Metal flowed in a crimson stream, grew turgid, hardened with the queerness of the native iron. Great blisters reared on the Falcon's hands as he clawed his way from the tube. He fell to the ground outside, blinked, tried to find his directions by some distinctive landmark. He gasped, whirled back to the pipe.
He had come squarely into the parking plaza at the rear of the spaceport at the edge of the city. Before him, guards had whirled, were running toward him, already clawing for the guns at their waists. And even as he turned, he heard the excited cries of the agents inside the conduit pipe.
He ran at a zig-zag pace, hugging the shadow of the pipe, toward a fleet tiny cruiser rolling into its parking place. Darting across a cleared space of ground, he tugged at the inset port-handle.
The port surged open from the weight of the air-pressure inside, and the Falcon dived through, pulling the port shut again. Still in a crouch, he spun the gun in his hand, jammed it into the side of the single passenger.
"Get out of here," he snarled. "Gully-hop this ship—and do it fast."
"Listen, you—" the pilot began.
"Either you do—or I do. Now, get going." The Falcon's face was utterly bleak and cruel, his eyes blazing with the trapped lust of a cornered wolf.
Shots slammed against the impervium hull, bounced harmlessly away. The vizi-screen glowed greenly, and the reflection of the Port Authority appeared.
"Take off, and we'll ray you down."
The Falcon growled deep in his throat, slammed into the dual control seat, snapped the control-switch to his side. With a single twitch of his right hand, he sent the ship flipping skyward.