The Falcon thought of that and many things, remembering the brushes his men had had with the smugglers, recalling the bodies of the smothalene users he had seen. And he remembered, too, the accusations hurled at him and his brood, wild accusations that placed him and his men in the roles of mass murderers—as the smothalene smugglers.
He gripped the machine edge tightly with whitening hands. He could feel the life being burned from his body from the tiny bit of the drug his body had assimilated, sensed the coolness coming to his heated muscles as the energy tablets fed the speeded metabolism. He knew instinctively that he had not grown so accustomed to the drug that he could not break its lecherous hold. All that he needed was a greatly supplemented diet for the next few days, and then, except for the natural deterioration of his body during the smothalene binge, he would be as perfectly conditioned as before.
A guard leaned over the edge of the catwalk, gestured with a paralysis gun. "Snap into it, Varga," he roared. "Your period isn't up yet."
The Falcon nodded, lifted new weeds into the hopper. Benton, the Earthman working at his side, flicked his gaze warily at the guards, and his voice was a quiet whisper.
"Don't be a sap, Falcon," he said. "Walk into a paralysis ray, get it over with in a hurry."
Curt Varga shook his head. "Sorry," he said softly, "I've got other plans."
Benton smiled derisively. "Yeah? Well, a couple of others thought they had, too. They got a converter burial in the energy room."
The Falcon swayed a bit, felt drunkenness creeping into his mind again. He found and swallowed the last of his energy tablets.
"Look," he said, "I need the help of everybody in here. I've got a plan that might work—but this smothalene is burning me so I can't really think. Collect all the energy tablets the men can spare for me; I'll use them to stay sober until I bust the place wide open."
Benton shook his head.