his is where
we get off," Hawkes told him.

They took a slidewalk to street level. The street was like a canyon,
with towering walls looming up all around. And some of the gigantic
buildings seemed quite shabby-looking by the street-light. Obviously
they were in a less respectable part of the city.

"This is Hasbrouck," Hawkes said. "It's a residential section. And
there's where I live."

He pointed to the tarnished chrome entrance of one of the biggest and
shabbiest of the buildings on the street. "Be it ever so humble, there's
no place like North Hasbrouck Arms. It's the sleaziest, cheapest, most
run-down tenement in one hemisphere, but I love it. It's a real palace."

Alan followed him through a gate that had once been imposing; now it
swung open rather rustily as they broke the photobeam in front of it.
The lobby was dark and dimly lit, and smelled faintly musty.

Alan was unprepared for the shabbiness of the house where the gambler
lived. A moment after he spoke, he realized the question was highly
impertinent, but by then it was too late: "I don't understand, Max. If
you make so much money gambling, why do you live in a place like this?
Aren't there any better--I mean----"

An unreadable expression flitted briefly across the gambler's lean face.
"I know what you mean. Let's just say that the laws of this planet
discriminate slightly against Free Status people like yours truly. They
require us to live in approved residences."

"But this is practically a slum."

"Forget the _practically_. This is the raw end of town, and no denying
it. But I have to live here." They entered a creaky old elevator
decorated with too much chrome, most of it chipped, and Hawkes pressed
_106_. "When I first moved in here, I made up my mind I'd bribe my way
into a fancier neighborhood as soon as I had the cash. But by the time I
had enough to spare I didn't feel like moving, you see. I'm sort of
lazy."

The elevator stopped with a jarring jolt at the hundred-sixth floor.
They passed down a narrow, poorly-lit corridor. Hawkes paused suddenly
in front of a door, pressed his thumb against the doorplate, and waited
as it swung open in response to the imprint of his fingerprints against
the sensitive electronic grid.

"Here we are," he said.

It was a three-room apartment that looked almost as old and as
disreputable as the rooms in the Enclave. But the furniture was new and
attractive; these were not the rooms of a poor man. An