She stepped past him, walked toward the pilot's room. He followed, liking her unconscious swagger which matched his own. She refused to sit, and he took one empty seat, regarded her quizzically, as he rolled a pulnik cigarette.
"Who are you?" he said at last.
Puzzlement kindled in the girl's eyes, was as quickly erased.
"I'm Jean—Harlon," she said slowly. She gestured about the ship. "Why did you kidnap me?"
The Falcon laughed, and youth was in his face again, some of the bitter lines softening and erasing utterly away.
"It wasn't planned," he admitted. "I was being chased—I saw your ship taxiing into a parking place—and I commandeered it." He shrugged. "You just happened to be the ship's pilot."
Amusement lifted the girl's mouth for a moment, then concern deepened the blue of her eyes. She glanced at the calculator, saw that a course had been set, and a tiny muscle twitched in her throat.
"I'm going with you!" It was a statement.
Curt Varga nodded. "Sorry," he said, "but that's the way it has to be. Only two men knew my identity—and they're dead. The few IP's who saw me tonight are also dead. It's a safety measure."
Jean Harlon stiffened slightly. "I could give my word," she said slowly.