"Hide? For how long, father?" "I can't be sure. Years, probably." "That's crazy. I'm not going to hide for years." "Then change your appearance. Your way of life. Your occupation." "I have no occupation." "Get one. Change your face, too. Your fingerprints. It can be done. Become a new man, live a new life." In hiding there was boredom, impossible boredom. In the other alternative there was adventure, intrigue--but uncertainty. One part of young Alaric craved that uncertainty, the rest of him shunned it. In a way it was like the Nowhere Journey all over again. "Maybe Nowhere wouldn't have been so bad," said Alaric to his father, choosing as a temporary alternative and retreat what he knew couldn't possibly happen. Couldn't it? "If I choose another identity, I'd be eligible again for the Nowhere Journey." "By George, I hadn't considered that. No, wait. You could be older than twenty-six." "I like it the way I am," Alaric said, pouting. "Then you'll have to hide. I spent ten million dollars to secure your future, Alaric. I don't want you to throw it away." Alaric pouted some more. "Let me think about it." "Fair enough, but I'll want your answer tomorrow. Meanwhile, you are not to leave the house." Alaric agreed verbally, but took the first opportunity which presented itself--that very night--to sneak out the servants' door, go downtown, and get stewed to the gills. At two in the morning he was picked up by the police for disorderly conduct (it had happened before) after losing a fistfight to a much poorer, much meaner drunk in a downtown bar. They questioned Alaric at the police station, examined his belongings, went through his wallet, notified his home. Fuming, Alaric Sr. rushed to the police station to get his son. He was met by the desk sergeant, a fat, balding man who wore his uniform in a slovenly fashion. "Mr. Arkalion?" demanded the sergeant, picking at his teeth with a toothpick. "Yes. I have come for Alaric, my son." "Sure. Sure. But your son's in trouble, Mr. Arkalion. Serious trouble." "What are you talking about? If there are any damages, I'll pay. He didn't--hurt anyone, did he?" The sergeant broke the toothpick between his teeth, laughed. "Him? Naw. He got the hell beat out of him by a drunk half his size. It ain't that kind of trouble, Mr. Arkalion. You know what an 1182 card is, mister?" Arkalion's face drained white. "Why--yes." "Alaric's got one." "Naturally." "According to the card, he should have shipped out on the Nowhere Journey, mister. He didn't. He's in serious trouble." "I'll see the district attorney." "More'n likely, you'll see the attorney general. Serious trouble." CHAPTER V