An agent came erect, sighed deliberately, died, his head blown completely from his shoulders by a shot winging from a side booth. "Get out of here, Curt!" Val Varga's voice rang high and exalted. "I'll keep them busy." His gun sang again in his hand, and there was something simple and heroic about the manner in which he stood before the booth on his crippled twisted legs. He was not a cripple then, not the remnant of a man the IP had crushed and left for dead years before when he had stood fighting at his father's side. He was, instead, bright and formidable, like the licking blade of a cause that fought against superstitious greed and intolerance. "This is my way, Falcon," he called clearly. "Don't let me down." Curt Varga sobbed deep in his throat, seeing that last gallant stand of the man whose deformities and keen brain had made him able to act as a spy in the Food Adminstrators' stronghold. He spun on his heel, smashed a Martian to one side with a sweep of his gun-hand, then rayed an agent to death with a brutal callousness utterly foreign to his nature. He plowed through the tables, scattering them and their screaming occupants, hoping to get to his brother's side before the man was killed. He cursed in a vicious steady whisper, darted through the crowd, firing without sighting at the men behind him. He ducked instinctively, and a network of rays crossed the spot where his head had been, burning the very air, filling all the room with the stench of ozone. And then he was at Val's side, towering over him, and their guns wove a barrage before whom Death walked with a steady implacable stride. An IP agent screamed, pawed blindly at the shattered remains of his face, his gun singing an undirected arc of death about the room. Bodies were lanced with the ray, and the cries of the dead made a ghastly overtone to the sound of the firing. And then Val sagged, caught through the chest with a ray bolt that held him erect for a fleeting moment. He fell, his free hand clutching Curt's arm, almost dragging him from his feet. He smiled a bit as he died, and his voice was barely audible. "_Make it a good world, Curt_," he said, and he was dead. * * * * * The Falcon straightened, and there was no mercy in his eyes then; there was only a bleak grief and a hate for those whose utter blind stupidity and cruelty had brought about such a situation. He went forward lightly, his gun blazing in his hand, his face craggy and stone-like. He never looked back at the huddle which had been his brother. An IP man died in a blast of searing energy that sought him out behind a pillar, surging through the wood, and then withering him into a charred and blackened mass. Another agent turned to run, and the bolt of Curt's dis-gun skewered his back, pinned him to a wall for a fleeting second, then dropped him in a silent heap.