"I don' wanna work!" Curt Varga said nastily. "I'm gonna be sick."
"All right!" The guard jerked his head toward the rest-room. "Be sick, and then get back to your job." He grinned, as the Falcon came laboriously up the stairs.
The Falcon staggered drunkenly toward the rest-room, shoved through the door, dropped his pretense the moment he was alone. He went swiftly toward the air-intake grill, worked at its fastenings with a screwdriver secreted in his boot-top. And as he worked, he thought.
"Jean," he thought, and his face went white from concentration. "Jean, this is the Falcon. Listen to me. In a few minutes, I'm going to release smothalene into the air-system. Put on your mask, and be ready to run for it."
He sent the message again and again, wishing that he had had the telepathic training to receive as well as send. He had no way of knowing if the girl could get his message; he had no way of knowing whether or not she would tell Duke Ringo of his plans.
The grill plate came loose in his hands, and he lifted the vial of smothalene powder into the hole revealed. For a second, his hand remained there, and then he felt the sickness of futility come over him. He had no mask.
He stepped back from the wall, pocketed the vial, went toward the door. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the door ajar, beckoned drunkenly to the nearest guard.
"Cummere," he said melodramatically. "I got somethin' to show you."
"What's the matter?" the guard asked suspiciously, and his gun was bright in his hand.
"Thieves, that's what it is," the Falcon asserted solemnly. "Cummon, I'll show you."