by now. He was
getting hungry--and he knew he would have to start making plans for
spending the night somewhere, if he didn't go back to the Enclave.

MacIntosh pulled himself laboriously out of his big webwork cradle and
wheezed his way across the room to a computer shoot. He dropped the card
in.

"It'll take a few minutes for them to make the search," he said,
turning. He looked in both directions and went on, "Care for a drink?
Just to pass the time?"

Hawkes grinned. "Good old Hinesy! What's in the inkwell today?"

"Scotch! Bottled in bond, best syntho stuff to come out of Caledonia in
the last century!" MacIntosh shuffled back behind his desk and found
three dingy glasses in one of the drawers; he set them out and uncorked
a dark blue bottle plainly labelled INK.

He poured a shot for Hawkes and then a second shot; as he started to
push it toward Alan, the starman shook his head. "Sorry, but I don't
drink. Crewmen aren't allowed to have liquor aboard starships.
Regulation."

"Oh, but you're off-duty now!"

Alan shook his head a second time; shrugging, MacIntosh took the drink
himself and put the unused third glass back in the drawer.

"Here's to Steve Donnell!" he said, lifting his glass high. "May he have
had the good sense to register his name up here!"

They drank. Alan watched. Suddenly, the bell clanged and a tube rolled
out of the computer shoot.

Alan waited tensely while MacIntosh crossed the room again, drew out the
contents of the tube, and scanned them. The fat man's face was broken by
a smile.

"You're in luck, starman. Your brother did register with us. Here's the
'stat of his papers."

Alan looked at them. The photostat was titled, APPLICATION FOR ADMISSION
TO FREE-STATUS LABOR FORCE, and the form had been filled out in a
handwriting Alan recognized immediately as Steve's: bold, untidy, the
letters slanting slightly backward.

He had given his name as Steve Donnell, his date of birth as 3576, his
chronological age as seventeen. He had listed his former occupation as
_Starman_. The application was dated 4 June 3867, and a stamped
notation on the margin declared that Free Status had been granted on 11
June 3867.

"So he did register," Alan said. "But now what? How do we find him?"

Hawkes reached for the photostat. "Here. Let me look at that." He
squinted to make out the small print, then nodded and wrote down
something. "His televector number's a local one. So far, so good." He
tu