"Nothing, I suppose, just the things I did before—well, this entire affair happened."
"Are you—" The Falcon came to his feet, walked to the door. "Nothing," he finished. "I think I'll get a bit of sleep before we land."
Not waiting for a reply, he walked down the corridor. He hated himself at the moment, hated himself and the life he lead. In his mind grew the first nucleus of a doubt that he might be wrong. In all probability, what he should do, what was the logical thing to do, was to accept Jean's offer, forget his past, and try to settle back into the ordered routine of life the Administrator's plans had mapped for twenty billion people.
Entering his cabin, he threw himself on the bunk, smoked interminable cigarettes. And as the hours passed, coherence came to his thoughts, and the bitterness faded. After a time, he slept.
He woke only when the light tap came on his cabin door.
"We're landing, Falcon," Jean said breathlessly. "I talked with father, and he has promised a truce for the period you are on Earth."
"I'll be right out," Curt Varga said, felt the vague prickle of a premonitory thrill along his spine. Then he shrugged, climbed from the bunk, did quick ablutions. Five minutes later, his hand was on the controls when the cruiser glided to a landing at the spaceport.
Jason Vandor waited on the field, his purple robe bright in the midst of his personal bodyguard. He caught Jean in his arms, and the Falcon felt a certain sense of gladness when he saw the open affection of the man toward his daughter. Despite his faults, the man was truly a father.
"So you're the Falcon," Vandor said at last, staring at the pirate from eyes as blue and chill as ice.