Prey of the Space Falcon By WILBUR S. PEACOCK The Administrators of the Solar System were as deadly as a Hydra-monster to those who sought freedom. Then came the Falcon and his outlaw Brood, fighting with the strangest weapon the Universe had ever seen--only to find that their existence lay in the slender hands of a girl with a Judas kiss. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Curt Varga watched lazily from a shadowed corner of the Martian _gailang_ night club, his space-tanned left hand toying with a frosted glass of _cahnde_, and his right hand making cryptic marks with a radi-stylus upon the scrap of gold paper before him. Music was a lilting swirl in the air, and his booted foot tapped unconsciously with the muted rhythm. He smiled at the great-chested Martians squatted about the dance floor, wondering for the hundredth time what enjoyment they received from swaying to music they understood only as a series of harmonic vibrations. Over by the circular bar, four Venusians drank stiffly and stolidly of Venusian _cahnde_, as they stood knee-deep in their water tanks. Their skins were wet and slimy, eternally soaked with the fluids flowing from the glands in their reptilian skins. They watched the good-natured crowd from beneath nictilian lids, their gazes blank and eerily aloof. Curt Varga's throat muscles tightened as he sent his inaudible questions to his brother in the curtained booth across the room. "Is there any suspicion that you are working with me?" he asked. "If so, then this arrangement must be broken; I can't ruin your career, too." The bean-sized amplifier imbedded so cunningly in the living bone at his right temple vibrated lightly from the mocking laughter. "I think they do, Falcon," Val Varga said lightly. "But it doesn't matter; somebody has to do the undercover work--and I happen to be in a position where I can do it with the least suspicion." The voice softened. "Careers _aren't_ important, anyway. I seem to remember that Dad had quite a reputation as a bio-chemist, until the Food Administrators decided his work threatened their dictatorial monopoly. And as a Commander of the IP, you were slated to go rather high." Curt Varga grinned, and suddenly all of the deadly grimness was gone from his tanned face, and there was only the laughter in his cool grey eyes and the hint of a swashbuckling swagger to the tilt of his head to betoken the man. "OQ!" he said inaudibly into the amplifier unit. "Now, give me a few facts."