Prologue of Starman's Quest. The Lexman Space Drive was only the second most important theoretical accomplishment of the exciting years at the dawn of the space age, yet it changed all human history and forever altered the pattern of sociocultural development on Earth. Yet it was only the second most important discovery. The Kavor Hyperdrive unquestionably would have been held first rank in historical assessment had the Kavor Hyperdrive ever reached practical use. The Lexman Space Drive allows mankind to reach Alpha Centauri the closest star with habitable planets in approximately four and a half years. The Kavor Hyperdrive, if it ever really existed, would have brought Alpha C within virtual instantaneous access. But James Hudson Kavor had been one of those tragic men whose personalities negate the value of their work. A solitary cantankerous opinionated individual, a crank in short, he withdrew from humanity to develop the hyperspace drive announcing at periodic intervals that he was approaching success. A final enigmatic bulletin in the year 2570 indicated to some that Kavor had achieved his goal or was on the verge of achieving it. Others, less sympathetic, interpreted his last message as a madman's wild boast. It made little difference which interpretation was accepted. James Hudson Kavor was never heard from again. A hard core of passionate believers insisted that he had developed a faster than light drive, that he had succeeded in giving mankind an instantaneous approach to the stars. But they, like Kavor himself, were laughed down and the stars remained distant. Distant but not unreachable, the Lexman Space Drive saw to that. Lexman and his associates had developed their ionic drive in 2337 after decades of research. It permitted man to approach but not to exceed the theoretical limiting velocity of the universe, the speed of light. Ships powered by the Lexman Space Drive could travel at speeds just slightly less than the top velocity of 186,000 miles per second. For the first time the stars were within man's grasp. The trip was slow, even at such fantastic velocities as the Lexman Space Drive allowed. It took nine years for a ship to reach even the nearest stars, stop and return. A distant star such as Bellatrix required a journey lasting 250 years each way. But even this was an improvement over the relatively crude space drives then in use, which made a journey from Earth to Pluto last for many months and one to the stars almost unthinkable. The Lexman Space Drive worked many changes. It gave man the stars. It brought strange creatures to Earth, strange products, strange languages. But one necessary factor was involved in slower-than-light interstellar travel, one which the cavor drive would have averted, the Fitzgerald contraction. Time aboard the great starships that lands through the void was contracted. The nine-year trip to Alpha Centaurium back seemed to last only six weeks to the men on the starship, thanks to the strange mathematical effects of interstellar travel at high but not infinite speeds. The results were curious, and in some cases tragic. A crew that had aged only six weeks would return to find that Earth had grown nine years older. Customs had changed, new slang words made language unintelligible. The inevitable development was the rise of a guild of spacers, men who spent their lives flashing between the stars and the sons of the universe and who had little or nothing to do with the planet-bound Earthers left behind. Spacer and Earther, held apart forever by the inexorable mathematics of the Fitzgerald contraction, came to regard each other with a bitter sort of distaste. The centuries past and the changes worked by the coming of the Lexman space-drive became more pronounced. Only a faster-than-light space-drive could break down the ever-widening gulf between Earther and Spacer, and the faster-than-light drive remained as unattainable a dream as it had been in the days of James Hudson cavor. The sound of the morning alarm rang out, four loud, hard, clear, gong clangs, and all over the great starship Valhalla, the men of the crew rolled out of their bunks to meet the starman's quest. The sound of the morning alarm rang out, four loud, hard, clear, gong clangs, and all over the great starship Valhalla the men of the crew rolled out of their bunks to begin another day. The great starship had traveled silently through the endless night of space while they slept, bringing them closer and closer to the mother world, Earth. The Valhalla was on the return leg of a journey to Alpha Centauri. But one man aboard the starship had not waited for the morning alarm. For El and Donnell the day had begun several hours before. Restless, unable to sleep, he had quietly slipped from his cabin in the fourth section, where the unmarried crewmen lived, and had headed forward to the main view-screen in order to stare at the planet growing steadily larger just ahead. He stood with his arms folded, a tall, red-headed figure, long-legged, a little on the thin side. Today was his seventeenth birthday. Alan adjusted the fine controls on the view-screen and brought Earth into sharper focus. He tried to pick out the continents on the planet below, struggling to remember his old history lessons. Tudor Henrich would not be proud of him, he thought. That's South America down there, he decided, after rejecting the notion that it might be Africa. They had pretty much the same shape, and it was so hard to remember what Earth's continents looked like when there were so many other worlds. But that's South America, and so that's North America just above it, the place where I was born. Then the zero-eight-hundred alarm went off, the four commanding gongs that Alan always heard as, It's time, wake up. The starship began to stir into life.  Morning, son. Alan turned from the view-screen. He saw the tall, gaunt figure of his father standing behind him, his father, and the Valhalla's captain. Good-rising, Captain. Captain Donald eyed him curiously. You've been up a while, Alan. I can tell. Is there something wrong? Just not sleepy, that's all, Alan said. You look troubled about something. No, Dad, I'm not, he lied. To cover his confusion he turned his attention to the little plastic gadget he held in his hand, the tally. He punched the stud, the register word, and came to life. He watched as the reading changed, the black-on-yellow dials slid forward from year sixteen, day three sixty-five, to year seventeen, day one. As the numbers dropped into place, his father said, It's your birthday, is it? Let it be a happy one. Thanks, Dad. You know, it'll feel fine to have a birthday on earth. The captain nodded. It's always good to come home, even if we have to leave again so soon.  Nothing Alan thought. Three hundred? No, not really. Out loud he said, You know that's not right, Dad. Not three hundred years, just seventeen. He looked out at the slowly spinning green globe of earth. When on earth do as the earthers do, the captain said, That's an old proverb of that planet out there. The main vault of the computer files say you were born in thirty-five seventy-six unless I forget. And if you ask any earther what year it is, he'll tell you it's thirty-eight seventy-six. Thirty-five seventy-six? Thirty-eight seventy-six? That's three hundred years, no. His eyes twinkled. Stop playing games with me, Dad, Alan said. He held forth his tally. It doesn't matter what the computer files say. Right here it says year seventeen, day one. And that's what I'm going by. Who cares what year it is on earth? This is my world. I know, Alan. Together they moved away from the view-screen. It was time for breakfast and the second gongs were sounding. I'm just teasing, son. But that's the sort of thing you'll be up against if you leave the star-man's enclave the way your brother did. Alan frowned and his stomach went cold. He wished the unpleasant topic of his brother had not come up. You think there's any chance Steve will come back this time down? Will we be in port long enough for him to find us? Captain Donald's face clouded. We're going to be on earth for almost a week, he said in a suddenly harsh voice. That's ample time for Steve to rejoin us if he cares to. But I don't imagine he'll care to. And I don't know if I very much want to have him back. He paused outside the handsomely paneled door of his private cabin, one hand on the thumb plate that controlled entrance. His lips were set in a tight line. And remember this, Alan, he said, Steve's not your twin brother any more. You're only seventeen, and he's almost twenty-six. He'll never be your twin again. With sudden warmth the Captain squeezed his son's arm. Well, better get up there to eat, Alan. This is going to be a busy day for all of us. He turned and went into the cabin. Alan moved along the wide corridor of the great ship toward the mess-hall in Section C, thinking about his brother. It had been only about six weeks before when the Valhalla had made its last previous stop on earth that Steve had decided to jump ship. The Valhalla's schedule had called for them to spend two days on earth and then leave for Alpha Centauri with a load of colonists for Alpha C-4. A starship's time is always scheduled far in advance, with bookings planned sometimes for decades' earth time by the Galactic Trade Commission. When blast-off time came for the Valhalla, Steve had not reported back from the Starman's Enclave where all spacers lived during import's days. Alan's memories of the scene were still sharp. Captain Donald had been conducting check-off, making sure all members of the crew had reported back and were on board. This was a vital procedure in case anyone were accidentally left behind. It would mean permanent separation from his friends and family. He had reached the name Donald, Steve. No answer came. Captain Donald called his name a second time, then a third. A tense silence prevailed in the common room of the starship where the crew was assembled. Finally Alan made himself break the angry silence. He's not here, Dad, and he's not coming back, he said in a hesitant voice. And then he had had to explain to his father the whole story of his unruly, aggressive twin brother's plan to jump ship, and how Steve had tried to persuade him to leave the Valhalla, too. Steve had been weary of the endless shuttling from star to star, of forever ferrying colonists from one place to another, without ever standing on solid ground of a planet yourself, for more than a few days here, a week there. Alan had felt tired of it too, they all did, at some time or another, but he did not share his twin's rebellious nature, and he had not gone over the hill with Steve. Alan remembered his father's hard, grim expression as he'd been told the story. Captain Donald's reaction had been curt, immediate, and thoroughly typical. He had nodded, closed the roll-book, and turned to Art Candon, the Valhalla's first officer and the captain's second-in-command. Removed crewman Donald from the roster he had snapped, all other hands are on board. Prepare for blast-off. Within the hour the flaming jets of the Valhalla's planetary drive had lifted the great ship from earth. They had left immediately for Alpha Centauri four-and-a-half light years away. The round trip had taken the Valhalla just six weeks. During those six weeks, better than nine years had passed on earth. Alan Donald was seventeen years old. His twin brother, Steve, was now twenty-six. Happy-rising Alan called a high, sharp voice as he headed past the blue-painted hand-holds of Gravity Deck 12 on his way toward the mess hall. Startled he glanced up, and then snorted in disgust as he saw who had hailed him. It was Judy Collier, a thin, stringy-haired girl of about fourteen, whose family had joined the crew some five ship-years back. The Colliers were still virtual newcomers to the tight group on the ship. The family units tended to remain solid and self-contained, but they had managed to fit in pretty well by now. Going to eat, she asked. Right enough, said Alan, continuing to walk down the plastiform-lined corridor. She tagged along a step or two behind him. Today's your birthday, isn't it? Right enough, Alan said again more abruptly. He felt a sudden twinge of annoyance. Judy had somehow developed a silly crush on him during the last voyage to Alpha Sea, and since then she had contrived to follow him around wherever he went, bombarding him with questions. She was a silly, adolescent girl, Alan thought scornfully. Happy birthday, she said giggling. Can I kiss you? No, Alan returned flatly. You'd better watch out, or I'm going to get rad after you.  One of these days I'll chuck him down the disposal-hatch, like the little vermin he, ouch! You watch out, who you're calling vermin, said a thin, dry, barely audible voice from the floor. Alan glanced down and saw Rat, his pet and companion, squatting near Judy and flicking his beady little red eyes mischievously in the direction of the girl's bare, skinny ankle. He bit me! Judy complained, gesturing as if she were going to step on the little creature. But Rat nimbly skittered to one side, leapt to the trousers of Alan's uniform, and from there clambered to his usual perch aboard his master's shoulder. Judy gestured at him in frustration, stamped her foot, and dashed away into the mess hall. Chuckling Alan followed and found his seat at the bench assigned to crewmen of his status quotient. Thanks, fellow, he said softly, to the little being on his shoulder. That kid's getting to be pretty annoying. I've figured as much, Rat said, in his chittering bird-like voice, and I don't like the way she's been looking at me. She's just the kind of individual who would dump me in a disposal-hatch. Don't worry about it, Alan said. If she pulls anything of that sort, I'll personally see to it that she goes right out after you. That does me a lot of good, Rat said glumly, as Alan's breakfast came rolling toward him on the plastic conveyor belt from the kitchen. Alan laughed and reached avidly for the steaming tray of food. He poured a little of his synth-orange juice into a tiny pan for Rat and fell too. Rat was a native of Bellatrix Seven, an earth-size windswept world that orbited the bright star in the Orion constellation. He was a member of one of the three intelligent races that shared the planet with a small colony of earthmen. The Vahala had made the long trip to Bellatrix two hundred and fifteen light-years from earth shortly before Alan's birth. Captain Donald had won the friendship of the little creature and had brought him to the ship when the time came for the Vahala to return to earth for its next assignment. Rat had been the captain's pet and he had given Alan the small animal on his tenth birthday. Rat had never gotten along well with Steve and more than once he had been the cause of jealous conflicts between Alan and his twin. Rat was well-named.  But he spoke tern clearly and well and in every respect he was an intelligent, loyal, and likable creature. They ate in silence. Alan was half-way through his bowl of protein mix when Art Candon dropped down onto his bench facing him. The Vahala's first officer was a big, pudgy-faced man who had the difficult job of translating the concise, sometimes almost cryptic commands of Alan's father into the actions that kept the great starship going. Good-rising, Alan, and happy birthday! Thanks, Art, but how come you're loafing now? Seems to me you'd be busy as a Martian dust-digger today of all days. Who's setting up the landing-orbit if you're here? Oh, that's all been done, Candon said lightly.   Rat responded with a playful nip of his sharp little teeth. I'm taking the morning off, Candon continued. You can't imagine how nice it's going to be to sit around doing nothing while everyone else is working for a change. What's the landing-hour? Precisely 1753 to-night. It's all been worked out. We're actually in the landing-orbit now, though the ship's gimbals keep you from feeling it. We'll touch down to-night and move into the enclave to-morrow. Candon eyed Alan with a sudden suspicion. You're planning to stay in the enclave, aren't you? Alan put down his fork with a sharp, tinny clang and stared levelly at the first officer. That's a direct crack. You're referring to my brother, aren't you? Who wouldn't be, Candon asked quietly. The captain's son jumping ship. You don't know how your father suffered when Steve went over the hill. He kept it all hidden and just didn't say a thing, but I know it hit him hard. The whole affair was a direct reflection on his authority as a parent, of course, and that's why he was so upset. He's a man who isn't used to being crossed. I know. He's been on top here so long with everyone following his orders that he can't understand how someone could disobey and jump ship, especially his own son. I hope you don't have any ideas of. Alan clipped off Candon's sentence before it had gotten fully started. I don't need advice art. I know what's right and wrong. Tell me the truth. Did dad send you out here to sound me out? Candon flushed and looked down. I'm sorry, Alan. I didn't mean well. They fell silent. Alan returned his attention to his breakfast while Candon stared moodily off in the distance. You know, the first officer said finally, I've been thinking about Steve. It just struck me that you can't call him your twin any more. That's one of the strangest quirks of star travel that's yet been recorded. I thought of that. He's twenty-six, I'm seventeen, and yet we used to be twins. But the Fitzgerald contraction does funny things. That's for sure, Candon said. Well, time for me to start relaxing. He clapped Alan on the back, disentangled his long legs from the bench, and was gone. The Fitzgerald contraction does funny things, Alan repeated to himself, as he methodically chewed his way through the rest of his meal, and got on line to bring the dishes to the yawning hopper that would carry them down to the molecular cleansers. Real funny things. He tried to picture what Steve would look like now nine years older. He couldn't. As velocity approaches that of light, time approaches zero. That was the key to the universe. Time approaches zero. The crew of a spaceship traveling from Earth to Alpha Centauri at a speed close to that of light would hardly notice the passage of time on the journey. It was, of course, impossible ever actually to reach the speed of light. But the great starships could come close, and the closer they came, the greater the contraction of time aboard ship. It was all a matter of relativity. Time is relative to the observer. Thus travel between stars was possible. Without the Fitzgerald contraction, the crew of a spaceship would age five years en route to Alpha C. Eight more to Sirius. Ten to Prisayan. More than two centuries would elapse in passage to a far-off star like Bellatrix. Thanks to the contraction effect, Alpha C was three weeks away. Sirius a month and a half. Even Bellatrix was just a few years' journey distance. Of course, when the crew returned to Earth, they found things completely changed. Years had passed on Earth, and life had moved on. Now the Vahala was back on Earth again for a short stay. On Earth Starmen congregated at the enclaves, the cities within cities that grew up at each spaceport. There Starmen mangled in a society of their own, without attempting to enter the confusing world outside. Sometimes a spacer broke away. His ship left him behind and he became an earther. Steve Donald had done that. The Fitzgerald contraction does funny things. Alan thought of the brother he had last seen just a few weeks ago, young, smiling, his own identical twin, and wondered what the nine years had done to him. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Starman's Quest. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Starman's Quest by Robert Silverberg Chapter 2. Alan dumped his dishes into the hopper and walked briskly out of the mess hall. His destination was the central control room, the long and broad chamber that was the nerve center of the ship's activities, just as the common recreation room was the center of off-duty socializing for the crew. He found the big board where the assignments for the day were chalked and searched down the long list for his own name. "'You're working with me to-day, Alan,' a quiet voice said. He turned at the sound of the voice and saw the short, wiry figure of Dan Kelleher, the cargo chief. He frowned. I guess we'll be crating from now until to-night without stop,' he said unhappily. Kelleher shook his head. Wrong. There's really not much work to do, but it's going to be cold going. All of those chunks of dinosaur meat in the preserving hold are going to get packed up. It won't be fun.' Alan agreed. He scanned the board looking down the rows for the list of cargo crew. Sure enough there was his name, Donald, Alan, chalked in under the big double C. As an unspecialized crewman he was shifted from post to post, filling in wherever he was needed. I figure it'll take four hours to get the whole batch crated, Kelleher said. You can take some time off now if you want to. You'll be working to make up for it soon enough. I won't debate the point. Suppose I report to you at 0900. Suits me. In case you need me before then I'll be in my cabin, just ring me. Once back in his cabin, a square cubicle in the beehive of single men's rooms, in the big ship's foresection, Alan unslung his pack and took out the dog-eared book he knew so well. He rifled through its pages. The cavor theory it said in worn gold letters on the spine. He had read the volume end to end at least a hundred times. I still can't see why you're so wild on cavor, Rat grumbled, looking up from his doll-sized sleeping cradle in the corner of Alan's cabin. If you ever do manage to solve cavor's equations, you're just going to put yourself and your family right out of business. Hand me my nibbling stick, like a good fellow. Alan gave Rat the much-nod stick of jovie and oak which the bellatrician used to keep his tiny teeth sharp. You don't understand, Alan said. If we can solve cavor's work and develop the hyperdrive, we won't be handicapped by the Fitzgerald contraction. What difference does it make in the long run if Valhalla becomes obsolete? We can always convert it to the new drive. The way I see it, if we could only work out the secret of cavor's hyperspace drive, we'd— I've heard it all before, Rat said, with a note of boredom in his reedy voice. Why, with hyperdrive, you'd be able to flit all over the galaxy without suffering the time lag you'd experience with regular drive, and then you'd accomplish your pet dream of going everywhere and seeing everything. Ah, look, at the eyes light up. Look at the radiant expression. You get starry eyed every time you start talking about the hyperdrive. Alan opened the book to a dog-eared page. I know it can be done eventually. I'm sure of it. I'm even sure cavor himself actually succeeded in building a hyperspace vessel. Sure, said Rat dryly, switching his long tail from side to side. Sure, he built one. That explains his strange disappearance. Went out like a snuffed candle as soon as he turned on his drive. Okay, go ahead, build one, if you can, but don't bother booking passage for me. You mean you'd stay behind if I built a hyperspace ship? Sure I would. There was no hesitation in Rat's voice. I like this particular space-time continuum very much. I don't care at all to wind up seventeen dimensions north of here with no way back.  Alan glanced at his wrist crown. It read 0-8-52. Time for me to get to work. Kelleher and I are packing frozen dinosaur today. Want to come along? Rat wiggled the tip of his nose in a negative gesture. Thanks all the same, but the idea doesn't appeal. It's nice and warm here. Run along, boy, I'm sleepy.  There was a line waiting at the entrance to the freezer section, and Alan took his place on it. One by one they climbed into spacesuits, which the boy in charge provided, and entered the airlock. For transporting perishable goods, such as dinosaur meat brought back from the colony on Alpha C-4 to satisfy the heavy demand for that odd-tasting delicacy on earth, the Valhalla used the most efficient freezing system of all, a compartment which opened out into the vacuum of space. The meat was packed into huge open receptacles which were flooded just before blast off. Before the meat had any chance to spoil, the airlock was opened, the air fled into space, and the compartment's heat radiated outwards. The water froze solid preserving the meat. It was just as efficient as building elaborate refrigeration coils, and a good deal simpler. The job now was to hew the frozen meat out of the receptacles and get it packed into manageable crates for shipping. The job was a difficult one. It called for more muscle than brain. As soon as all members of the cargo crew were in the airlock, Kelleher swung the hatch closed and threw the lever that opened the other door into the freezer section.  Allen and the others set grimly about their work chopping away at the ice. They fell too vigorously. After a while they started to get somewhere. Allen grappled with a huge leg of meat while two fellow-star men helped him ease it into a crate. Their hammers pounded down as they nailed the crate together, but not a sound could be heard in the airless vault. After what seemed to be three or four centuries to Allen, but which was actually only two hours, the job was done. Somehow Allen got himself to the recreation room. He sank down gratefully onto a web-foam, pneumo-chair. He snapped on the spool of light music and stretched back, completely exhausted. I don't ever want to see or taste dinosaur steak again, he thought. Not ever. He watched the figures of his crewmates dashing through the ship, each going about some last-minute job that had to be handled before the ship touched down. In a way he was glad he had drawn the assignment he had. It was difficult, grueling, heavy labour, carried out under nasty circumstances. It was never fun to spend any length of time doing manual labour inside a space suit, because the sweat swabbers and the air-conditioners in the suit were generally always one step behind on the job. But at least the work came to a definite end. Once all the meat was packed, the job was done. The same couldn't be said for those unfortunates who swabbed the floors, scraped out the jets, realigned the drive mechanism, or did any of the other tidying work. Their jobs were never done. They always suffered from the nagging thought that just a little more work might bring the inspection rating up a decimal or two. Every starship had to undergo a rigorous inspection whenever it touched down on earth. The Valhalla probably wouldn't have any difficulties, since it had been gone only nine years earth-time. But spaceships making longer voyages often had troubles with the inspectors. Procedure which passed inspection on a ship bound out for Rigel, or one of the other far stars, might have become a violation in the hundreds of years that would have passed before its return. Allen wondered if the Valhalla would run into any inspection problems. The schedule called for departure for Perzayan in six days, and the ship would as usual be carrying a party of colonists. The schedule was pretty much of a sacred thing, but Allen had not forgotten his brother Steve. If he only had a few days to get out there and maybe find him. Well, I'll see, he thought. He relaxed. But relaxation was brief. A familiar high-pitched voice cut suddenly into his consciousness. Oh, oh, he thought, here comes trouble.  Allen opened one eye and stared balefully at the skinny figure of Judy Collier. I've finished my job, that's how come, and I've been trying to get a little rest, any objections? She held up her hands and looked around the big recreation room nervously. Okay, don't shoot. Where's that animal of yours? Rat, don't worry about him. He's in my cabin chewing his nibbling stick. I can assure you it tastes a lot better to him than your bony ankles. Allen yawned deliberately. Now how about letting me rest? She looked wounded. If you want it that way, I just thought I'd tell you about the doings in the enclave when we land. There's been a change in the regulations since the last time we were here. But you wouldn't be interested, of course. She started to mince away. Hey, wait a minute. Judy's father was the Valhalla's chief signal officer, and she generally had news from the planet they were landing on a lot quicker than anyone else. What's this all about? A new quarantine regulation. They passed it two years ago when a ship came back from Altair, landed, and the crew turned out to be loaded with some sort of weird disease. We have to stay isolated even from the other star men in the enclave until we've all had medical checkups. Do they require every ship landing to go through this? Yep, nuisance, isn't it? So the word has come from your father that since we can't go around visiting until we've been checked, the crew's going to have a dance tonight when we touch down. A dance? You heard me. He thought it might be a nice idea just to keep our spirits up until the quarantines lifted. That nasty Roger Bond has invited me, she added, with a raised eyebrow that was supposed to be sophisticated looking. What's wrong with Roger? I just spent the whole afternoon creating dinosaur meat with him. Oh, he's—well, he just doesn't—do anything to me. I'd like to do something to you, Alan, thought. Something lingering with boiling oil in it. Did you accept, he asked, just to be polite? Of course not. Not yet, that is. I just thought I might get some more interesting offers. That's all, she said, archly. Oh, I see the game, Alan thought. She's looking for an invitation. He stretched way back and slowly let his eyes droop closed. I wish you luck, he said. She gaped at him. Oh, you're horrible! I know, he admitted, coolly. I'm actually a Neptunian mudworm completely devoid of emotions.  She ignored his sally and shook her head. But why do I always have to go to dances with Roger Bond? She asked plaintively. Oh, well, never mind, she said, and turned away. He watched her as she crossed the recreation room floor and stepped through the exit sphincter. She was just a silly girl, of course, but she had pointed up a very real problem of starship life when she asked, why do I always have to go to dances with Roger Bond? The Valhalla was practically a self-contained universe. The crew was permanent, no one ever left unless it was to jump ship the way Steve had, and Steve was the only crewman in the Valhalla's history to do that. And no one knew ever came aboard, except in the case of infrequent changes of personnel. Judy Collier herself was one of the newest members of the crew, and her family had come aboard five ship years ago, because a replacement signal officer had been needed. Otherwise things remained the same. Two or three dozen families, a few hundred people, living together year in and year out. No wonder Judy Collier always had to go to dances with Roger Bond. The actual range of eligible was terribly limited. That was why Steve had gone over the hill. What was it he had said? I feel the walls of the ship holding me in like bars of a cell. Out there was earth, population approximately eight billion or so. And up here in the Valhalla, current population precisely one hundred and seventy-six. He knew all one hundred and seventy-six of them like members of his own family, which they were in a sense.  And that was what Steve had wanted, something new. So he had jumped ship. Well, Ellen thought, development of a hyperdrive would change the whole setup if... He hardly found the quarantine to his liking, either. The Starman had only a brief stay on earth, which was just the shortest opportunity to go down to the Enclave, Mingua Starmen from other ships, see a new face, trade news of the Starways. It was almost criminal to deprive them of even a few hours of it. Well, a dance was the second best thing, but it was a pretty distant second, he thought, as he pushed himself up out of the pneumo chair. He looked across the recreation room. Speak of the devil, he thought. There was Roger Bond now, stretching out and resting, too, under a radio-therm lamp. Ellen walked over to him. Heard the sad news, Raj? About the quarantine? Yeah. Roger glanced at his wrist-crone. Guess I better start getting spruced up for the dance, he said, getting to his feet. He was a short, good-looking, dark-haired boy a year younger than Ellen. Going with anyone special? Roger shook his head. Who special? Who, I ask you, I'm going to take skinny Judy Collier, I guess. There's not much choice, is there? No, Ellen agreed sadly. Not much choice at all. Together they left the recreation room. Ellen felt a strange sort of hopeless boredom spreading over him, as if he had entered a gray fog. It worried him. See you to-night, Roger said. I suppose so, Ellen returned dolly. He was frowning. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 The vahala touched down on earth at 1753, on the nose, to nobody's very great surprise. Captain Mark Donald had not missed schedule once in his forty ship-years in space, which covered a span of over a thousand years of earth's history. Landing procedure was rigidly set. The crew debarked by family in order of signing on. The only exception to the order was Ellen. As a member of the captain's family, the only other member now, he had to wait until the rest of the ship was cleared, but his turn came eventually. Solid ground again, rat! They stood on the jet-fused dirt field where the vahala had landed. The great golden-hulled starship was reared up on its tail, with its huge landing buttresses flaring out at each side to keep it propped up. Solid for you may be, rat said, but the trip's just as wobbly as ever for me riding up here on your shoulder. Captain Donald's shrill whistle sounded, and he cupped his hands to call out. The copters are here. Ellen watched the little squadron of gray jet copters settle to the ground, rotors slowing, and headed forward along with the rest of the crew. The copters would take them from the bare landing field of the spaceport to the enclave, where they would spend the next six days. The captain was supervising the loading of the copters, Ellen sauntered over to him. Where to, son? I'm scheduled to go over in copter one. Uh-uh, I've changed the schedule. Captain Donald turned away and signaled to the waiting crew members. Okay, go ahead and fill up copter one. They filed aboard. Everyone get back, the captain yelled. A tentative chug chuff came from the copter. Its rotors went round and it lifted, stood poised for a moment on its jet wash, and shot off northward toward the starman's enclave. What's this about a change in schedule, Dad? I want you to ride over with me in the two-man copter. Candon took your place aboard copter one. Now let's go, he shouted to the next group. Start loading up number two. The crewmen began taking their place aboard the second copter, and soon its pilot signaled through the four window that he was loaded up. The copter started. Seeing that he would be leaving the field last, Ellen made himself useful by keeping the younger crew-children from wandering. At last the field was cleared. Only Ellen and his father remained, with the little two-man copter and the tall, gleaming vahala behind them. Let's go, the captain said. They climbed in, Ellen strapping himself down in the copilot's chair, and his father back of the controls. I never see much of you these days, the captain said after they were aloft. Running the vahala seems to take twenty-four hours a day. I know how it is, Dad, he said. After a while Captain Donald said, I see you're reading that cavore book, he chuckled, still haven't given up on the idea of finding the hyperdrive, have you? You know I haven't, Dad. I'm sure cavore really did work it out before he disappeared, if we could only discover his notebook or even a letter or something that could get us back on the trail. It's been thirteen hundred years since cavore disappeared, Ellen. If nothing of his has turned up in all that time, it's not likely ever to show. But I hope you keep at it anyway. He banked the copter and cut the jets. The rotors took over and gently lowered the craft to the distant landing-field. Ellen looked down and out at the heap of buildings becoming visible below. The crazy quilt of outdated clumsy old buildings that was the local starman's enclave. He felt a twinge of surprise at his father's words. The captain had never shown any serious interest in the possibility of faster-than-light travel before. He had always regarded the whole idea as sheer fantasy. I don't get it, Dad. Why do you hope I keep at it? If I ever find what I'm looking for it's going to mean the end of starman life as you know it. Travel between planets will be instantaneous. There won't be this business of making jumps and getting separated from everybody you used to know. You're right. I've just begun thinking seriously about this business of hyperdrive. There wouldn't be any contraction effect. Think of the changes it would mean in starman society. No more, no more permanent separations if someone decided to leave his ship for a while. Ellen understood what his father meant. Suddenly he saw the reason for captain Donnell's abrupt growth of interest in the development of a hyperdrive. It's Steve that's on his mind, Ellen thought. If we had had a hyperspace drive and Steve had done what he did, it wouldn't have mattered. He'd still be my age. Now the Valhalla was about to journey to Presayan. Another twenty years would pass before it got back, and Steve would be almost fifty by then. That's what's on his mind, Ellen thought. He lost Steve forever, but he doesn't want any more Steve's to happen. The contraction took one of his sons away, and now he wants the hyperdrive as much as I do. Ellen glanced at the stiff erect figure of his father as they clamored out of the copter, and headed at a fast clip toward the administration building of the Enclave. He wondered just how much pain and anguish his father was keeping hidden back of that brisk, efficient exterior. I'll get that cav or drive some day, Ellen thought suddenly, and I'll be getting it for him as well as me. The bizarre buildings of the Enclave loomed up before them. Behind, just visible in the purplish twilight haze, were the tips of the shining towers of the earth or city outside. Somewhere out there, probably, was Steve. I'll find him too, Ellen thought firmly. Most of the Valhalla's people had already been assigned rooms in the quarantine section of one of the Enclave buildings when Ellen and his father arrived. The bored-looking desk clerk, a withered-looking Ulster who was probably a retired starman, gave Ellen his room number. It turned out to be a small, squarish room, furnished with an immense old pneumatic chair, long since deflated, a cot, and a wash stand. The wall was a dull green, with gaping cracks in the faded paint, and cut heavily with a pen-knife into one wall, was the inscription, Bill Dassert slept here, June 28, 2683, in sturdy block letters. Ellen wondered how many other starmen had occupied this room before and after Bill Dansert. He wondered whether perhaps Bill Dansert himself were still alive somewhere between the stars, twelve centuries after he had left his name in the wall. He dropped himself into the pneumo chair, feeling the soggy squish of the deflated cushion, and loosened the jacket of his uniform. It's not luxurious, he told Rat, but at least it's a room, it's a place to stay. The medics started coming around that evening, checking to see that none of the newly arrived starmen had happened to bring back any strange disease that might cause trouble. It was slow work, and the Valhalla people were told that it would take at least until the following morning before the quarantine could be lifted. Just a precautionary measure, said the medic apologetically, as he entered Ellen's room clad in a space helmet. We really learned our lesson when that shipload from Altair came in bearing a plague. The medic produced a small camera and focused it on Ellen. He pressed a button. A droning sort of hum came from the machine. Ellen felt a curious glow of warmth. Just a routine check, the medic apologised again. He flipped a lever in the back of the camera. Abruptly, the droning stopped and a tape unraveled out of the side of the machine. The medic studied it. Any trouble, Ellen asked anxiously? Looks okay to me, but you might get that cavity in your upper right wisdom tooth taken care of, otherwise you seem in good shape. He rolled up the tape. Don't you starmen ever get time for a fluorine treatment?  We haven't had a chance for fluorination yet. Our ship was built before they started fluorinating the water supplies, and somehow we never find the time to take the treatment while we're here on earth. But is that all that's wrong with me? All that I can spot just by examining the diagnostic tape. We'll have to wait for the full lab report to come through before I can pass you out of quarantine, of course. Then he noticed rat perched on the corner. How about that? I'll have to examine it too. I'm not an it, rat remarked with icy dignity. I'm an intelligent extraterrestrial entity native of Bellatrix VII, and I'm not carrying any particular diseases that would interest you. A talking rat? The medic was amazed. Next thing we'll have sentient amoebas. He raised the camera at rat. I suppose I'll have to record you as a member of the crew, he said, as the camera began to hum. After the medic had gone, Alan tried to freshen up at the wash stand, having suddenly recalled that a dance was on tap for that evening. As he warily went through the motions of scrubbing his face clean, it occurred to him that he had not even bothered to speak to one of the seven or eight crew girls he had considered inviting. He sensed a curious, disturbed feeling growing up inside of him. He felt depressed. Was this he wondered what Steve had gone through, the wish to get out of this tin can of a ship and really see the universe? Tell me rat, if you were me. If I were you I'd get dressed for that dance, rat said sharply, if you've got a date that is. That's just the point. I don't have a date.  I know all those girls so well. Why bother? Since you're not going to the dance? Nope.  You're not planning on going over the hill the way Steve did, are you? I can spot the symptoms. You look restless and fidgety the way your brother did. After a moment of silence Alan shook his head. No, I couldn't do that, rat. Steve was the wild kind. I'd never be able to just get up and go the way he did. But I've got to do something. I know what he meant. He said the walls of the ship were pressing in on him, holding him back. With a sudden impatient motion he ripped open the magna straps of his regulation shirt and took it off. He felt something changing inside himself. Something was happening to him. Maybe he thought he was catching whatever it was Steve had been inflamed by. Maybe he had been lying to himself all along about being different in makeup from Steve. Go tell the captain I'm not going to the dance, he ordered, rat. Otherwise he'll wonder where I am. Tell him I'm too tired or something. Tell him anything. But don't let him find out how I feel. End of Chapter 3 The next morning Roger Bond told him all about the dance. It was the dullest thing you could imagine. Same old people, same dusty old dances. Couple of people asked me where you were but I didn't tell him anything. Good.  It's just as well they think I was sick, Alan said.  Sick from boredom. He and Roger sat down carefully on the edge of a crumbling stone bench.  After a long while Alan broke the uncomfortable silence. You know what this place is. It's a ghetto. A self-imposed ghetto. Starmen are scared silly of going out into the earth or cities so they keep themselves penned up in this filthy place instead. This place is really old. I wonder how far back those rundown buildings date. Thousands of years may be more. No one ever bothers to build new ones. What for? The starmen don't mind living in the old ones. I almost wish the medical clearance hadn't come through after all, said Roger Moodley. How so? Then we'd still be quarantined up there. We wouldn't be able to come down and get another look at the kind of place this really is. I don't know which is worse. To be cooped up in the quarantine or to go wandering around a dismal hole like the enclave. Alan stood up, stretched, took a deep breath. Phew!  I'll take ship-atmosphere stale as it is any time over this smoggy soup. I'll go along with that. Say, look, a strange face. Alan turned and saw a young starman of about his own age coming toward them. He wore a red uniform with gray trim instead of the orange and blue of the vahala. Welcome, newcomers. I suppose you're from that ship that just put down the vahala? Right. Names Alan Donald, and this is Roger Bond. Yours? I'm Kevin Quantrell. He was short and stocky, heavily tanned with a square jaw and a confident look about him. I'm out of the starship encounter just back from Aldebaran system. Been in the enclave two weeks now, with a lot more ahead of me. Alan whistled. Aldebaran? That's, let's see, a 109 years round trip? You must be a real old-timer, Quantrell. I was born in 3403, makes me 473 years old, Earth-time. But I'm actually only 17 and a half. Right before Aldebaran we made a hop to Capella, and that used up 85 years more in a hurry. You've got me by 170 years, Alan said, but I'm only 17 myself. Quantrell grinned cockily. It's a good thing some guy thought up this tally system of chalking up every real day you live through. Otherwise we'd be up to here in confusion all the time. He leaned boardily against the wall of a rickety building, which once had proudly borne the chrome-steel casing characteristic of early 27th-century architecture, but whose outer surface was now brown and scaly from rust. What do you think of our little paradise, Quantrell asked sarcastically, certainly puts the earth or cities to shame? He pointed out across the river, where the tall, glistening buildings of the adjoining earth or city shown in the morning sunlight. Have you ever been out there, Alan asked? No, Quantrell said in a tight voice. But if this keeps up much longer, he clenched and unclenched his fists impatiently. What's the trouble? It's my ship, the encounter. We were out-space for over a century, you know, and when we got back the inspection teams found so many things wrong with the ship that she needs just about a complete overhauling. They've been working her over for the last two weeks, and the way it looks it'll be another couple of weeks before she's ready to go. And I don't know how much longer I can stand being penned up in this enclave. That's exactly how your brother, Roger, started to say and stopped. Ah, sorry. That's okay, Alan said. Quantrell cocked an eye. What's that? My brother. I had a twin, but he got restless and jumped ship last time we were down. He got left behind at blast off-time. Quantrell nodded, understandingly. Too bad. But I know what he was up against, and I envy the lucky so-and-so. I wish I had the guts to just walk out like that. Every day that goes by in this place, I say I'm going over the hill the next day. But I never do somehow. I just sit here and wait. Alan glanced down the quiet, sun-warmed street. Here and there a couple of venerable-looking star men were sitting, swapping stories of their youth. A youth that had been a thousand years before. The enclave Alan thought is a place for old men. They walked on for a while until the buzzing neon signs of a feely theater were visible. I'm going in, Roger said. This place is starting to depress me. You? Alan shot a glance at Quantrell, who made a face and shook his head. I guess I'll skip it, Alan said. Not just now. Count me out too, Quantrell said. Roger looked sourly from one to the other and shrugged. I think I'll go all the same. I'm in the mood for a good show. See you round, Alan. After Roger left them, Alan and Quantrell walked on through the enclave together. Alan wondered whether it wasn't a good idea to have gone to the feely with Roger after all. The enclave was starting to depress him too. And those three-dimensional shows had a way of taking your mind off of things. But he was curious about Quantrell. It wasn't often he had a chance to talk with someone his own age from another ship. You know, he said, we Star Men lead an empty life. You don't get to realize it until you come to the enclave. I decided that a long time ago, Quantrell said. Alan spread his hands. What do we do? We dash back and forth through space and we huddle here in the enclave. And we don't like either one or the other, but we fool ourselves into liking them. When we're in space we can't wait to get to the enclave, and once we're down here we can't wait to get back. Some life. Got any suggestions? Some way of fixing things up for us without queering interstellar commerce? Yes, Alan snapped. I do have a suggestion. Hyperspace drive. Quantrell laughed harshly. Of all the cock-eyed— There you are, Alan said angrily. First thing you do is laugh. A space warp drive is just some harebrained scheme to you. But haven't you ever considered that Earth's scientists won't bother developing such a drive for us if we don't care ourselves? They're just as happy the way things are. They don't have to worry about the Fitzgerald contraction. But there's been steady research on a hyperdrive, hasn't there? Ever since Kavor, I thought. On and off, but they don't take it very seriously, and they don't get anywhere with it. If they'd really put some men to work, they'd find it. And then there wouldn't be any more enclaves or any Fitzgerald contraction, and we starmen could live normal lives. And your brother, he wouldn't be cut off from his people the way he is. Sure, but you laughed instead of thinking. Quantrell looked contrite. Sorry. I guess I didn't put much jet behind my think machine that time. But a hyperdrive would wipe out the enclave system, wouldn't it? Of course. We'd be able to come home from space and take a normal part in Earth's life instead of pulling away and segregating ourselves here. Alan looked up at the seemingly unreachable towers of the Earther City just across the river from the enclave. Somewhere out there was Steve. And perhaps somewhere out there was someone he could talk to about the hyperdrive, someone influential who might spur the needed research. The Earther City seemed to be calling him. It was a voice that was hard to resist. He savagely jammed down deep inside him the tiny inner voice that was trying to object. He turned, looking backward at the dingy dreary buildings of the enclave. He looked then at Quantrell. You said you've been wanting to break loose. You want to get out of the enclave, hey, Kevin? Yes, Quantrell said slowly. Alan felt excitement beginning to pound hard in the pit of his stomach. How would you like to go out there with me, see the Earther City? You mean jump ship? The naked words put just that bluntly stung. No, Alan said, thinking of how his father's face had gone stony, the time Alan had told him Steve wasn't coming back. I mean just go out for a day or so, a sort of change of air. It's five days until the Valhalla's due to blast off, and you say the encounter is stuck here indefinitely. We could just go out for a day or so, just to see what it's like out there. Quantrell was silent a long time. Just for a day or so, he asked at last, we'd just go out, have a look around, just to see what it's like out there. He fell silent again. Alan saw a little trickle of sweat burst out on Quantrell's cheek. He felt strangely calm himself, a little to his own surprise. Then Quantrell smiled, and the confidence returned to his tanned face. I'm game, let's go! But Rat was quizzical about the whole enterprise when Alan returned to his room to get him. You aren't serious, Alan. You really are going over to the earth or city? Alan nodded and gestured for the little extraterrestrial to take his usual perch. Are you daring to take my word in vain, Rat? He asked in mock histrionics. When I say I'm going to do something, I do it. He snapped closed his jacket and flipped the switch controlling the archaic fluorescent panels. Besides, you can always stay here if you want to, you know. Never mind, Rat said, I'm coming. He leaped up and anchored himself securely on Alan's shoulder. Kevin Quantrell was waiting for them in front of the building. As Alan emerged, Rat said, one question, Alan. Shoot! Level now! Are you coming back or are you going over the way Steve did? You ought to know me better than that. I've got reasons for going out, but they're not Steve's reasons. I hope so. Quantrell came up to them, and it seemed to Alan that there was something unconvincing about his broad grin. He looked nervous. Alan wondered whether he looked the same way. I'll set, Quantrell asked. Set as I'll ever be. Let's go. Alan looked around to see if anybody he knew might be watching. There was no one around. Quantrell started walking, and Alan fell in behind him. I hope you know where you're going, Alan said, because I don't. Kevin pointed down the long winding street. We go down to the foot of this street, turn right on Carr Hill Boulevard, head down the main drive toward the bridge. The earth or city is on the other side of the river. You'd better be right. They made it at a fairly good clip through the sleepy enclave, passing rapidly through the old dry dusty streets. Finally they came to the end of the street and rounded the corner on to Carr Hill Boulevard. The first thing Alan saw was the majestic floating curve of the bridge. Then he saw the earth or city, a towering pile of metal and masonry that seemed to be leaping up into the sky ahead of them, completely filling the view. Alan pointed to the bridge-mouth. That's where we go across, isn't it? But Quantrell hung back. He stopped in his tracks, staring dangled-jawed at the immense city facing them. There it is, he said quietly. Sure, let's go, eh? Alan felt a sudden burst of impatience and started heading toward the approach to the bridge. But after three or four paces he realized Quantrell was not with him. He turned and saw the other spaceman still ridded to the ground, gazing up at the vast earth or city as if in narcoshock. It's big, Quantrell murmured. Too big. Kevin, what's wrong? Leave him alone, rat-whispered. I have a hunch he won't be going with you. Alan watched in astonishment as Quantrell took two steps hesitantly backwards, away from the bridge, then a third. There was a strange, almost thunderstruck expression on Kevin's face. Then he broke out of it. He shook his head. We aren't really going across, ah, Donald.  Of course we are. Alan looked around nervously, hoping no one from the vahala had spotted him in all this time. Puzzled at Quantrell's sudden hesitation after his earlier cockiness, Alan took a couple of shuffling steps toward the bridge, slowly keeping his eyes on the other star-man.  His face was flushed and strained looking. He was staring upward at the seemingly topless towers of the city. It's too big for me, he choked back a half whimper. The trouble with me is— The trouble with me is— Quantrell lowered his head and met Alan's stare. I'm afraid, Donald. Stinking, sweaty, afraid. The city's too big. Red-faced, he turned and walked away back up the street. Alan silently watched him go. Imagine that. Afraid. It's a big place, rat-warned. Don't you feel the same way, just a little? I feel perfectly calm, Alan said in utter sincerity. I know why I'm going over there, and I'm anxious to get moving. I'm not running away the way Steve was. I'm going to the earth or city to find my brother and to find Cavor's Drive and to bring them both back here. That's a tall order, Alan. I'll do it. Alan reached the approach to the bridge in a few more brisk steps and paused there. The noonday sun turned the long arch of the bridge into a golden ribbon in the sky. A glowing sign indicated the pedestrian walkway. Above that shining teardrop autos whirred by, leaving faint trails of exhaust. Alan followed the arrows and soon found himself on the bridge, heading for the city. He glanced back a last time. There was no sign of Kevin. The Starman's enclave seemed utterly quiet, almost dead. Then he turned and kept his gaze forward. The earth or city was waiting for him. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Starman's Quest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Starman's Quest by Robert Silverberg Chapter 5 He reached the end of the walkway and paused, a little stunned, staring at the incredible immensity of the city spread out before him. It's a big place, he said. I've never been in a city this big. You were born here, Rat reminded him. Alan laughed, but I only stayed here a week or two at the most. And that was three hundred years ago. The city's probably twice as big now as it was then. Hey, you, move on! A harsh voice from behind snapped suddenly. What's that? Alan whirled and saw a tall, bored-looking man in a silver-gray uniform with gleaming luminescent bands across the sleeves, standing on a raised platform above the road. You can't just stand here and block the walkway, the tall man said. His words were heavily accented, thickly guttural. Alan had a little trouble understanding them. The ship's language never changed. That of earth kept constantly evolving.  Alan took a couple of steps forward. Just hold on a minute. Who? He's a policeman, Alan, Rat said softly. Don't make trouble, do as he says. Throttling his sudden anger, Alan nodded curtly at the officer and stepped off the walkway. He was an outsider here, and he couldn't expect the sort of warm fellowship that existed aboard the ship. This was a city, a crowded, uncomfortable earth or city. These were the people who were left behind who never saw the stars in naked glory. They weren't going to be particularly polite. Alan found himself at an intersection and wondered where he was to begin. He had some vague ideas of finding Steve in this city, as easily as he might aboard ship, just check the A-deck roster, then the B-deck, and so on until he found him. But cities weren't quite that neatly organized, Alan realized. A long, broad street ran parallel to the river. It didn't seem very promising, lined with office buildings and warehouses. At right angles to it, though, stretching out in front of him, was a colorful, crowded avenue that appeared to be a major artery of the city. He glanced tentatively in both directions, waited till a lull came in the city procession of tiny, bullet-shaped automobiles flashing by, and hastily jogged across the waterfront street and started down the avenue. Maybe there was some kind of register of population at the city hall. If Steve still lived in this city, he could look him up that way, if not. Facing him were two rows of immense buildings, one on each side of the street. Above every three blocks there was a lacy, aerial passageway connecting a building on one side of the street, with one on the other, high above the ground. Alan looked up and saw black dots. They looked like ants, but they were people, making their way across the flexi-bridges at dizzying altitudes. The streets were crowded. Busy, stern-faced people raced madly from one place to the next. Alan was accustomed to the more orderly and peaceful life of a starship, and found himself getting jostled by passer-by from both directions.  Every few moments one would stop and hawk his wares. As Alan started hesitantly up the endless, seeming street, one of the vendors stopped virtually in front of him and looked at him imploringly. He was a small, untidy-looking man with a dirty face, and a red scar streaking his left cheek. Hey, boy! he spoke in a soft, slurred voice. Hey, boy! got something nice for you here. Alan looked at him puzzled. The vendor reached into a cart and pulled out a long yellow fruit with a small, green stem at one end. Go on, boy, treat yourself to some of these. Guild-grown, fresh ripe and best there are. Half a credit for this one. He held it almost under Alan's nose. Go on, he said insistently. Alan fished in his pocket and produced one of the half-credit pieces he had been given in the Enclave Commissary. For all he knew it was the custom of this city for a new arrival to buy the first thing offered to him by a vendor. In any event he was hungry, and it seemed that this was the easiest way to get rid of the little man. He held out the coin. Here I'll take it. The vendor handed the piece of fruit over and Alan accepted it. He studied it, wondering what he was supposed to do now. It had a thick, tough rind that didn't seem at all appetizing. The vendor chuckled, What's the matter, boy? Never seen a banana before? Or ain't you hungry? The little man's derisive face was thrust almost against Alan's chin. He backed away a step or two. Banana? Oh, sure.  Look at him, the vendor cried.  Looka, looka. Alan took the fruit out of his mouth unbitten and stared uncomprehendingly at it. He felt uneasy. Nothing in his past experience had prepared him for deliberate hostility on the part of other people. A board ship you did your job and you went your way. You didn't force your presence on other people or poke fun at them maliciously. It was the only way to live when you had to spend your whole lifetime with the same shipload of men and women. But the little vendor wasn't going away. He seemed very amused by everything.  By now a small crowd had paused and was watching the scene. Alan nodded. Let me show you how, spacer, the vendor said, mockery topmost in his voice. He snatched the banana back from Alan and ripped back the rind with three rough snaps of his wrist. Go on, eat it this way. She tastes better without the peel. He laughed rockously. Looka, the spacer. Someone else in the crowd said, what's he doing in the city anyway? He jumped ship? Yeah, why ain't he in the enclave like all the rest of them? Alan looked from one to the other with a troubled expression on his face. He didn't want to touch off any serious incident, but he was determined not to let these earthers push him around either. He ignored the ring of hostile faces about him and calmly bit into the banana. The unfamiliar taste pleased him. Despite hoots and cat-calls from the crowd, he finished it. Now the spacer knows how to eat a banana, the vendor commented acidly. Here, spacer, have another. I don't want another. Huh? No good? Earth fruits are too good for you, star man. You better learn that fast. Let's get out of here, rat said quietly. It was sensible advice.  He flexed his shoulders in a signal that meant he agreed with rat's suggestion. Have another banana, the vendor repeated obstinately. Alan looked around the crowd. I said I didn't want another banana and I don't want one. Now get out of my way. No one moved. The vendor and his monocar blocked the path. Get out of my way, I said. Alan bawled the slimy banana peel up into his hand and rammed it suddenly into the vendor's face. There, chew on that a while. He shouldered his way past the spluttering fruit vendor, and before anyone in the crowd could say or do anything, he was halfway down the street walking briskly. He lost himself in the passing stream of pedestrians. It was easy to do, despite the conspicuous orange and blue of his Valhalla uniform, there were so many people. He went on for two unmolested blocks, walking quickly without looking back. He finally decided he was safe. He glanced up at rat, the little extraterrestrial was sitting patiently astride his shoulder, deep as usual in some mysterious thought of his own. Rat? What, Alan? Why'd they do that? Why did those people act that way? I was a perfect stranger. They had no business making trouble for me. That's precisely it. You were a complete stranger. They don't love you for it. You're three hundred years old and still 17 at the same time. They can't understand that. These people don't like star men very much. The people in this city aren't ever going to see the stars, Alan. Stars are just faint specks of light that peek through the city haze at night. They're terribly, terribly jealous of you, and this is the way they show it. Jealous? But why? If they only knew what a star man's life is like, with the contraction and all. If they could only see what it is to leave your home and never be able to go back. They can't see it, Alan. All they can see is that you have the stars and they don't. They resent it. Alan shrugged. Let them go to space then if they don't like it here. No one's stopping them. They walked on silently for a while. Alan continued to revolve the incident in his mind. He realized he had a lot to learn about people, particularly earther people. He could handle himself pretty well aboard ship, but down on earth he was a rank-green horn and he'd have to step carefully. He looked gloomily at the maze of streets before him and half wished he had stayed in the enclave where star men belonged. But somewhere out ahead of him was Steve, and somewhere too he might find the answer to the big problem that of finding the hyperspace-drive. But it was a tall order and he had no idea where to begin. First thing to do, he thought, is find someone halfway friendly looking and ask if there's a central directory of citizens. Track down Steve, if possible. Times running out. The Valhalla pulls out in a couple of days. There were plenty of passer-by, but they all looked the kind that would keep on moving without answering his question. He stopped. Come right in here. A cold metallic voice rasped almost back of his ear.  Come right in here, the robot repeated, a little less forcefully now that he had caught Alan's attention. One credit can win you ten, five can get you a hundred. Right in here, friend. Alan stepped closer and peered inside. Through the dim dark blue window he could vaguely make out long rows of tables with men seated before each one. From inside came the hard sound of another robot voice, calling off an endless string of numbers. Don't just stand there staring, friend, the robot urged. Go right on through the door. Alan nudged rat quizzically. What is it? I'm a stranger here, too, but I'd guess it was some sort of gambling place. Alan jingled the few coins he had in his pocket. If we had time, I'd like to stop off, but—go ahead, friend, go ahead, the robot crooned. His metallic tones somehow managing to sound almost human in their urgent pleading. Go on in. One credit can win you ten, five can win you a hundred. Some other time, Alan said. But friend, one credit can win you—I know. Ten, the robot continued, undismayed. Five can get you a hundred. By this time, the robot had edged out into the street, blocking Alan's path. Are we going to have trouble with you, too? It looks like everybody in this city is trying to sell something. The robot pointed invitingly toward the door. Why not try it, it could. Simplest game ever devised. Everybody wins. Go on in, friend. Alan frowned impatiently. He was getting angrier and angrier at the robot's unceasing sales pitch. A board ship, no one coaxed you to do anything. If it was in a sign job, you did it without arguing. And if you were on free time, you were your own master.  The robot's blank, stainless, vanadium face showed no display of feeling whatsoever. That's not the right attitude, friend. Everyone plays the game. Ignoring him, Alan started to walk ahead. But the robot skipped lively around to block him. Won't you go in just once? Look, Alan said. I'm a free citizen, and I don't want to be subjected to this sort of stuff. Now get out of my way and leave me alone before I take a can opener to you. That's not the right attitude. I'm just asking you as a friend. And I'm answering you as one. Let me go. Oh, calm down, rat whispered. They've got no business putting a machine out here to bother people like this, Alan said hotly. He took a few more steps and the robot plucked at his sleeve. Is that a final refusal? A trace of incredulity crept into the robot's voice. Everybody plays the game, you know. It's unconsumer-like to refuse. It's uncity-like. It's bad business. It's unrotational. It's... Exasperated, Alan pushed the robot out of the way hard. The metal creature went over surprisingly easy and thudded to the pavement with a dull clanking sound. Are you sure, the robot began, and then the voice was replaced by the humming sound of an internal clashing of unaligned gears. I guess I broke it, Alan looked down at the supine robot. But it wasn't my fault. It wouldn't let me pass. We'd better move on, rat said. But it was too late. A burly man in a black cloak threw open the door of the gambling parlour and confronted Alan. What sort of stuff is this, fellow? What have you done to our servo? That thing wouldn't let me pass. It caught hold of me and tried to drag me inside your place. So what? That's what he's for. Robo-hucksters are perfectly legal. Disbelief stood out on the man's face. You mean you don't want to go in? That has nothing to do with it. Even if I did want to go in, I wouldn't, not after the way your robot tried to push me. Watch out, kid. Don't make trouble. That's unrotational talk. You can get in trouble. Come on inside and have a game or two and I'll forget the whole thing. I won't even bill you for repairs on my servo. Bill me? I ought to sue you for obstructing the street. And I just got through telling your robot that I didn't plan to waste any time gambling at your place. The others lips curled in a half sneer, half grin. Why not? My business, Alan said stubbornly, leave me alone. He stalked angrily away, inwardly raging at this earth or city where things like this could happen. Don't ever let me catch you around here again, the parlour man shouted after him. Alan lost himself once again in the crowd, but not before he caught the final words.  Filthy spacer, Alan winced. Again the blind, un reasoning hatred of the unhappy star men. The earthers were jealous of something they certainly wouldn't want if they could experience the suffering involved. Suddenly he realized he was very tired. He had been walking over an hour and he was not used to it. The vahala was a big ship, but you could go from end to end in less than an hour and very rarely did you stay on your feet under full grav for longer than an hour. Working grav was .93 earth normal and that odd .07% made quite a difference. Alan glanced down at his boots, mentally picturing his sagging arches. He had to find someone who could give him a clue toward Steve. For all he knew, one of the men he had brushed against that day was Steve, a Steve grown older and unrecognizable in what had been to Alan a few short weeks. Around the corner he saw a park, just a tiny patch of greenery, two or three stunted trees and a bench, but it was a genuine park. It looked almost forlorn, surrounded by the giant skyscrapers. There was a man on the bench, the first relaxed looking man Alan had seen in the city so far. He was about thirty or thirty-five, dressed in a baggy green business suit with tarnished brass studs.  And he was smiling. He looked friendly. Excuse me, sir, Alan said, sitting down next to him. I'm a stranger here. I wonder if you suddenly a familiar voice shouted. There he is. Alan turned and saw the little fruit vendor pointing accusingly at him. Behind him were three men in silver gray police uniforms. That's the man who wouldn't buy from me.  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 star man. I don't have a work card. Even worse, we'd better take you down for questioning.  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 Hawks, eh? That you? Free status? The man named Hawks nodded. And this spacers a pal of yours? We're very good friends. Hum, 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, signaling to his companions. The fruit-vendor stared vindictively at Alan for a moment, but saw he would have no revenge. He too laughed. Alan was alone with his unknown benefactor. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Starman's Quest This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Starman's Quest by Robert Silverberg Chapter 6 I guess I owe you thanks, Alan said. If they had hauled me off I'd be in real trouble. Hawks 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 Hawks checked him with a wave of his hand. Never mind. I'll write it off to profit and loss. What's your namespacer 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. Hawks 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 Earth time. 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? Hawks nodded thoughtfully. Eyes half closed. Mmm, yes, I follow you.  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. Hawks 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, Hawks 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, Hawks 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 a bond for your sponsor, too. Five thousand credits. And unless you have the work card and you have been working, you don't have five thousand credits, so you can't post a bond and get a work card. See? Round and round. Ellen'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 set up. The guilds are virtually hereditary, even the fruit vendor's 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 star man 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, Hawks 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? Hawks 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't find any trail of your brother. They rose. Allen saw that Hawks was tall like himself. He walked with easygoing grace. Questioningly, Allen twitched his shoulder blade in the signal that meant, what do you think of this guy, Rat? Stick with him, Rat signaled back. He sounds okay. The streets seemed a great deal less terrifying now that Allen had a companion, someone who knew his way around. He didn't have the feeling that all eyes were on him anymore, he was just one of the crowd. It was good to have Hawks at his side even if he didn't fully trust the older man. The Directory buildings way across town, Hawks 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? Allen shrugged. One's as good as any other. Hawks 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. Hawks stopped a man in a blue uniform and said, where's the nearest chute pickup? Take the north corridor bridge across to the next building. The pickup's there. Right. Hawks led his way down the corridor, up a staircase and through a door. With sudden alarm Allen 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'd better not look down, Hawks said. Hits fifty stories to the bottom. Allen 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 vendor came up to them. Allen thought he might be selling tickets, but instead he held forth a tray of soft drinks. Hawks bought one. Allen 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 vendor was gone, Hawks said, Remind me to explain rotation to you when we get aboard the chute. And here it comes now. Allen 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 Hawks stuffed a ticket into Allen's hand. I have a month's supply of them, he said. It's cheaper that way. They found a pair of seats together and strapped themselves in. With a roar and a hiss, the overshoot blasted away from the landing platform, and almost immediately came to rest on another building some distance away. We've just traveled about half a mile, Hawks said. This ship really moves. A jet propelled omnibus that traveled over the roofs of the buildings, Allen thought. Clever! He said, Isn't there any public surface transportation in the cities? Nope. It was all banned about fifty years ago on account of the congestion. Taxis and everything. You can still use a private car in some parts of the city, of course, but the only people who own them are those who like to impress their neighbors. Most of us take the undertube or the overshoot to get around. The chute blasted off from its third stop and picked up passengers at its fourth. Allen glanced up front and saw the pilot peering over an elaborate radar system. Westbound chutes travel a hundred feet over the rooftops, eastbound ones two hundred. There hasn't been a major accident in years. But about this rotation, that's part of our new economic plan. Which is? Keep the money moving. Savings discouraged. Spendings the thing now. The guilds are really pushing it. Instead of buying one piece of fruit from a vendor, buy two. Spend, spend, spend. It's a little tough on the people in free status. We don't offer anything for sale, so we don't benefit much. But we don't amount to one percent of the population, so who cares about us? You mean it's sort of subversive not to spend money, is that it? Allen asked. Hawks nodded.  Keep the credits flowing. That's the way to be popular around here. That had been his original mistake, Allen thought. He saw he had a lot to learn about this strange, unfriendly world if he were going to stay here long. He wondered if anyone had missed him back at the enclave yet. Maybe it won't take too long to find Steve, he thought. I should have left a note for Dad explaining I'd be back. But— Here we are, Hawks said, nudging him. The door in the overshoot side opened and they got out quickly. They were on another rooftop. Ten minutes later they stood outside an immense building, whose walls were sleek slabs of green pellucite, shining with a radiant inner warmth of their own. The building must have been a hundred stories higher, more. It terminated in a burnished spire. This is it, Hawks said, the central directory building. We'll try the standard matrix first. A little dizzy, Allen followed without discussing the matter. Hawks led him through a vast lobby big enough to hide the Valhalla Inn, past throngs of earthers into a huge hall lined on all sides by computer banks. Let's take this booth here, Hawks suggested. They stepped into it. The door clicked shut automatically behind them. There was a row of blank forms in a metal rack against the inside of the door. Hawks pulled one out. Allen looked at it. It said, Central Directory Matrix Information Requisition 1067432 Standard Series Hawks took a pen from the rack. We have to fill this out. What's your brother's full name? Steve Donald, he spelled it. Year of Birth? Allen paused. 3576, he said finally. Hawks frowned but wrote it down anyway. Work card number? Well, we don't know that. And they want five or six other numbers too. We'll just have to skip them. Better give me a full physical description as of the last time you saw him. Allen thought a moment. He looked pretty much like me. Height 73 inches, weight 172 or so, reddish blonde hair, and so on. Don't you have a gene record? Blankly Allen said a what? Hawks scowled. I forgot I keep forgetting your spacer. Well, if he's not using his own name anymore, it might make things really tough. Gene records make absolute identification possible, but if you don't have one. Whistling tunelessly, Hawks filled out the rest of the form. When it came to reason for application, he wrote in Tracing of Missing Relative. That just about covers it, he said finally. It's a pretty lame application, but if we're lucky we may find him. He rolled up the gray form, shoved it into a gray metal tube, and dropped it into a slot in the wall. What happens now? Allen asked. Now we wait. The application goes downstairs and the big computer goes to work on it. First thing they'll do is kick aside all the cards of men named Steve Donnell. Then they'll check them all against the physical description I supplied. Soon as they find a man who fits the bill, they'll stat his card and send it up here to us. We copy down the televector number and have them trace him down. The what number? You'll see, Hawks said grinning. It's a good system. Just wait. They waited. One minute. Two. Three. I hope I'm not keeping you from something important, Allen said, breaking a long uncomfortable silence. It's really good of you to take all this time, but I wouldn't want to inconvenience you if— If I didn't want to help you, Hawks said sharply, I wouldn't be doing it. I'm free status, you know? That means I don't have any boss except me. Max Hawks Esquire. It's one of the few compensations I have for the otherwise lousy deal life handed me. So if I choose to waste an hour or two helping you find your brother, don't worry yourself about it. A bell rang once and a gentle light glowed over the slot. Hawks reached in and scooped out the container that sat there. Inside he found a rolled up slip of paper. He pulled it out and read the message typed on it several times, pursing his lips. Well, did they find him? Read it for yourself, Hawks said. He pushed the sheet over to Allen. It said in crisp capital letters, A search of the files reveals that no work card has been issued on earth in the past ten years to Steve, Donald, Mail, with the required physical characteristics. Allen's face fell. He tossed the slip to the table and said, Well, what do we do now? Now Hawks said, We go upstairs to the cubby-hole where they keep the free status people registered. We go through the same business there. I didn't really expect to find your brother here, but it was worth a look. It's next to impossible for a ship-jumping star man to buy into a guild and get a work card. Suppose he's not registered with the free status people. Hawks smiled patiently.  If he's not listed upstairs there's no way on earth you could possibly find him. End of chapter 6


Ladies and gentlemen, I just found out that NBA 2K20 has a mobile app. Did y'all notice information? I'm just finding this out. Yo, I knew they had that MyMBA2K app, the one where you do your face scan and play those minigames to get VC in the actual game. I did not know they had an actual app. And look at this, look at this. And on top of that is literally ranked number one in sports. So I wasted $6 to find out how good or bad this app truly is. Welcome to NBA 2K20.  Look, look, they got different head presets. Let's go with the little chubby guy. Skin tone, dark as s***. Thickness, maximum. I don't know how good the graphics look, but just in terms of the customization, holy. This game is $6, man. Have you ever met a dark skin man with blue eyes?  What is that?  Controller tutorial. Push the left stick in any direction to move. The right side is dribbling.  I'm so perplexed right now. 2K, how do you expect me to move the left stick, but then also to click the sprint button? That's horrible configuration. We're on the main menu. They got plenty of different modes. The association, play now, expected. They have an NBA story mode. Run the streets, which looks like the park. And my career. I don't even know what you're gonna go with. So I'm gonna go with the story mode first. This is it? This is the story? All right, let's play like the easiest one. I'm not trying to get sauce out of you. Call for the screen. And here's the challenge. I'm gonna move there. Boom, dribble, dribble move. Do a dribble, do a dribble move, bro. I clicked the button three times. Do the move. Oh, it's not a button. It's a right stick. It's running smooth. My phone's not feeling like it's on fire. But this is like the 2K11, 2K10 engine for a fact. I know it when I see it. Jump. Oh my God. Okay, let's see if I can do a momentum dribble. I have it with the right hand. No, no. Damn it, man. Shoot, shoot.  The problem with playing on mobile is that when you get angry, you're breaking your phone. Have we considered that? When I get angry playing PS4, I just whip. And I'm fine. It's a $60 solution to that. But on mobile, this is an iPhone. I'm not buying another iPhone because I have another one right there that I'm not using. All right, I'm not going to continue this because I would rather lick paint. All right, we're creating our player. I'm going to go with point guard. They got archetypes in the game. Okay, let's go playmaker. This is so cute. This is like an anime. All right, so now that we missed all of that, let's just assume he had like a disappointing college career and now he's trying to prove his way into the NBA and like every my career story. And for some reason, 2K still thinks the best default camera is broadcast. Geez, man. Y'all add a touch. Y'all add a touch or what? Nobody plays that broadcast. Pull up. Cash, very early. Oh yeah. Oh, they got the 2K17 shot meter. The gameplay feels like 2K11. The shot meter is NBA 2K17. Have I played this before? Am I tripping? Here we go. Set that screen. Let me get this. Hurry up. Hurry. Why you pull up? Why is he? Oh, bang. Oh yeah. Why is that hair? Why did he have a patch of hair back there? It looks weird. Okay. So now that I created this player, I think I could quit the game. Yes. Yes, I want to do this. Here we go. We're in the streets and there's no brown shirt. Ladies and gentlemen, we got the white crispy tea. First of all, they have a shop, which means there's microtransactions. No. Are you lying to me? This is all I've been asking 2K for for the longest time. You'll see this. I said 2K. I like park. But also, let's have a private park where we can play at Venice or in the middle of the street in Times Square or on the rooftops in Philadelphia or in the middle of Iowa. Right? There's so much opportunity. Wow. This is dope. Sorry. I love the level design. Phil, the takeover meter, they have takeover. Question number one. Is this game online? Because I was kind of hoping that this part of the game would be. All right. Let's see how I do, ladies and gentlemen. I feel like the game's not too hard to handle. I can connect my controller and cheese. You know, my fantastic jibbling skills. But I would never do that. Not against AI. You know what I mean? Look at the takeover thing on the right side, guys. Look at that. Look. Oh, it is my ball. Why am I just...  Why are we playing half court? And why am I looking at this angle here? Bro, I'm so confused. Can we... No. This is the furthest we go. All right. I just went from impressed to very depressed. And I just hit it early. And they called it slightly. All right. These cameras are horrible. I thought NBA Live had the worst cameras. Nope. This game right here does. Pick that up. Pass it out. Shoot it. Early. Bang! That's what I do. In every game I touch, greens. Ooh. Look quick, a little hezzy. Ooh. Behind the back animation. Oh, that's tough. That's so tough. How do they do that? Do y'all see these animations? All right, man. What is this play y'all running? The one where you stand still and hope you get an open shot. Pull up. Boom. Crossback this way.  Take it, agent. Take it. Oh, yeah. Let's run it back. Is there a clock? Yeah, there is a shot clock. Oh, yeah. That has to be cash. Oh, yeah. Very, very early. I'm holding it for like half a second and the shot meter hasn't even started. I'm perplexed. Shoot. Oh, yeah. Excellent. Oh, no. I should have made a sharpshooter. Why did I make a playmaker? I don't even have a controller. I can't dribble. And for being honest, I can't really dribble with a controller neither. So I'm playing defense at the half court. Are they going to find the open man? Is the open man going to shoot? No. Look at this gameplay. All right, guys. I'm experiencing severe depression at this point because everything kind of just crashed. And that means I had to play the game against AI for the third time. Two hours later. Hey, fellas, I'm back. Guess what I was doing with my time. I was grinding NBA 2K mobile. Yeah, I know, guys. This is not the best use of my time. But I wanted to see if I can get to the ranked games. Guess what I found out. Um, you can't even play online on the park. All right, so check this out. If I go to the main story here, I ran through and won a bunch of these games. Beautiful, by the way. Stage story four. All I unlocked for winning this game is random normal cloth equipment and a rank up. And they don't even tell you what you unlock for five, six, seven, eight, nine. I assume at nine is when you unlock the ranked mode. So I was like, what if the ranked mode isn't even online? So I went back, clearly, went to play now, and I realized the multiplayer they're referring to is right here. But I do want to show you guys something. Check this out. Look at this. Look at this. Do you see the arena? Do you see the level design here? So this is what I'm talking about right here. Why can't 2K do this for the actual game that we pay $60 for? All right, that's tough. You can play your friends. That's really dope. Blacktop 1v1, Blacktop 3v3. Create a private custom game. They didn't even have these features in the game for decades. But they got them in this. If y'all were going to put microtransactions in the game, then you probably should have just released it for free. The user interface is abysmal, man. Just moving around this is making me frustrated. Stop with the notification. All right, I'm leaving all y'all discourse. Every single one of them, bro. Cash. This guy's money. This guy's missing excellent releases, man. Pass. Inside. All right. That has to be cash. Buckets, baby. Come on now. Here we go. Drop that bucket, G. He missed the A quality shot, man. I don't stand a chance. And all right, y'all just keep playing in that chat, huh? That's what they're doing, bro. That's the music they were playing. Look, look, look.  Yo, that can't stand this game, bro. All right, 2K, this is my review. Game is horrible. How do you log into the online thing? Why is it that complicated? It should be simple.  Obviously no skills gap.  It's kind of cool. It's cool to play for like 20 minutes. But isn't the purpose of the game to be like something where you're bored, you're outside. You could just pop it up and play. Who is doing that with their free time? Not me, not this guy, all right? So do I regret playing and buying that? Yes, 100%. But if you guys have the game, let me know what you guys think about it. Wow, look at that, guys. There's some videos on the screen just like that. I'm going to leave the building because I need some fresh air after that experience.


Hi, I'm Evie Sevick from the Research School of Chemistry. Hi, I'm Joe Hope from the Research School of Physics and Engineering at A&U. And we're going to take you through light and waves. Why is a chemist taking us through waves and light in a physics course? Well, I mean, I'm more than just a chemist.  Science, physics, chemistry, it's all interconnected with science. So you can't separate all physics and chemistry from everything else. That's true. I guess I'm not just a physicist. I'm a scientist. I need to know plenty of chemistry to know how things work. Yes. Alright, so take it away, Evie, on waves and light. Okay.


Everybody forced here. I've been a couple boxes of 2023 Bowman chromium university football hobby for Ronald G. Let's go Ronald Let's go Last Friday pulls some nice stuff out of these things. That's for sure Here we go. Here we go Yeah, Sean got him Sean got him boarding. Sorry That's a red right away red first bowman Auto Dallin Hayden Ohio State Colormatch five of five Right off the rip right out the very first pack the very first pack There you go, Ronald That's Ronald Gold shimmer coming up now, too. And that is her Julian Fleming another Buckeye 48 of 50 a refractor is Kendall Milton Extra factor of joquavious marks His cards are clingy today. What a clingy to each other so much rambling man of Xavier Worthy shoulders Sanders 55 Bowman First woman auto Kyle McCord now This is a very very Ohio State box Harrison base refractor Damian Martinez Extractor Matthew Golden Green shimmer to 99 quinch on Judkins Caleb Williams 55 Bowman The Judkins pretty nice, too Early risers Dante Moore refractor Will Howard Judkins there Purple shimmer first woman is Christopher Vizina Clemson Colormatch Early riser shoulder Sanders refractor of Jackson Dart Purple mini diamond first bowman of Roydale Williams at 399 Hitting most of numbered cards in the autos in the first few packs of that box. All right. Here we go Second one for you Ronald Two of two right here pretty good first box had that red auto Plus a McCord Fractor first woman auto of Antonio Gates, Jr 499 Antonio Gates, Jr. Purple mini diamond first woman Cooper Dijon out of 399 We go to this stack the other one Tidden faster refractor Michael Pratt first bowman Marvin Harrison rambling man shimmer of Taj Brooks Travis hunter first woman base refractor will Rogers Aqua to 299 Shaz Preston. All right, last few packs here refractor Harold Perkins first bowman Extractor Quinn Sean Judkins Corum jacquard Brooks Orange refractor first bowman autograph smell Mondon, Jr. Very nice 1825 of the smell Mondon couple low numbered autos in the in the boxes refractor Julian Fleming Extractor Cade Club Nick last pack eyes Aqua Brock Bowers 1955 bowman number to 150 All right. Thank you Ronald appreciate it congrats on the pretty good boxes there. We'll get it out. See ya


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