Chapter V

Fourteen hours later, the Falcon stood before the control board of his sleek pirate cruiser. Jean was at his side, and they faced the vizi-screen. Except for a certain amount of lethargy because of the tiny amount of drug he had inhaled in the _smothalene_ factory, the Falcon felt all right again. He was dressed in fresh clothes, a new gun was buckled at his waist. And through the blackness of his hair were threaded bits of silver the past few days had brought. Jean was dressed becomingly in some of the Falcon's spare clothes, appearing much like a rather pretty boy playing in his father's garments.

"Benton and the others," the Falcon said, "have their orders and directions for finding the Base. Those of you who did not care to join me may go where your fancies dictate. Now, don't forget. To free yourself of the Sargasso, you merely have to hold your ships to the debris clot with a tractor, and race at full throttle in as large a circle as you can. When maximum speed is reached, cut the tractor, and centrifugal force will throw you free. Has everybody got that?"

Acknowledgments came piling in from the thirty ships gathered about the Falcon's ship.

"Then let's go," the Falcon said, and sat at the controls. He flipped switches, built up speed, finally cut loose, and the Sargasso fled back behind them.

The Falcon set the robot-control, sighed relievedly. He grinned at the girl beside him, liked what he saw in her eyes.

"I'm doing this against my better judgment, Jean," he said half-mockingly, half-seriously, "but since you've given me your solemn oath, I'm willing to take a chance. Anyway, you owe me your life; for that, you should be willing to keep the Base's location a secret."

Jean Vandor nodded. "I shall keep my word," she said slowly, then she sank into a seat, caught at the Falcon's arm. "Please, Curt," she finished swiftly, "please forget this mad plan of yours! I don't say you're right or wrong, I just say that the odds are too great for you to win. Come with me to Earth; my father will see that you are given a good job where you can be wealthy and respected. I promise you that."

The Falcon fashioned two _pulnik_ cigarettes, handed one to the girl. He shook his head slightly, wryly.

"Sorry," he said, "but I couldn't, even if I wanted to. I owe too much to the people who trust me. And I have a certain sense of integrity that wouldn't let me sleep nights, should I quit now." He smiled with the quickening exuberance of a man ten years younger. "Put in a good word for me, though; I'll maybe need it, if things go wrong."

Jean Vandor smoked her cigarette silently. "They will go wrong," she said finally.

"It's a chance worth taking." The Falcon shrugged. "But tell me of Ringo's ransom demands; this is the first real chance we've had to talk, what with wrecking the smuggling headquarters, plundering the dead ships of the Sargasso, and then making our escape." He grinned. "I thank you for that, anyway; if you hadn't heard Ringo telling his men how to escape the gravitic tides, we'd be there, yet."

Jean nodded. "I heard him give the order when a new recruit was about to take a ship out. As for the ransom demand; well, Ringo demanded immunity from the Administrators, and a license to sell _smothalene_ throughout the system, in return for my release. But as he told me, he planned to keep me prisoner until all the drug now manufactured was sold. With myself as a hostage, my father would be helpless to fight back."

The Falcon turned to the control board, made minute adjustments, tried to force a casual tone. He could feel the flush stealing upward from his open collar.

"What do you plan to do, once back on Earth?"

"Nothing, I suppose, just the things I did before--well, this entire affair happened."

"Are you--" The Falcon came to his feet, walked to the door. "Nothing," he finished. "I think I'll get a bit of sleep before we land."

Not waiting for a reply, he walked down the corridor. He hated himself at the moment, hated himself and the life he lead. In his mind grew the first nucleus of a doubt that he might be wrong. In all probability, what he should do, what was the logical thing to do, was to accept Jean's offer, forget his past, and try to settle back into the ordered routine of life the Administrator's plans had mapped for twenty billion people.

Entering his cabin, he threw himself on the bunk, smoked interminable cigarettes. And as the hours passed, coherence came to his thoughts, and the bitterness faded. After a time, he slept.

* * * * *

He woke only when the light tap came on his cabin door.

"We're landing, Falcon," Jean said breathlessly. "I talked with father, and he has promised a truce for the period you are on Earth."

"I'll be right out," Curt Varga said, felt the vague prickle of a premonitory thrill along his spine. Then he shrugged, climbed from the bunk, did quick ablutions. Five minutes later, his hand was on the controls when the cruiser glided to a landing at the spaceport.

Jason Vandor waited on the field, his purple robe bright in the midst of his personal bodyguard. He caught Jean in his arms, and the Falcon felt a certain sense of gladness when he saw the open affection of the man toward his daughter. Despite his faults, the man was truly a father.

"So you're the Falcon," Vandor said at last, staring at the pirate from eyes as blue and chill as ice.

Curt Varga grinned. "I'm the Falcon," he said calmly. "But I never thought to meet you under these circumstances."

"Nor I. But I do offer you thanks, anyway."

"You owe me nothing; I am here under truce. When I leave, our battle starts again."

Vandor smiled. "But you see, Falcon, that is where you are wrong. I thank you for bringing my daughter back, yes; but I also thank you for saving my men the trouble of running you down." His hand made a sharp imperative gesture. "_Blank him out_," he ordered.

There was no time to move, no time to think; there was only the split second of consciousness when he saw the smile of triumph on Vandor's face, and its mocking echo on the girl's. Then the dis-gun blast caught the Falcon squarely in its glow, sucked away all thought and dropped him into a blackened abyss that had no bottom.

* * * * *

The Falcon moved groggily, felt nausea cramping at his belly. He groaned, shook his head, forced himself erect. Chains clanked loudly, and he felt the coolness of their metal on his arms and legs.

"Hell!" he said feelingly, felt despair eating at his heart.

Jason Vandor moved slightly, sighed, then stood from where he sat across the cell. His grey hair was almost white in the gloom, and his face was hard and merciless.

"I want to talk to you, Falcon," he said harshly.

Curt Varga blinked away his dizziness, searched the cell with his eyes. Except for two bunks, it was empty. The chains he wore were welded to the bunk upon which he sat.

"Go ahead," he said finally. "You seem to have the whip hand."

"It's about Jean." There was a tiny thread of fear running through the dictator's voice.

"All right, what about her?"

"I want you to do something. She and I just had a terrible fight, the first I can remember having with her since she was a child. She seems to think that I was wrong in capturing you while I had a chance. Now, I know such a request is strange, I know you hate me, but I want you to talk with her, and convince her that I was in the right. You know our fight is to the death; you know that neither of us asks quarter; you know you would have done the same thing had you been in my place. I'm not asking this for myself; I'm asking for her peace of mind. Her life will be wrecked, if she hates me as long as she lives."

The Falcon laughed, and the sound was ugly and ironic in the semi-darkness. He had met strange situations in his years as a freebooter of space, but none of them had been as fantastic as this.

"You honestly mean that you want me, the man you intend to execute, to intercede for you with your daughter?"

Panic tightened Jason Vandor's voice. "I'll make it worth your while, Falcon," he said. "I'll see that you are not executed; I'll see that you get life. I'll even see that you have all requests granted."

"To hell with you," the Falcon said dispassionately.

"Falcon, you've got to listen to me, you've go to. Jean is a girl, she's been brought up differently than either of us. You and I know what fighting and death are; you and I have no illusions to temper our judgments--we are cold intellects. But Jean is young, she has ideals, and they must not be destroyed. You have appealed to her instincts for romance; she has colored your actions of the past few days until you seem to be what you pretend to be. Now I want you to make her understand that your real desire to crush me and the other Administrators has nothing romantic about it; you must make her realize your real purpose--that you plan to become dictator in the Administrator's place. Will you do that, Falcon?"

Curt Varga sagged back against the wall, stared blindly at the man before him. Thoughts were chaotic in his mind.

"You _believe_ that, don't you, Vandor?" he said slowly.

"Of course, what else can I believe? Self-government, freedom, bah! The cattle of the worlds wouldn't know what to do with either."

The Falcon shifted. "Where is Jean?" he asked.

"On her way to Mars, where I sent her." Jason Vandor's tone grew harsh and strained. "I'm making a request, Falcon," he finished, "and I can be generous in return. But make me force you to talk to her, and I can do to you just what you would do to me." He laughed without mirth. "A pitcheblend mine, wearing no protection, might be much worse than agreeing."

Curt Varga nodded. "I don't understand you, fully. You're a merciless butcher--yet you think enough of your daughter to bargain with your enemy. But I'll do what you say--for my freedom."

Jason Vandor shook his head. "Not that," he said brittlely. "I have no desire to fight you a running battle until the final showdown. You're dead, as far as your past is concerned. But you have your choice of death; either a slow one in prison, or a hideous one in a mine. Either way, you will fight me no more."

"What would I say?"

"Practically nothing. She swore she would believe what I said, only if you told her that my statements were the truth. Tell her that over a vizi-beam, and I promise you a decent prison life."

"I've sampled your promises."

"I swear I shall not go back on my word. Jean is the only thing in life I love; I'll do anything for her." Vandor's words were bitter and brooding.

"All right." The Falcon nodded. "I'll speak your pretty little speech. Not for you; I wouldn't give you water in hell. But for Jean; who at least hates and fights cleanly and openly." He spat. "Now get me out of here before I change my mind."

Jason Vandor stepped forward, tossed a key into Varga's lap. His concealed hand came from beneath his robe, and a gun glinted dully in his fist.

"Cross me, Falcon," he said quietly, "and for every minute of mental torture you give me, I'll give you a year of the same."

The Falcon unlocked his chains, stood erect. "I'll speak your piece," he answered. "But don't make threats."

* * * * *

He walked before the menace of the gun through the open door, followed the line of radi-lights down the stone corridor. He felt nothing but a dull apathy within his mind, and he cared nothing for the future. He knew there was no escape, and the knowledge left him unemotional.

But then the thought came that Jean had fought on his side, and he felt warmness spreading through his heart. There was a gulf between them, a space that would never be spanned. Yet he felt closer to the girl now than he had felt toward any person other than his brother in years.

"This way, Falcon," Jason Vandor said.

They walked a corridor, turned right, entered the vizi-beam room where operators sat before the machines that connected with all planets.

Jason Vandor stopped beside a machine. "Get the _Ardeth_ on the beam," he ordered.

"Yes, your Lordship!" The beam-man's fingers made clicking contacts with the machine's controls. The vizi-screen became silvery, slowly turned green.

Life grew on the screen. Color swirled, then merged, and Jean Vandor frowned from the screen.

"Yes?" she asked.

Jason Vandor forced the Falcon to the screen with his gun. The Falcon was conscious then of the utter quiet in the room, as though all were afraid to breathe. He could feel the pounding of his heart as he stepped forward.

"Can you hear me, Jean?" he asked quietly.

"I can hear you, Curt."

The Falcon forced all feeling from his voice. "Jean, answer me truthfully; did you plot that I should be captured?"

Tears welled in the girl's eyes, and her head shook slightly.

"No, Curt."

Curt Varga sighed then, and the ache in his heart was a tangible thing that hurt with an agony he had not thought possible for a man to feel.

"Remember the things I told you, Jean? Remember the hopes and dreams and plans I had?"

"I remember."

"Then, Jean, this is the truth. Remember this all of your life; fight for it, never let it die. _Men are born to be free; no man can place himself in the role of God, there to dictate what--_"

The blow of the gun barrel smashed him to his knees. He knelt there for seconds, laughing into Jason Vandor's face.

"I'm a _small_ man, Vandor," the Falcon said. "I can hate and I can love. But I am true to myself, if nothing else. Get somebody else to do your lying."

Jason Vandor's face was a chiseled mask of evil rage. He saw then the crumbling of the life he had built, saw then the truth that lay in the Falcon. He knew then that all of the treasures and powers of a hundred worlds could not replace that which he had lost in those fleeting seconds.

He lifted his gun to shoot the defenseless Falcon to death--and died that way, a dis-ray scything him down in a huddled heap.

"By damn, a fight at last!" a great voice roared from the doorway, and Schutler sprang into the room.

His laughter was mad with the richness of the moment, and the twin guns were almost buried in the greatness of his fists. Crandal was at his side, his bald head gleaming, his gun lancing flame like a jet of glowing water. And behind both, shoving them forward, came Jericho, his ebony face agleam, a great sword in one hand, a gun in another.

"_Falcon!_" Jericho cried, and his gun made an arc through the air, was caught deftly in the Falcon's reaching hand.

* * * * *

Then hell broke loose in that great room, a hell of a dozen darting crossing rays of death, a holocaust of power that surged and twisted and searched for the lives of the men within.

A guard went down, his gun still holstered, his face blown away by the left gun of the laughing giant at the door. Crandal darted sideways like a crab, gun-flame licking out, precisely, almost daintily, never wasting energy on the wall or air. And Jericho moved like a black whirlwind, countering the dis-flame of a single guard by touching it with his sword-blade, and grounding the energy in his power-glove.

And the Falcon was on his feet, his laughter ringing as in the days of old, when a fight had been the thing to set a man's blood to pounding, when to live was a zestful thing of promise, when the future was bright and the past a gay memory.

He raced to the side of his men, cutting a guard from his side, raying a second even as he was lining his gun on Jericho. The Negro grinned, and his swinging sword fled through the neck of a guard, followed about and dropped a hand from the wrist of a screaming second.

Schutler went down, his beard flaming where a bolt had grazed his chin. He roared like an angry bull, pawed at the flame and smoke of his burning beard, swept his other hand as a man sprays water. Guards dropped like flies beneath a poison spray.

A shot caught Crandal in one leg, dropped him to his knee. His face went even whiter, and sweat was on his head.

The Falcon sprang to Crandal's side, caught him up with his left arm, raised a barrage of shots with the gun in his right. His teeth were white against the tan of his face, and the cold of his grey eyes was strange against the laughter that filled his face.

And the four were together, and no man could stand against them. They were courage and brains and strength and agility, all together, yet separate in themselves. Apart, they could be downed; but together, all hell itself brought mad rich laughter to their throats, and a flame to their eyes.

They stood together, and their guns made singing sounds that were like those from a harp of death. And before those notes men sank and died, one by one, and two by two, until only living stood beside the door, and there was no other life.

"Come, man," Schutler boomed, "before others hear the fight and stick their noses in!" He fingered the stubble of his beard.

"Are you all right, Jim?" the Falcon asked Crandal, and the man grinned with a white-faced smile.

Jericho caught up the wounded man, ignoring a ray burn that raced like a livid purple snake across the blackness of his shoulders. He jerked his head at the door.

"We come in by a secret passage," he explained in a rush of words. "We didn't find you in the cells, so we come hunting."

The Falcon choked back the lump in his throat, and his eyes were misty as he looked at the men to whom loyalty was neither a word nor a gesture, only a thing that was in them when the need arose.

"How--?" he began.

"I did it, Curt," Jean's voice said.

Jean was crying then, crying like a child whose first dreams are gone, crying like one whose new dreams are but the faintest of sounds in her consciousness. Through the vizi-screen she had seen all that had happened, and the sickness in her eyes would be long leaving.

"Jean," the Falcon said. "Please, Jean--"

She was smiling then, smiling through the tears that would not stop. And the Falcon, watching her features on the screen, knew the torture that was hers.

"I'll be waiting, Curt," she said. "But hurry--Oh, please hurry!"

"Wait for me, Jean, _wait for me_."

And the Falcon and his brood were running down the hall, running toward the secret spot where a pirate ship waited to take them back to their fight and their loves and their freedom--and to the far horizons of their starway destiny.

End of Project Gutenberg's Prey of the Space Falcon, by Wilbur S. Peacock