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And every inch of those feet was lined with computer elements. "This is the nerve-center of the world," Hawkes said as they went in. "By asking the right questions you can find out where anybody in the world happens to be at this very moment." "How can they do that?" Hawkes nudged a tiny sliver of metal embedded in a ring on his finger. "Here's my televector transmitter.
"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 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.
There isn't any gamblers' guild. There are a few other ways, too, but they're a lot less savory, and the televector surveillance makes it hard for a man to stay in business for long." Alan moistened his lips. "What do you do?" "Gamble. I'm in the upper brackets, though. As I say: some of us have the knack. I doubt if your brother does, though.
But Alan was not registered on the televector screens and there was no other way of linking him with the crime. He glanced around the apartment at Hawkes' bar and his audio system and all the dead man's other things. Yesterday, Alan thought, Hawkes had been here, alive, eyes sparkling as he outlined the plans for the robbery a final time. Now he was dead.
You have to have the knack, though. You can get awful hungry otherwise. Come on, kid let's go up a little higher, now. Up to the televector files. Thanks for the help, Hinesy. You're a pal." "Just doin' my job," MacIntosh said. "See you tonight as usual?" "I doubt it," Hawkes replied. "I'm going to take the night off. I have it coming to me."
There's always somebody who needs food bad enough to rob for it, even though it means a sure arrest. Murder's a little less common." Hawkes fed the requisition slip into the slot. "You'd be surprised what a deterrent the televector registry system is. It's not so easy to run off to South America and hide when anybody at all can come in here and find out exactly where you are." A moment went by.
"Maybe he was bored with life, bored with always winning, bored with things as they were. The man was never born who could figure out Max Hawkes, anyway. You must have found that out yourself." Gainer rose. "I'll have to be moving along, now. But let me give you some suggestions, first." "Sir?" "Go downtown and get yourself registered in Free Status. Have them give you a televector number.
You don't have any televector number. You can't be traced." Suddenly Alan understood. "So that's why you didn't let me register! You've been grooming me for this all along!" Hawkes nodded. "As far as Earth is concerned, you don't exist. If any of us drove off with that truck, all they need to do is plot the truck's coordinates and follow the televector patterns of the man who's driving it.
He took out the slip of paper on which he had jotted down Steve's televector code number and transferred the information to an application blank. "This system," Alan said. "It means no one can possibly hide anywhere on Earth unless he removes his televector transmitter." "You can't do that, though. Strictly illegal.
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