hand. He peered at it. “Heads it is. We take the Overshoot. This way.”

They ducked into the lobby of the nearest building and took the elevator to the top floor. Hawkes stopped a man in a blue uniform and said, “Where’s the nearest Shoot pickup?”

“Take the North Corridor bridge across to the next building. The pickup’s there.”

“Right.”

Hawkes led the way down the corridor, up a staircase, and through a door. With sudden alarm Alan found himself on one of the bridges linking the skyscrapers. The bridge was no more than a ribbon of plastic with handholds at each side; it swayed gently in the breeze.

“You better not look down,” Hawkes said. “It’s fifty stories to the bottom.”

Alan kept his eyes stiffly forward. There was a good-sized crowd gathered on the top of the adjoining building, and he saw a metal platform of some kind.

A vender came up to them. Alan thought he might be selling tickets, but instead he held forth a tray of soft drinks. Hawkes bought one; Alan started to say he didn’t want one when he felt a sharp kick in his ankle, and he hurriedly changed his mind and produced a coin.

When the vender was gone, Hawkes said, “Remind me to explain rotation to you when we get aboard the Shoot. And here it comes now.”

Alan turned and saw a silvery torpedo come whistling through the air and settle in the landing-rack of the platform; it looked like a jet-powered vessel of some kind. A line formed, and Hawkes stuffed a ticket into Alan’s hand.

“I have a month’s supply of them,” he explained. “It’s cheaper that way.”