Cat men from the tombs of Mars played Martian chess with their traditional enemies, the big-chested Upland boiloongs whose tentacles were like living ropes of steel. Creatures from a dozen worlds watched or played or rested, singly and in groups, about the gargantuan room.
"They're my men," The Falcon said proudly, feelingly. "And regardless of body-form, each is a man. They're the Falcon's Brood."
He led the way again, returning hearty greetings in a dozen tongues, waving, laughing, answering a hundred questions. At the edge of the room, near a tunnel's mouth, he turned to the girl who was strangely silent.
"I'll meet you for dinner in an hour," he promised. "Then I'll show you through the gardens."
"Fine!" Jean smiled, turned to follow the solicitous Schutler.
Crandal watched her go. "So she is not a convert," he said. "Then why bring her along?"
"She recognized me," the Falcon said simply, nodded good-bye, followed Jericho down another tunnel to his living quarters.
He walked into the three-room apartment, strode directly to the vocoder. Flicking a switch, he spoke quietly.
"A trap on Mars was set for me; have you heard any reports."
A voice answered with the methodical thoroughness of a trained agent. "Yen Dal died an hour ago of nerve shock caused by an IP's paralysis beam. The man who informed the IP was executed by our Martian agent thirty minutes later. That is all."