The Falcon landed in a sprawling heap, cramped with vertigo, his mind
numb with the shock of the shot that had slapped at the side of his
head. He groped blindly for support, felt the skin ripping from his
hands on the rough metal of the pipe. For seconds, he fought to retain
his senses, finally forced the black shadow of unconsciousness back
from his mind.
His eyes focused slowly, made out the glow cast through the open
manhole. Only a moment could have passed, for he still heard the
excited calling of his pursuers, and felt the vibrations of men
climbing the outside of the pipe.
He went at a staggering run down the pipe, guiding himself by the beam
of the radi-light torch he fumbled from his belt. Echoes drummed along
the metal tube from his running feet, and the dull pounding in his head
raced with the sound. He whirled around a bend in the pipe, stopped,
braced himself momentarily on the curved wall. Then, the ringing in his
head slowing, and his mind clearing, he ran again at a faster pace.
The yells of his pursuers rocketed through the tube, slowly gaining.
But a thin smile twisted the Falcon's mouth; he had a bolt-hole or two
that were unknown to any but him, holes that had saved his life before.
He slipped now and then in the greasy seepage at the pipe's bottom,
came again to his feet, feeling strength draining from him, realizing
that the shot had almost put a partial stasis on his nervous system.
He ran slower now, utterly unable to keep up the headlong pace. His
breath was hot and dry in his throat, and a heart-pain in his side
cramped his belly. He staggered again and again, until at last he could
move only at a fast walk.
The agents gained, crying their pack call like Martian _ganths_ running
a lowland creature to death in a canal bottom. Their boots slammed
driving echoes from the pipe, growing louder with each passing second.
The Falcon knew that he could run no further; he leaned against the
wall, checked the charge in his gun. A mirthless laugh grated in his
throat, and he felt futility beating at his heart for the first time in
years.
"_Make it a good world, Curt!_" Val had said.
Curt Varga fought then, fought the dizziness in his mind, struggled
with the defeat he felt in his heart. He had a task to do; not for
himself, not for his martyred brothers and father--but for a dozen
worlds to whom he and his brood had become a symbol of hope in a
blackened century.
* * * * *
He spun about, seeking a manhole opening, saw none. He did not know
where he was, for there were no identifying marks in the tube. He
thought swiftly, but his thoughts seemed to move with a treacly
slowness. Then he lifted his gun, flicked it to full force, blasted a
hole through the side of the conduit.
Metal flowed in a crimson stream, grew turgid, hardened with the
queerness of the native iron. Great blisters reared on the Falcon's
hands as he clawed his way from the tube. He fell to the ground
outside, blinked, tried to find his directions by some distinctive
landmark. He gasped, whirled back to the pipe.
He had come squarely into the parking plaza at the rear of the
spaceport at the edge of the city. Before him, guards had whirled, were
running toward him, already clawing for the guns at their waists. And
even as he turned, he heard the excited cries of the agents inside the
conduit pipe.
He ran at a zig-zag pace, hugging the shadow of the pipe, toward a
fleet tiny cruiser rolling into its parking place. Darting across a
cleared space of ground, he tugged at the inset port-handle.
The port surged open from the weight of the air-pressure inside, and
the Falcon dived through, pulling the port shut again. Still in a
crouch, he spun the gun in his hand, jammed it into the side of the
single passenger.
"Get out of here," he snarled. "Gully-hop this ship--and do it fast."
"Listen, you--" the pilot began.
"Either you do--or I do. Now, get going." The Falcon's face was utterly
bleak and cruel, his eyes blazing with the trapped lust of a cornered
wolf.
Shots slammed against the impervium hull, bounced harmlessly away. The
vizi-screen glowed greenly, and the reflection of the Port Authority
appeared.
"_Take off, and we'll ray you down._"
The Falcon growled deep in his throat, slammed into the dual control
seat, snapped the control-switch to his side. With a single twitch of
his right hand, he sent the ship flipping skyward.
The cruiser whipped through the night, inertia momentarily pinning
its passengers to their seats. A beam lanced out from the spaceport,
instantly winked off. The Falcon's hands made lightning adjustments on
the board, and the ship scooted back toward the ground, fled, barely a
hundred feet above the rusty sand.
The vizi-screen was dull now, reflecting the interior of the port
office--and the Port Authority's voice sang through the speaker.
"Five IP ships take off. Catch that pleasure cruiser. Use tractors to
bring it down; it isn't armed. Watch out for the man aboard--he's the
Falcon."
"_The Falcon!_" Fear was in the voice; the words were barely breathed.
Curt Varga smiled savagely, glanced around, fully saw his companion for
the first time. He felt a certain sense of amazement; but so much had
happened to him in the past hour, he no longer had the capacity for
complete surprise.
She was tiny, and the synthesilk dress gloved the soft curves of her
body. Her nose was impudent against the red of her mouth, and fright
was in her bluish-green eyes momentarily. Then she stiffened, and her
eyes were hard with a calculating coldness.
"I thought kidnaping went out with the dark ages," she said quietly.
"Miss, this is _shipnapping_." Ironical humor softened the brutal
harshness of Curt Varga's jaw for the moment.
And then there was no time for talk, for he was weaving the ship in
a manner that only a space-master could do, flipping the cruiser
about until metal sang in a dozen tones, evading the bluish rays that
fingered from the ships behind.
He gained the night shadow, circled about on muffled jets, watched the
IP ships flash past him in hot pursuit of their quarry. Then he sent
the cruiser straight back toward the city, angling after a time toward
the mountains to the north. Not a word was spoken until after he had
landed the cruiser close to his own rocket hidden beneath the overhang
of a rusty bluff.
"Now what?" the girl asked.
The Falcon killed the rockets, turned about on the seat, conscious for
the first time that he still held his dis-gun against her side with his
left hand.
He thought fast then, made plans and discarded them with a speed that
raced them kaleidoscopically through his mind. He could leave the girl
tied in the cruiser--but she had seen him, could identify him to the
IP men. Or he could--he shrank from the thought; he was brutal in a
dispassionate way, but he was no murderer.
"Get out," he snapped.
Color surged into the girl's face, then faded, leaving the skin a
sickly white. She shrank from him, pressing against the far wall.
"I read it in your eyes," she whispered. "You were thinking of
_killing_ me!"
The Falcon flushed angrily, more at himself than at the girl, hating
himself for thinking such thoughts, hating the twisted years that had
warped him to the point that he acted like the scum he had weeded from
among his men.
"Get out," he said again, and his voice was softer. "I mean you no
harm." He flicked a glance from the port, toward the sky where the
violet beams of mass-detectors probed the sky and earth.
She slid from the seat, took the two steps to the port, opened it with
a surge of lithe strength. She dropped to the ground, followed by the
Falcon. There was a puzzled fear in her eyes, a fear that grew by the
moment as she saw the sleek Kent-Horter quiescent on the sand.
The Falcon stepped lithely about his prisoner, whistled with a queerly
distorted note, and the port came automatically open. He gestured with
the gun, impatience flaming in his eyes as she hesitated.
"Walk--or be carried," he warned grimly.
* * * * *
The girl scrambled into the pirate ship. Curt Varga stepped in behind
her, dogged the door shut with almost casual flicks of his right hand.
He urged the girl before him with the gun, waved her into a sleeping
cubicle, then pulled the door shut, locked it.
Holstering the dis-gun, he raced to the pilot room, slid into the
pilot's seat. He warmed the rockets with brief twitches of his fingers
on the control studs, then pulled the drive switch a third of the way
back.
He felt the thrust of the rockets against his body, saw the brief
flicker of the girl's ship whipping past the port. Then his ship was
fleeing with accelerating speed into the tenuous atmosphere.
A dis-cannon rolled the ship, almost sent it on beam's end. He
straightened her, poured the power into the Kent converters,
flicked out of range with amazing ease. Air whistled through the
purifying-system, and he cut the rheostat down a bit when the reading
gave an Earth-norm.
Then, and only then, did he relax. He set a reading into the
calculator, flicked on the robot control, and walked slowly back to the
sleeping cubicle he had momentarily made into a cell.
"Come on out, now," he said, swung the door fully open.
She had been crying, and the defiant gesture with which she tried to
hide that fact built a tiny warm glow in Curt Varga's heart. But he
didn't permit that feeling to show; he knew he had to keep the girl
more or less cowed, if he were to have no trouble with her.
"Come on," he said again. "We'll declare a truce for the time."
She stepped past him, walked toward the pilot's room. He followed,
liking her unconscious swagger which matched his own. She refused to
sit, and he took one empty seat, regarded her quizzically, as he rolled
a _pulnik_ cigarette.
"Who are you?" he said at last.
Puzzlement kindled in the girl's eyes, was as quickly erased.
"I'm Jean--Harlon," she said slowly. She gestured about the ship. "Why
did you kidnap me?"
The Falcon laughed, and youth was in his face again, some of the bitter
lines softening and erasing utterly away.
"It wasn't planned," he admitted. "I was being chased--I saw your ship
taxiing into a parking place--and I commandeered it." He shrugged. "You
just happened to be the ship's pilot."
Amusement lifted the girl's mouth for a moment, then concern deepened
the blue of her eyes. She glanced at the calculator, saw that a course
had been set, and a tiny muscle twitched in her throat.
"I'm going with you!" It was a statement.
Curt Varga nodded. "Sorry," he said, "but that's the way it has to be.
Only two men knew my identity--and they're dead. The few IP's who saw
me tonight are also dead. It's a safety measure."
Jean Harlon stiffened slightly. "I could give my word," she said slowly.
The Falcon shook his head. "Sorry, but the stakes are too big for me
to risk another's word." He nodded at the empty seat. "Sit down," he
finished kindly. "In some ways, I'm not quite as bad as I am painted."
Curt Varga tensed, felt the probing finger of thought digging at his
mind. He threw up a mind-shield almost casually, grinned mockingly.
"A _telepath_?" he said conversationally.
* * * * *
Irritation colored the girl's cheeks; then reluctant admiration came
into her eyes. She accepted a _pulnik_ capsule, deftly rolled a
cigarette, before answering.
"Not many could dismiss me that easily," she asserted. "I had five
years at NYU, on Earth." She accepted a light for the cigarette.
Curt Varga nodded. "Old habit," he disclaimed. "I used to play
space-rocketry with the thought-men of Pluto; the guy with an
unshielded mind never had a chance."
Jean Harlon's gaze was speculative. "What happened?" she said. "Or am I
stepping on your toes?"
The Falcon's face was twisted then with a show of emotion that brought
a glance of disbelief from the girl. And then resolve flared in the set
of his shoulders, and his voice was steady.
"I was making agent-contacts. One of my men must have tipped the IP,
for they came into my 'headquarters' and made a quiet search. I would
have got away, but for the fact they used that diabolic paralysis beam
on a friend of mine. He pointed me out." Curt shrugged. "I had to fight
my way from the trap. My brother was killed. I escaped through the
conduit system, came out on the spaceport. You know the rest."
"Your brother was killed!" Loathing was in Jean Harlon's eyes. "And you
can sit there, and talk calmly about it?"
Anger and grief unsteadied the Falcon's voice for a moment.
"What the hell should I do--beat my chest and swear vengeance! Val
knew the cards were stacked against us; he knew that both of us had
lived past our appointed times. He played the game as he saw it, and
died with few regrets. Hell, yes, I can talk calmly; now I've got a
job to do, I've got to finish the thing for which he and hundreds of
thousands of others have died!"
He turned to the space-scanner, saw that the Kent-Horter had escaped
the IP ships, felt the burning of unshed tears in his eyes. He sat
silently for a moment, then whipped about as the girl's words caught at
his mind.
"--dreaming fools," she was saying. "What _more_ could they ask than
they already have. They eat, they sleep, they have amusements and
medical care. Their lives are as perfect as science can make them."
"_Science!_" Curt Varga's tone flicked like a whip-lash. "You can't run
people's lives as though they were bits of unfeeling machinery. Every
man has the right to control his own destiny."
Anger was in Jean Harlon's face then, too. "You blind atavistic fool,"
she blazed, "people cannot rule themselves! Read your histories, find
in them the truth about self-government. Why, until science took the
reins of power, millions died in ghastly wars for fanatical leaders
whose greed for world dictatorial power was an insane fixation."
The Falcon's face was like chiseled granite. He silenced the girl with
a brief motion of his hand. His voice was grave with the strength of
his heart-felt belief in the thing he had made his life.
"I have no desire to convert you," he said quietly. "Conversion comes
to but a few. You've got to know deep in your heart that what I say is
the truth. There were wars, holocausts started by the mad dictators of
the Twentieth Century. But when they were over, then democracy began
to win the long struggle that had always been hers. And although other
wars came through the years, always life became better for all peoples.
But then science became a _master_ instead of a _servant_, and the few
rulers of science became the rulers of the universe. That would have
been all right, had the rule been a beneficient one--but it was twisted
and distorted by the descendants of our hereditary Food Administrators
until it throttled and murdered all initiative and ambition and
free-thinking. It strangled God-given _freedom_."
Curt Varga went suddenly silent, feeling the red creeping upward from
his collar. He avoided the girl's eyes, crushed out the still butt of
his cigarette.
"Sorry," he said. "I guess speech-making is getting to be a habit."
Jean Harlon did not move, but her eyes searched every plane of the
pirate's face.
"You really _believe_ that, don't you?" she said wonderingly.
"I do!" The Falcon's voice was calm. "And so do millions of others
throughout the planets. And soon the day will come when all peoples
shall rule themselves. I'm not the man who will bring about the change;
I am but the nucleus, that about which the change is centered. When I
am gone, another will take my place, and another, and another, until
people shall be free, their eyes to the sun."
Jean Harlon moved slowly, breaking the Falcon's words. There was
neither belief nor disbelief in her eyes; there was only the warm
awareness that before her sat a man whose heart held an ideal and his
mind a plan.
"You are a strange man, Falcon," she breathed. "But you're not quite
the same as I had pictured you in my mind. Oddly enough, I am not
afraid of you now."
* * * * *
Curt Varga grinned. "That's a point in my favor, anyway," he said.
"I've never kidnapped a girl before; I wasn't certain just what I'd
have to do to calm you." He shrugged. "You will go through a certain
amount of discomfort," he finished, "but you will be safe--and I'll
notify your family of your safety."
Jean Harlon's eyes were suddenly hooded. "I have no relatives," she
admitted. "So I'll just string along with you, until you realize I'm
perfectly harmless and permit me to return to Earth or Mars."
"That will be--" the Falcon began, then whipped about to the port, as
the ship rocked as though shaken by a gust of wind.
"What's wrong?" Jean asked anxiously, peered out, too. "Why, it's a
tractor beam--coming from that bare asteroid!"
"Watch!" the Falcon said quietly.
The pale-green beam lanced like a misty cone from the rough surface of
a craggy boulder that sprang upward from the asteroid like a towering
skyscraper. The pocked, rubbled surface of the asteroid glittered
metallically in the faint sun-glow, great rocky spires rearing
fantastically, mountainous boulders perched in reckless confusion over
the pitted surface of the ground.
Weight was almost instantly doubled in the ship, as the tractor
beam caught the ship in its grip. Curt adjusted the gravity shield
to counteract the beam's force on himself and Jean. The rockets had
stopped their steady drumming, and the Falcon explained.
"It's a variation of the standard inertia-tractor beam. Energy of
flight is nullified by the inertia beam, which neutralizes all rocket
power. And the tractor beam is swinging us toward the asteroid."
Jean shivered. "It happened so fast!" she said slowly.
The seconds slipped by, and there was the sensation of falling. The
cruiser swung more and more toward the great boulder, descending
swiftly. There was no sound, only the steady dragging of gravity on the
ship from the pale beam. Absently, the Falcon cleared the board before
him, cutting all switches.
And then a giant hole flowed open in the top of the huge boulder, and
the pirate ship was whisked into a slanting radi-lighted tunnel.
"_Hollow!_" Jean said. "So this is the Pirate's Base!" She frowned.
"But if it is hollow, why doesn't gravitic stress rip it to pieces?"
The Falcon still peered from the port. "We use a neutron-weld invented
by Schutler. Using the weld, the skin of the Base could be but a foot
thick, and still would not rupture nor permit the atmosphere to leak."
"Schutler! But he was executed five years ago."
Curt Varga shook his head. "No, Schutler is still alive; his twin
brother took his place before the firing squad."
Horror was in the girl's eyes. "You mean that you _forced_ him to
sacrifice his life?"
The Falcon's tone was grimly brooding. "A man does what he thinks is
right."
"But such a thing _isn't right_," Jean Harlon said defiantly.
Curt Varga turned, his face like chiseled granite. "Do you know why
Schutler was sentenced to be executed?"
"Of course--treason."
The Falcon's grin was raw savagery.
"He invented a growth-stimulator which brought plants to full maturity
in five days from seed-planting. The Food Administrators' empire might
have toppled."
Jean Harlon stepped back, anger in her face. "I don't believe it," she
declared. "I happen to know the true factor."
The Falcon shrugged, glanced again through the port. Slowly the anger
fled Jean's face--and a brooding puzzlement remained.
The cruiser settled with a tiny jar, lurched slightly, came to rest.
Metal rasped outside, and the entrance port began to open. The Falcon
came from his seat, nodded toward the port.
"Was that the truth?" Jean Harlon asked.
"Of course! I have no reason for lying. Now, let's get out of here;
I've a report to make."
* * * * *
Three men waited outside the open port; and the first, a massive
bearded giant, caught Curt in a casual hug that whitened his smeared
face.
"You lucky devil!" he roared. "Been in another scrap--and got away by
the skin of your teeth. Damn, but I'd like a good fight!"
The Falcon grinned, shoved his way from the giant's arms.
"Damn it, Schutler," he snapped affectionately, "you'll kill me some
day with those hugs of yours!"
Schutler laughed, tugged at his beard. "Come on," he said. "I've got an
experi--"
"Wait a minute, squirt," the second man said. "Now, listen, Curt, did
you make the contacts you--"
The negro brushed the others impatiently aside, tugged at Curt's arm.
He smiled, and his teeth were a solid bar of white across ebony.
"Come on with me, Boss," he ordered. "You've got some cleaning up to
do."
"Dammit, Curt--" Schutler began petulantly.
"Curt, those reports mus--" the second man said impatiently.
The Falcon gestured wearily. "That can wait for a time, Crandal. Right
now, I need food and a bit of medical care." He grinned. "Anyway, I've
a guest to show around the Base."
"A guest?" Schutler asked.
"Come out, Jean," Curt Varga called. Jean Harlon stepped from the lock,
utterly lovely and feminine. She stared with puzzled eyes at the men
standing with the Falcon.
"Why do you _permit_ such liberties with the men you rule?" she asked.
Schutler laughed delightedly, the sound rolling and booming. "A new
convert, Curt?" he said, then laughed again, and swept the startled
girl into the circle of his arms. "Welcome to the snake's den," he
finished happily.
Jean gasped in amazement, fought unsuccessfully to free herself from
the burly arms, then subsided in a gale of infectious laughter. The
Falcon grinned, tugged her free.
"You've met Schutler," he said. "This bald-headed old space-buzzard is
Crandal, better known as the Encyclopedia. And this other is Jericho
Jones, my number one mate."
The wizened man bobbed his head nervously. "Glad to know you, Miss," he
said. "Now, Curt, about those reports."
"Howdedo, Miss," Jericho said, smiled toothily.
Schutler shoved forward. "How was the kid brother, Curt? Is he still
dishing out the--" His voice trailed away, his gaze flicking about the
group. "Sorry, Curt," he finished gently. "He was a good man."
The Falcon swallowed painfully, forced a smile, wincing a bit from the
hands of the men where they touched his arms.
"He made his choice," he said slowly, and the words were like an eulogy.
He shrugged. "Take Jean to the women's quarters, Schutler," he finished
unemotionally. "Later, she and I will dine together." He made an almost
imperceptible gesture with one hand, and the giant's eyes widened in
surprise.
"Sure, Curt," Schutler agreed. "We'll walk part-way with you."
"I don't think--" Jean began, then fell silent.
The Falcon grinned. "Everything's under control," he said reassuringly.
"There are plenty of Earth women there. They'll fix you up with
clothes or whatever you need."
"Thank you, Falcon," Jean said, but fear was flickering again in her
blue-green eyes.
They walked down a gentle ramp, crossed on a suspended walk to a
web-tier that hugged one wall of the gigantic room. Jean peered about
in quiet excitement, open amazement in her face when she saw the
hundreds of fighting ships cradled in rows. She watched the men that
worked with a methodical thoroughness upon the gleaming hulls, fitting
the coppery muzzles of space-cannon into place. Carts darted here and
there on soundless wheels, carrying supplies to piles that never grew,
because other men immediately and without hurry emptied the piles in
steady streams into the holds of waiting ships.
Long radi-light tubes striped the ceiling three hundred feet overhead,
filled the room with the clear yellow glow of Earth sunlight. There
was an air of competence and efficiency about the scene that was
compellingly impressive.
"A _throg_!" Jean gasped in sudden terror.
* * * * *
Curt glanced down at the spider man who minced daintily along on
his fragile hairy legs. His double-facetted eyes glanced toward the
suspension-walk, and two of his legs lifted in salute. A piercing
vibrational whistle followed. Curt grinned, whistled an answer in a
series of flatted notes, waved.
"That's Lilth," he explained. "He's a good guy, even if he is a
Ganymedian. His family starved to death because they could not mine
enough _xalthium_." He gestured toward a gigantic slug inching along
the floor, pulling a loaded cart. "That's a Venusian _gastod_," he
finished. "He is utterly helpless and harmless. He is also the only
_gastod_ not in captivity. His race exuded pure vitamin K from their
bodies, so the Food Administrators imprisoned the entire race. He is a
pirate here and does what he can--for oddly enough he has a brain and a
soul."
They had crossed the bridge and walked slowly down a lighted tunnel.
The tube debouched into a great amphitheater, at the mouth of which
the group halted for a moment. Shouts, whistles, hissings came from
the groups of men before them. In a gigantic pool of steaming water,
Venusian reptile-men swam with loud splashing. On the field at the
right of the pool, Earthmen played space-ball, their tiny hand-tractors
lancing pale-green rays at a floating gravity-neutralized sphere. The
beams made a network of power that spun the copper ball like an air
bubble in a whirlpool.
Spider men sat side by side, curling their legs beneath their globular
bodies, then nipping them out again, a few at a time. Gravely they
compared the numbers flipped out, then paid their wagers from piles of
money at their sides.
Cat men from the tombs of Mars played Martian chess with their
traditional enemies, the big-chested Upland _boiloongs_ whose tentacles
were like living ropes of steel. Creatures from a dozen worlds watched
or played or rested, singly and in groups, about the gargantuan room.
"They're my men," The Falcon said proudly, feelingly. "And regardless
of body-form, each is a _man_. They're the Falcon's Brood."
He led the way again, returning hearty greetings in a dozen tongues,
waving, laughing, answering a hundred questions. At the edge of the
room, near a tunnel's mouth, he turned to the girl who was strangely
silent.
"I'll meet you for dinner in an hour," he promised. "Then I'll show you
through the gardens."
"Fine!" Jean smiled, turned to follow the solicitous Schutler.
Crandal watched her go. "So she is not a convert," he said. "Then why
bring her along?"
"She recognized me," the Falcon said simply, nodded good-bye, followed
Jericho down another tunnel to his living quarters.
He walked into the three-room apartment, strode directly to the
vocoder. Flicking a switch, he spoke quietly.
"A trap on Mars was set for me; have you heard any reports."
A voice answered with the methodical thoroughness of a trained agent.
"Yen Dal died an hour ago of nerve shock caused by an IP's paralysis
beam. The man who informed the IP was executed by our Martian agent
thirty minutes later. That is all."
"Good!" the Falcon said grimly, closed the switch. He turned to the
silent negro. "A _cahnde_, Jericho," he finished tiredly. "Then we'll
doctor me up a bit."
He sagged in a chair, utterly spent and tired, worn from the constant
strain that was his life every hour of the day. He was no longer the
debonair flashing Falcon; he was only a man to whom life became grimmer
and more danger-filled day by day; a man whose life was in no way his
own.