Curt Varga sighed then, and the ache in his heart was a tangible thing that hurt with an agony he had not thought possible for a man to feel.
"Remember the things I told you, Jean? Remember the hopes and dreams and plans I had?"
"I remember."
"Then, Jean, this is the truth. Remember this all of your life; fight for it, never let it die. Men are born to be free; no man can place himself in the role of God, there to dictate what—"
The blow of the gun barrel smashed him to his knees. He knelt there for seconds, laughing into Jason Vandor's face.
"I'm a small man, Vandor," the Falcon said. "I can hate and I can love. But I am true to myself, if nothing else. Get somebody else to do your lying."
Jason Vandor's face was a chiseled mask of evil rage. He saw then the crumbling of the life he had built, saw then the truth that lay in the Falcon. He knew then that all of the treasures and powers of a hundred worlds could not replace that which he had lost in those fleeting seconds.
He lifted his gun to shoot the defenseless Falcon to death—and died that way, a dis-ray scything him down in a huddled heap.
"By damn, a fight at last!" a great voice roared from the doorway, and Schutler sprang into the room.
His laughter was mad with the richness of the moment, and the twin guns were almost buried in the greatness of his fists. Crandal was at his side, his bald head gleaming, his gun lancing flame like a jet of glowing water. And behind both, shoving them forward, came Jericho, his ebony face agleam, a great sword in one hand, a gun in another.