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.