"Good!" the Falcon said grimly, closed the switch. He turned to the silent negro. "A cahnde, Jericho," he finished tiredly. "Then we'll doctor me up a bit."
He sagged in a chair, utterly spent and tired, worn from the constant strain that was his life every hour of the day. He was no longer the debonair flashing Falcon; he was only a man to whom life became grimmer and more danger-filled day by day; a man whose life was in no way his own.
III
Jean Harlon leaned back from the table, sighed blissfully.
"I never knew," she said, "that such wonderful food existed. Why, that watermelon was the most delicious thing I've eaten in my life."
Curt Varga smiled, shoved back his chair. "Let's take a quick look at the gardens before getting some sleep," he said. "I'll show you such things as the ordinary person has not seen in more than a century."
"Swell!" Jean Harlon nodded.
They walked from the dining hall, entered a side tunnel, followed a winding ramp toward the center of the asteroid. They chatted aimlessly, speaking of nothing in particular; and Curt felt a vague pleasure in him when her eyes reflected her astonishment when she found that he was educated beyond the average of most men. There was a tang to living at the moment, and his lithe body felt good and strength-filled, ready to follow any dictate of his mind.
They turned right, stepped through a side door, and Jean's tiny gasp of awe was ample reward for all that Curt had done.