Without another word, he and his partner walked back to the bar. Curt Varga sat silently for a moment, feeling the cold sweat on his spine, breathing a bit fast. He grinned slightly, mockingly, remembering the hours of pain that had been his when the surgeons of his hidden base had grafted the ulna of a slain Earthman into his arm after removing the natural bone. Unconsciously, his right hand lifted, and the forefinger traced the invisible scars left on his face by the surgeon whose plastic surgery had changed the shape of his features. "I think I passed all right, Val," he said into the microphone imbedded in the cartilage of his throat. "Take it easy." "OQ, Curt," Val answered. "I'm about to get the once over, too." * * * * * The Falcon's fingers dipped into his pocket, found a bill. He laid it on the table, came lithely to his feet. He stood there for silent seconds, watching the crowd that swayed to the music. Then he walked toward the bar; and there was in the unconscious swagger of his stride a love of life and laughter, a hint of the adventurer's blood that made his home the great sweeps of starway that stretched to the far horizons of the universe. He skirted the swaying dancers on the dance floor, thrust out a steadying hand to the weaving figure of a Martian _boiloong_ who had evidently been inhaling _gailang_ gas for too long a period in the rooms below. The _boiloong_ embraced him drunkenly with a couple of tentacles, then staggered benignly away, hiccoughing loudly from two of his three mouths. "_Cahnde_," Curt said to the bartender. The music piled in tiny swirls of melody in the air, and he absently hummed several notes of it. He accepted the frosted glass from the bartender, turned, braced his elbows on the bar. He stood silently, his nerves like taut wire. He watched the crowd, permitting his eyes to lift to the alcove in which his brother sat. He felt a surge of affection for the man who dared to fight at his side for a principle he did not clearly understand. They met but once or twice a year, and then surreptitiously, for Val was on the chemi-staff of the Food Administrators' greatest vitamin plant. They knew they played a deadly game, in which the probable reward was death; but such was the mettle of the brothers, they gave no heed. An IP agent jerked the curtain aside on the booth, spoke to the seated man. The Falcon could barely make out the words, the speech coming through the amplifier grafted into Val's throat, as they were grafted into all key man of the Falcon's brood. "Declare yourself," the agent snapped. "Jak Denton, five four three M R S two nine, on special furlough from the chemi-staff at Luhr." Val Varga's voice was submissive, resigned, as befitted those who knew the power of the IP.