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.