Curt Varga watched lazily from a shadowed corner of the Martiangailang night club, his space-tanned left hand toying with a frostedglass of cahnde, and his right hand making cryptic marks with aradi-stylus upon the scrap of gold paper before him.

Music was a lilting swirl in the air, and his booted foot tappedunconsciously with the muted rhythm. He smiled at the great-chestedMartians squatted about the dance floor, wondering for the hundredthtime what enjoyment they received from swaying to music theyunderstood only as a series of harmonic vibrations.

Over by the circular bar, four Venusians drank stiffly and stolidly ofVenusian cahnde, as they stood knee-deep in their water tanks. Theirskins were wet and slimy, eternally soaked with the fluids flowing fromthe glands in their reptilian skins. They watched the good-naturedcrowd from beneath nictilian lids, their gazes blank and eerily aloof.

Curt Varga's throat muscles tightened as he sent his inaudiblequestions to his brother in the curtained booth across the room.

"Is there any suspicion that you are working with me?" he asked. "Ifso, then this arrangement must be broken; I can't ruin your career,too."

The bean-sized amplifier imbedded so cunningly in the living bone athis right temple vibrated lightly from the mocking laughter.

"I think they do, Falcon," Val Varga said lightly. "But it doesn'tmatter; somebody has to do the undercover work—and I happen to bein a position where I can do it with the least suspicion." The voicesoftened. "Careers aren't important, anyway. I seem to rememberthat Dad had quite a reputation as a bio-chemist, until the FoodAdministrators decided his work threatened their dictatorial monopoly.And as a Commander of the IP, you were slated to go rather high."

Curt Varga grinned, and suddenly all of the deadly grimness was gonefrom his tanned face, and there was only the laughter in his cool greyeyes and the hint of a swashbuckling swagger to the tilt of his head tobetoken the man.

"OQ!" he said inaudibly into the amplifier unit. "Now, give me a fewfacts."

"Well," Val's voice steadied, "the IP is still searching for theFalcon's base; they've got direct orders from Vandor to smash it withina month, Earth time. The situation is getting rather desperate; gardenshave been found on half a dozen worlds, and the revenue from sale ofvitamins and energy tablets has fallen alarmingly. Unless the base isfound and destroyed, the IP is due for a general shake-up in commandand personnel."

"Hold it!" Curt said brusquely, glanced at the Martian waiter whopadded along the wall toward him.

The waiter, grotesquely-chested, round-headed, with his antennae curledon either side of his great single eye, threaded his way through thetables, stood solicitously over the Falcon's table. His right antennaeuncurled, its tip lightly darting out to touch the Earthman's wrist.

"Another cahnde," Curt Varga said loudly. "And a pulnik<