Prey of the Space Falcon

by Wilbur S. Peacock

But those things lay in the past. Now a new situation had arisen that promised to be more destructive to their plans than any IP plot or internal strife.

Smothalene smugglers had begun to operate again on each planet. Once, the drug had been outlawed, all sources of the Venusian lanka plant, from which it was derived, had been blasted from existence. But now the drug had reappeared, was being smuggled from some secret base, and its origin could not be found.

The inhabitated worlds were slowly becoming convinced that the Falcon and his men were distributing the drug; and such was the horror and agony the drug inflicted on its users, the peoples of the worlds had forgotten the good done by the Falcon's men, and were giving information to the IP as to the movements of the Food Smugglers.

It had become a war of survival for the Falcon; he had to stamp out the smothalene smugglers so as to protect himself, his great plan, and the lives of those who had entrusted their futures to his capable hands.

Progress had been slow, for the smothalene ring had been so carefully organized that only the barest of information was obtainable. But Curt Varga's organization, too, was carefully organized. His spies and agents had been working for weeks, ferreting out trivial bits of information, then relaying it back to headquarters where it was sifted and fitted with exquisite skill and patience.

For days, the Falcon had prowled the planets, contacting his agents, obtaining first-hand reports, doing two men's work himself. Now, he had the clue given him by his brother, and he felt a thrill of success touching his mind as he thought over his plans for invading the Sargasso of Space, where the drug ring's headquarters were supposed to be.

But the pressing problem of the moment was not the smothalene smugglers, but rather the saving of himself from the IP men who were advancing so grimly on his table.

The Falcon shifted his glance indolently about the room, giving only an uninterested cursory scrutiny to the agents, then relaxed, his cigarette canted debonairly between his lips. He glanced about in faked surprise, when one of the agents seated himself at the table.

"What the hell do you want?" he asked pleasantly. "There are plenty of empty tables; when I want company, I'll send out invitations!"

The agent said nothing; his eyes made a quick inventory of Curt's lounging body, widening imperceptibly when they saw the casual wornness of the dis-gun's butt. He nodded at his companion, and the man ranged himself at the Falcon's left side.