"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_."