Chapter IV

The Falcon was drunk, completely, hilariously drunk. He sang a song about a girl with golden hair who rode a moonbeam in a race with the Venusian express, and he stopped now and then to breathe deeply, completely oblivious of the glances given him by the guards patrolling the catwalks above the manufacturing room.

He pressed the slender shoots of _lanka_ weed into the cutters, drunkenly raked the chopped remnants into a basket. Lurching, he turned to the great kiln drier, dumped the basket load into the hopper, and closed the door. He adjusted the rheostat until a needle backed another on a dial, then went back to the cutter. He leaned against the machine, idly scratched the back of his neck with one hand, gazed blearily about the room.

Then he slipped several vitamin and energy capsules from his pocket and swallowed them. He felt their quick power sealing through his body, felt the cloudy numbness lifting from his brain. He fought with a desperate effort to think clearly and concisely, for he knew that another few weeks in the _smothalene_ factory would kill him.

He waited patiently, felt strength coming back to his mind. Men watched him with a blind calm curiosity, their faces, behind their filtration masks, indicating their wonder that he should still be as well as he was after several days in the polluted air of the factory.

Duke Ringo had kept his threat; the Falcon had been compelled to work at the _lanka_ weed cutter without a mask. And those seven work periods had taken their toll of his rugged lithe strength. He was lucky that the machine filters permitted only the barest trace of the powder to get into the air, for a breath of the pure drug would kill him instantly, knotting his body with muscle-ripping cramps.

The drug, _smothalene_, was the deadliest aphrodisiac discovered in more than a century. Its action was swift and diabolic, raising the rate of metabolism to an incredible height, literally burning the flesh from the body of the users. Such was its action, the user consumed fifty times his normal usage of oxygen, and consequently went on an oxygen-drunk that was more satisfying, more habit-forming, than any drug that could be found. Its final effect came in a spasmodic, hideous moment, when the cumulative effects of the drug literally exploded in a surge of unleashed power. Every bit of energy and life was sucked from the body, and the corpse became nothing but a desiccated mummy.

The Falcon thought of that and many things, remembering the brushes his men had had with the smugglers, recalling the bodies of the _smothalene_ users he had seen. And he remembered, too, the accusations hurled at him and his brood, wild accusations that placed him and his men in the roles of mass murderers--as the _smothalene_ smugglers.

He gripped the machine edge tightly with whitening hands. He could feel the life being burned from his body from the tiny bit of the drug his body had assimilated, sensed the coolness coming to his heated muscles as the energy tablets fed the speeded metabolism. He knew instinctively that he had not grown so accustomed to the drug that he could not break its lecherous hold. All that he needed was a greatly supplemented diet for the next few days, and then, except for the natural deterioration of his body during the _smothalene_ binge, he would be as perfectly conditioned as before.

A guard leaned over the edge of the catwalk, gestured with a paralysis gun. "Snap into it, Varga," he roared. "Your period isn't up yet."

The Falcon nodded, lifted new weeds into the hopper. Benton, the Earthman working at his side, flicked his gaze warily at the guards, and his voice was a quiet whisper.

"Don't be a sap, Falcon," he said. "Walk into a paralysis ray, get it over with in a hurry."

Curt Varga shook his head. "Sorry," he said softly, "I've got other plans."

Benton smiled derisively. "Yeah? Well, a couple of others thought they had, too. They got a converter burial in the energy room."

The Falcon swayed a bit, felt drunkenness creeping into his mind again. He found and swallowed the last of his energy tablets.

"Look," he said, "I need the help of everybody in here. I've got a plan that might work--but this _smothalene_ is burning me so I can't really think. Collect all the energy tablets the men can spare for me; I'll use them to stay sober until I bust the place wide open."

Benton shook his head.

The Falcon raked weeds into the cutter, glanced about.

"The guards think I'm drunk all of the time," he whispered. "They don't worry about me any more; I can do damned near as I please. Get me those energy tablets, so my mind won't blank out at the last moment, and I'll guarantee freedom for all of us."

The Earthman considered gravely for a moment, then nodded doubtfully. "I'll do what I can, Falcon, only because of your reputation. If your idea doesn't work, there's little lost, anyway."

Slowly, he turned, caught up a great oil-can, drifted among the machines. He talked quietly with worker after worker, finally returned and handed Varga a double handful of tablets.

"That's all I could get," he said. "Now what happens?"

"Watch for your cue." The Falcon dropped the tablets into his pocket, retaining about a dozen. He swallowed them, felt their cool rush of energy almost immediately. He unscrewed a vial from beneath a jet.

Then he proceeded to get very drunk.

* * * * *

His face went slack, his muscles rubbery. He sang in a cracked tenor, weaved carelessly through the machines, going toward the steps that led to the catwalk. He staggered drunkenly, almost belligerently righted himself again and again.

"Get back to work, Falcon," a guard called, grinned at the slackness of the pirate's once-erect body.

"I don' wanna work!" Curt Varga said nastily. "I'm gonna be sick."

"All right!" The guard jerked his head toward the rest-room. "Be sick, and then get back to your job." He grinned, as the Falcon came laboriously up the stairs.

The Falcon staggered drunkenly toward the rest-room, shoved through the door, dropped his pretense the moment he was alone. He went swiftly toward the air-intake grill, worked at its fastenings with a screwdriver secreted in his boot-top. And as he worked, he thought.

"_Jean_," he thought, and his face went white from concentration. "_Jean, this is the Falcon. Listen to me. In a few minutes, I'm going to release smothalene into the air-system. Put on your mask, and be ready to run for it._"

He sent the message again and again, wishing that he had had the telepathic training to receive as well as send. He had no way of knowing if the girl could get his message; he had no way of knowing whether or not she would tell Duke Ringo of his plans.

The grill plate came loose in his hands, and he lifted the vial of _smothalene_ powder into the hole revealed. For a second, his hand remained there, and then he felt the sickness of futility come over him. He had no mask.

He stepped back from the wall, pocketed the vial, went toward the door. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the door ajar, beckoned drunkenly to the nearest guard.

"Cummere," he said melodramatically. "I got somethin' to show you."

"What's the matter?" the guard asked suspiciously, and his gun was bright in his hand.

"Thieves, that's what it is," the Falcon asserted solemnly. "Cummon, I'll show you."

He opened the door wide, turned his back, walked toward the gaping grill-hole. The guard entered suspiciously.

"All right," the guard said. "What's up?"

"See!" the Falcon said, pointed.

The guard gaped. "Who in hell did that?" he swore angrily. "Now I've gotta--" He swung about, momentarily forgetting the man with him.

The Falcon swung with a delicate precision, striking with the death-blow of a trained IP agent. The guard was dead before his sagging body was caught in the pirate's strong arms. He never moved.

The Falcon laid the body gently on the floor, removed the filtration mask, fitted it to his face. He pulled the coat from the slack arms and shoulders, carried it with him to the wall. Carefully, he emptied his vial of the _smothalene_ crystals into the air-tube, covered the hole with the muffling coat. He stood that way for several minutes, until he was certain that the dust had been carefully sucked along the pipe. Then he darted back to the guard, took his gun, and stepped to the door.

He shot the approaching guard squarely through the throat, the gun singing its piercing note of death, the instant cry of the guard disappearing with his throat. Then the Falcon hurdled the body, raced along the catwalk.

"Benton," he yelled, "_this is it_."

A guard shouted in brief anger, his ray searing a burning streak of agony along Curt's side. Then the Falcon whirled, dropped to one knee on the metal flooring, and his gun sang a song of death that didn't cease.

Rays lanced from the patrolling guards, and their cries were startled angry sounds. One went down from the Falcon's ray; another lined his gun with a deliberate slowness.

A thrown spanner-wrench crushed in the side of his head, and Benton raced up the catwalk's steps. He waved two more wrenches at the Falcon.

"Let's go, Varga," he shouted.

The Falcon rayed the last two guards to death with a single sweeping shot that cut them down as though before a scythe. Then he was running toward the exit.

"Stay here and organize the men," he yelled back. "Follow as quickly as possible, and mop up the smugglers still alive."

* * * * *

Then he had plunged through the door and was racing down the corridor. He gagged in sheer horror when he saw the bodies of the smugglers in the hall and adjacent rooms. They were sere and brown, withered mummies dressed in clothes sizes too large. Some still twitched feebly in their last throes. _Smothalene_ had dropped them with their first deep breaths of the virulent drug.

He raced on, his feet pounding deafening echoes from the floor, his gun gripped tightly in his hand. He prayed silently as he ran. And then he was at the control cabin, skidding to a stop, his gun swivelling to menace the room. It was empty, except for the sere mummy of a man at the astrogation table.

"Damn!" the Falcon swore, swerved about as a footstep sounded at the door. Then he was holding Jean in his arms, soothing the shaking of her slender shoulders.

"Ringo escaped!" the girl cried. "He was making me broadcast a ransom demand to my father, when I got your message. I grabbed a mask, and ran. He must have suspected something, for he didn't chase me. I hid, and watched him running toward the escape hatch. He was wearing a bulger." She glanced at the mummified man at the table, shuddered, tears flooding her eyes.

The Falcon shoved her aside, sprang to the control board. He flicked a switch, grinned tautly when a needle leaped to instant life. He sat in the seat, laid his gun aside. Flicking on the vizi-beam, he sent its scanner ray swirling about outside the dead ship. Almost instantly he found the tiny cruiser boring toward the outside of the clot of space debris.

His hands darted to two levers on the board, drew them back. Tractor rays leaped into sudden life, spun in pursuit of the fleeing cruiser. Secondary rays fended off the rubbish that tended to be sucked into the tractor beams.

Then the tractors caught the cruiser, caught and held it immovable. It swung about, almost stopping its direct flight. It bucked and plunged like a fish on a line, rockets flaring with incredible power to break the hold. But Curt's hands never gave it a chance. The rays grew whiter by the second, became almost invisible in their power. And the cruiser wheeled over, began sinking slowly toward the headquarter's ship.

The vizi-screen grew silvery, then green, and a face appeared on its surface.

"Clever, weren't you, Falcon," Duke Ringo said viciously. "I should have killed you when I had the chance." His eyes were mad pits of reddish hell. "I knew something was wrong when the girl made a dash from me with a mask, but I didn't have time to warn the men, for I wasn't certain what was happening. Then the _smothalene_ dropped my mate, and I barely got into a bulger before I had to take a breath. I had to run for it; I couldn't have fought your entire crowd."

The Falcon's face was stony and bleak, his eyes impersonal.

"I'm bringing you back, Ringo, and turning you in."

"To hell with you, Falcon," Duke Ringo snarled. "When I go out, you go, too." He laughed. "_All right, I'm coming in!_"

The vizi-screen went momentarily black, then the scanner ray cut back in. Duke Ringo's ship had ceased its futile efforts to escape; now it was turning, the needle prow centered directly on the smuggling headquarters. In that one flashing second, the Falcon felt a surge of admiration for the brutal bravery of the man.

But there was no time for thinking; there were only a few seconds in which to act with an instinctive blinding speed. Duke Ringo's ship was smashing downward now, driving at full-speed throttle, speeding with the combined power of the tractor rays and the surging drone of its rockets. It flashed with a speed that increased by the second, became a diving bullet that could not miss its mark.

Curt Varga cursed deep in his throat, switched off the tractor beams, watched the ship smashing in. He cringed from the explosion he knew was coming, felt terror deep in his mind. Then sanity reasserted itself, and his hands moved with a flowing speed.

He flicked on the tractor rays again, sent them spiralling to one side. They touched a fifty-foot meteor, caught it, spun it into the path of the hurtling death-ship.

Duke Ringo tried to swerve the cruiser, failed, for the ship and meteor struck in a titanic slanting blow. White heat flared for a soundless moment, force waves pushing outward in the burst of energy. Then the ship and meteor were one, and in their place was only a fused lump of metallic refuse that spun endlessly in the Sargasso of Space.

The Falcon cut all switches, turned slowly about on his seat. He stared at Benton and the other prisoners who had crowded into the room. He felt the nearness of the girl at his side, cursed himself for becoming a sentimental fool.

"The show's over," he said quietly. "Ringo's dead."