"Oh, sure. There's always somebody who needs food bad enough to rob for it, even though it means a sure arrest. Murder's a little less common." Hawkes fed the requisition slip into the slot. "You'd be surprised what a deterrent the televector registry system is. It's not so easy to run off to South America and hide when anybody at all can come in here and find out exactly where you are." A moment went by. Then the slot clicked and a glossy pink slip came rolling out. Alan looked at it. It said: TELEVECTOR REGISTRY 21 May 3876 Location of Donnell Steve, YC83-10j6490k37618 Time: 1643:21 There followed a street map covering some fifteen square blocks, and a bright red dot was imprinted in the center of the map. Hawkes glanced at the map and smiled. "I thought that was where he would be!" "Where's that?" "68th Avenue and 423rd Street." "Is that where he lives?" Alan asked. "Oh, no. The televector tells you where he is right now. I'd venture to say that was his--ah--place of business." Alan frowned. "What are you talking about?" "That happens to be the address of the Atlas Games Parlor. Your brother Steve probably spends most of his working day there, when he has enough cash to get in. I know the place. It's a cheap joint where the payoffs are low but easy. It's the kind of place a low-budget man would frequent." "You mean Steve's a gambler?" Hawkes smiled. "Most Free Status men are. It's one of the few ways we can earn a living without getting a work card. There isn't any gamblers' guild. There are a few other ways, too, but they're a lot less savory, and the televector surveillance makes it hard for a man to stay in business for long." Alan moistened his lips. "What do _you_ do?" "Gamble. I'm in the upper brackets, though. As I say: some of us have the knack. I doubt if your brother does, though. After nine years he wouldn't still be working the Atlas if he had any dough." Alan shrugged that off. "How do we get there? I'd like to go right away. I----" "Patience, lad," Hawkes murmured. "There's plenty of time for that. When does your ship leave?" "Couple of days." "Then we don't need to rush right over to the Atlas now. Let's get some food in ourselves first. Then a good night's rest. We can go over there tomorrow." "But my brother----" "Your brother," Hawkes said, "has been in York City for nine years, and I'll bet he's spent every night for the last eight of them sitting in the Atlas. He'll keep till tomorrow. Let's get something to eat." _Chapter Eight_ They ate in a dark and unappealing restaurant three blocks from the Central Directory Matrix Building. The place was crowded, as all Earth places seemed to be. They stood on line for nearly half an hour before being shown to a grease-stained table in the back. The wall clock said 1732.