Curt Varga sagged back against the wall, stared blindly at the man before him. Thoughts were chaotic in his mind.
"You believe that, don't you, Vandor?" he said slowly.
"Of course, what else can I believe? Self-government, freedom, bah! The cattle of the worlds wouldn't know what to do with either."
The Falcon shifted. "Where is Jean?" he asked.
"On her way to Mars, where I sent her." Jason Vandor's tone grew harsh and strained. "I'm making a request, Falcon," he finished, "and I can be generous in return. But make me force you to talk to her, and I can do to you just what you would do to me." He laughed without mirth. "A pitcheblend mine, wearing no protection, might be much worse than agreeing."
Curt Varga nodded. "I don't understand you, fully. You're a merciless butcher—yet you think enough of your daughter to bargain with your enemy. But I'll do what you say—for my freedom."
Jason Vandor shook his head. "Not that," he said brittlely. "I have no desire to fight you a running battle until the final showdown. You're dead, as far as your past is concerned. But you have your choice of death; either a slow one in prison, or a hideous one in a mine. Either way, you will fight me no more."
"What would I say?"
"Practically nothing. She swore she would believe what I said, only if you told her that my statements were the truth. Tell her that over a vizi-beam, and I promise you a decent prison life."
"I've sampled your promises."