. Alan glanced from one to the next. A baldhead whose dome
glinted bright gold in the dusk knotted his hands together in an anguish
of indecision. A slim, dreamy-eyed young man gripped the sides of the
table frenziedly as the numbers spiralled upward. A fat woman in her
late forties, hopelessly dazed by the intricate game, slumped wearily in
her seat.

Beyond that he could not see. There were other patrons on the far side
of the rostrum; perhaps Steve was over there. But it was forbidden for
anyone to wander through the rows of tables searching for a particular
player.

The gong rang, ending the round. "Number 322 wins a hundred credits,"
barked the croupier.

The man at Table 322 shambled forward for his money. He walked with a
twisted shuffle; his body shook palsiedly. Hawkes had warned him of
these, too--the dreamdust addicts, who in the late stages of their
addiction became hollow shells of men, barely able to walk. He took his
hundred credits and returned to his table without smiling. Alan
shuddered and looked away. Earth was not a pretty world. Life was good
if you had the stream running with you, as Hawkes did--but for each
successful one like Hawkes, how many fought unsuccessfully against the
current and were swept away into dreamdust or worse?

Steve. He looked down the row for Steve.

And then the board lit up again, and for the first time he was playing.

He set up a tentative pattern; golden streaks flitted across the board,
mingling with red and blue blinkers. Then the first number came. Alan
integrated it hastily and realized he had constructed a totally
worthless pattern; he wiped his board clean and set up new figures,
based on the one number he had. Already, he knew, he was hopelessly far
behind the others.

But he kept with it as the minutes crawled past. Sweat dribbled down his
face and neck. He had none of Hawkes' easy confidence with the board's
controls; this game was hard work for a beginner. Later, perhaps, some
of the steps would become automatic, but now----

"Seventy-eight sub twelve over thirteen," came the droning instructions,
and Alan pulled levers and twisted ratchets to keep his pattern true. He
saw the attraction the game held for the people of Earth: it required
such deep concentration, such careful attention, that one had no time to
ponder other problems. It was impossible to think and compete at the
same time. The game offered perfect escape from the harsh realities of
Eart