Curt Varga's throat muscles tightened as he sent his inaudible questions to his brother in the curtained booth across the room.
"Is there any suspicion that you are working with me?" he asked. "If so, then this arrangement must be broken; I can't ruin your career, too."
The bean-sized amplifier imbedded so cunningly in the living bone at his right temple vibrated lightly from the mocking laughter.
"I think they do, Falcon," Val Varga said lightly. "But it doesn't matter; somebody has to do the undercover work—and I happen to be in a position where I can do it with the least suspicion." The voice softened. "Careers aren't important, anyway. I seem to remember that Dad had quite a reputation as a biochemist, until the Food Administrators decided his work threatened their dictatorial monopoly. And as a Commander of the IP, you were slated to go rather high."
Curt Varga grinned, and suddenly all of the deadly grimness was gone from his tanned face, and there was only the laughter in his cool grey eyes and the hint of a swashbuckling swagger to the tilt of his head to betoken the man.

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MPAA: PG
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