For days, the Falcon had prowled the planets, contacting his agents, obtaining first-hand reports, doing two men's work himself. Now, he had the clue given him by his brother, and he felt a thrill of success touching his mind as he thought over his plans for invading the Sargasso of Space, where the drug ring's headquarters were supposed to be. But the pressing problem of the moment was not the _smothalene_ smugglers, but rather the saving of himself from the IP men who were advancing so grimly on his table. The Falcon shifted his glance indolently about the room, giving only an uninterested cursory scrutiny to the agents, then relaxed, his cigarette canted debonairly between his lips. He glanced about in faked surprise, when one of the agents seated himself at the table. "What the hell do you want?" he asked pleasantly. "There are plenty of empty tables; when I want company, I'll send out invitations!" The agent said nothing; his eyes made a quick inventory of Curt's lounging body, widening imperceptibly when they saw the casual wornness of the dis-gun's butt. He nodded at his companion, and the man ranged himself at the Falcon's left side. Curt Varga straightened, feigning anger. "Listen," he said coldly, "I don't know you, so beat it!" The agent at the table opened his hand; a small shield glowed dully in the palm. "What's your number, Earthman?" he asked heavily. The Falcon shrugged, held out his wrist. The agent standing beside the table lifted a pocket fluorscope tube, trained it on the exposed wrist. The flesh seemed to dissolve, and numbers glowed bluely from the ulna bone. "X three five one four eight L T," the agent read impersonally. He twitched off the fluorscope beam; the flesh magically came back into being. The second agent spoke the numerals and letters into a pocket vocoder. "Hell," the Falcon said, "why didn't you tell me you were IP men? I haven't done anything wrong!" "Who are you, and why the gun?" Curt Varga shrugged. "I'm a scavenger, just in for a couple of days. I always carry a gun; I've got a permit from the IP here on Mars." He dry-washed his hands nervously. "Look, I don't want any trouble; I'll help any way I can, if you'll tell me what you want." "Shut up!" the seated agent said brittlely, listened to the tinny voice coming from his vocoder. Then he pocketed the tiny unit, stood slowly. "Your numbers check," he said slowly. "But don't leave this place without my permission."