Prey of the Space Falcon
By WILBUR S. PEACOCK
The Administrators of the Solar System were
as deadly as a Hydra-monster to those who sought
freedom. Then came the Falcon and his outlaw Brood,
fighting with the strangest weapon the Universe
had ever seen—only to find that their existence lay
in the slender hands of a girl with a Judas kiss.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Curt Varga watched lazily from a shadowed corner of the Martian gailang night club, his space-tanned left hand toying with a frosted glass of cahnde, and his right hand making cryptic marks with a radi-stylus upon the scrap of gold paper before him.
Music was a lilting swirl in the air, and his booted foot tapped unconsciously with the muted rhythm. He smiled at the great-chested Martians squatted about the dance floor, wondering for the hundredth time what enjoyment they received from swaying to music they understood only as a series of harmonic vibrations.
Over by the circular bar, four Venusians drank stiffly and stolidly of Venusian cahnde, as they stood knee-deep in their water tanks. Their skins were wet and slimy, eternally soaked with the fluids flowing from the glands in their reptilian skins. They watched the good-natured crowd from beneath nictilian lids, their gazes blank and eerily aloof.
Curt Varga's throat muscles tightened as he sent his inaudible questions to his brother in the curtained booth across the room.