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Title: The black alarm
Author: George O. Smith
Release Date: April 20, 2023 [eBook #70605]
Language: English
Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK ALARM ***
The Black Alarm
FEATURE NOVEL OF TOMORROW
By George O. Smith
Steve Hagen was determined to live his own life,
and he chose the dangerous career of the Guardians.
But was he as free as he imagined himself to be?
There's a subtle difference between rational
and irrational hatred. The latter leads
directly to fanaticism--and one definition
of a fanatic is "a person who redoubles his
efforts after having forgotten his aim".
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Science Fiction Quarterly November 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
1
Twenty years as private secretary to William Wrightwood had prepared
Miss Peters to meet any contretemps except the angry, purposeful
arrival of Steve Hagen, who strode through her outer office with no
more than a nod at her, and opened the door to Wrightwood's private
office.
"Is this another of your tricks--" roared Steve, cutting off his voice
by shutting the door behind him abruptly.
Miss Peters had a quiet nervous breakdown, for Hagen was William
Wrightwood's stepson, who had renounced his rechristening not long
after reaching adulthood. She began to plan an explanation--which would
not hold water since Wrightwood was the kind of executive who gives
orders not to be disturbed and demands that they be observed. Not even
the angry arrival of his estranged stepson was excuse for not having an
appointment.
She wondered what was going on, and slyly opened the key of the desk
phone.
"You're as devious as a scenic railway and you know it."
"Walter, my boy--"
"My name is Steve Hagen and you know it!"
"If you persist; but to me you will always be my son."
"I wouldn't have you for a father as a gift," roared Steve. "Now tell
me how you wrangled this."
"I didn't wrangle anything. Just what makes you think--?"
"This is just too damned trite for accident."
"I've not had any finger in the pie of your little interstellar
fire-department, son."
"No? Then explain why and how a rookie out of training school gets an
appointment to District One Control Base?"
"You were an honor student, were you not?"
"Not that high. Base One is staffed with men of experience, not raw
trainees."
"Never?"
"Not in twenty years, at least. And the last rookie that did it came
from school to Base One because he was Marshall Craig's son."
"You should be gratified."
"I'm mad as hell. I want no interference nor help from you--or the
likes of you."
"That's not a nice thing to say about a foster father."
"Do I owe you allegiance because I was taken into your clutches at the
age of three?" demanded Hagen angrily.
"Your mother--"
"Leave her out of this!" gritted Hagen. "Get back to the subject; just
what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm not doing anything!" roared William Wrightwood. "And no one can
say that I am."
"If you think for one moment that I'm going to do anything for you--"
The smoothness came back into Wrightwood's voice. "I don't have to play
games with new recruits," he said. "Things work out my way in the long
run."
"All but one," sneered Hagen; "you haven't been able to steer me."
"Have I ever tried?"
"Hell, yes."
"Then it is the proper responsibility of any man to try to mold and
direct the character of his son--"
"Like Fagin, training pickpockets?"
"Son, you've yet to learn that villainy is just a point of view."
"So it may be--but this is my view."
"Wal--Steve, if you insist--just why do you want to join the Guardians
instead of taking your place as head of Interstellar?"
"And command a squadron of Large Oak Desks?"
"It takes your kind of brains to run a company as big as Interstellar,
but any idiot can buckle on a sword and play pirate."
"So--you've trained me for better things?" sneered Hagen.
"Yes. I have."
"I don't like it. I--"
"I'm not stopping you," said Wrightwood. "Go on and play your game
of fireman; I'll wait until you come to your senses. Then, as usual,
I'll have my way. But remember--I did not in any way tamper with your
affairs. Go look elsewhere for a reason why you were appointed to First
Base."
Hagen growled in his throat. "You'd not tell me if you had tinkered,"
he said. It was lame and he knew it. He turned on his heel and left the
office in as precipitate a manner as he had arrived.
* * * * *
Hagen was awake when his first alarm came. For three days he had been
wondering just why and how a rookie could be qualified for Base One;
this had cheated him of sleep, and made his waking hours a mad pattern
of hard duty and pointless wondering. But when the gong rang in his
dormitory room at Base One, he reacted eagerly.
Although this was Hagen's first alarm, years of precision drill had
given him the instinctive pattern for action. He dressed in the
required time, caught up his equipment and met the stream of men
pouring out of their rooms; he followed them from the huge building,
out across the spaceport, to the myriad of Guardian spacecraft that
awaited them.
Steve wondered where they were going, then realized that it was more
than probable that the squadron commander himself did not know yet,
and would not know until about one second before the flight took off
for deep space. Somewhere, down in the bowels of the huge building,
computers were digesting information rapidly, spilling out answers that
would have to be summed into an equation before anyone would know the
source of the alarm.
It was, Steve knew with the rest of the men, an imminent alarm. The
machinery had not blown--yet; it might not blow--ever. It might be
stopped by the Guardians before it went--or they might arrive in time
to save everything but the mere hull of the ship that sped through
subspace with the warp generator heading towards failure because of any
one, or two, or a hundred various reasons.
It was Steve's job--with the other Guardians--to save what they
could--if they could--and if not, to stop the spread of raw energy.
He reached his Guardian ship and settled himself into the crash pads.
He pressed the button that told the squadron commander that he was
ready, and his warning lamp winked into life on the broad lamp-board in
the commander's ship; one more light among the rest. Then Hagen waited.
Forty seconds later came the warning bell, and the squadron began to
take off, ship by ship, second by second. With a precision that would
have been impossible without the master control of the commander's
ship, the squadron took off, and reached the speed of light in one
second. Then, second by second, the velocity doubled, re-doubled, and
re-re-redoubled until the stars of the nearby galaxy were flowing past
them like oncoming headlights along a busy highway.
[Illustration: When the warning bell came, the squadron began to take
off, ship by ship, second by second, with a precision that would have
been impossible without the master control of the commander's ship.]
Along with the driving constants that swept them into deep space,
angular vectors were applied that would match their velocity with that
of the doomed spacecraft by the time they reached it. The computers in
the 'constants' building had supplied the master control panel with
all the data during the time between the arrival of the alarm and the
departure of the squadron.
Steve Hagen peered into the utter blackness of subspace, watching
the space-warped cores of stars stream past, watching for the first
sight of the faltering ship. It came before the squadron eventually,
decelerating as hard as it could.
"Made it!" came the exultant cry from the spearhead of the squadron.
* * * * *
The fleet divided. Rescue craft darted around the spaceliner and picked
up tracers left by fleeing life-craft; they followed these to give aid
to crew and passengers fleeing the imminent blowup.
Tractors latched onto the spaceliner and aided the drivers to
decelerate the ship, and the command came: "Goggles!"
Steve snapped dark glasses down over his face just as the intolerably
bright floodlamps flared. This was not to shed light over the scene;
any moment now, there would be a flaring hell of raw energy. The
floodlamps were to cut the total contrast between the streamers of
ultra-incandescence and utter blackness of subspace.
The barriers nosed forward warily, and Steve took the control of his
swamper from the master and edged between two of them. They waited,
waited.
For theirs was not yet; the trick at this point was to slow the
spaceliner down below the velocity of light before the weakened warp
generator went out completely. If the tractors could do this, barriers
and swampers and nullers would have nothing to do.
Steve watched the spherical warp, a faint boundary about the
spaceliner, and tried to measure whether it was collapsing faster than
the speed was diminishing.
And as he watched, it twisted out of its spherical shape. The tractors
hurtled back, their beams skewed out of grasp by the twisting of the
space warp, their straining drivers hurling them with the release of
resistance.
The warp diminished, and the nose of the spaceliner pierced it--
Exposing gross matter to universal space where gross matter cannot
exceed the velocity of light.
The mass of the exposed nose increased without limit; the velocity
of the nose was smashed back below the speed of light; excess energy
poured forth in raw radiation; the intolerable mass curled universal
space around it and radiant energy circled the curl.
The artificial space warp--still enclosing the ship that travelled a
hundred times the speed of light in subspace--folded over the slowed
nose of the ship, buckled, and burst like a soap bubble. The rest of
the ship rammed into the curled space and added its mass-energy to the
vortex.
A burst of energy flared forth, hit the planes held by barrier ships,
flattened against impenetrable planes of force, and hurled the barrier
ships back. Their drivers fought, straining to contain the exploding
gout of twisted space. Around the edges of the planes seared tongues
and sheets of energy.
Steve fanned his cone wide, and he had no time to watch the rest of the
swampers dart back and forth to suck away the long reaching tongues.
The warp exploded, hurling bits of its own tangled space invisibly,
to emerge as isolated bursts that raved and grew as the twisted space
strove to smooth itself out. Nullers darted back and forth, hurling
spherical bombs of energy that nullified the growing flames, and the
barriers crept forward once more, containing the main vortex.
Steve joined the maelstrom of Guardians that circled and looped through
space to kill off the spread of vortexes; he saw Halligan's ship race
past his nose and watched a streamer of flame reach out and lick the
flank of Halligan's swamper. The skin curled off and fed the flame; air
from the ship fanned it out and gave it direction.
Halligan limped away as Hagen swept his cone over the tongue, killing
it.
He looked around for more, but saw that the most of the job was done.
It had come suddenly; one moment the sky was filled with flowing globes
of intolerable brightness and darting ships; then the islands of energy
died--apparently in the length of time it had taken Steve to wipe out
the tongue that licked at Halligan.
The Fleet circled--watching.
* * * * *
The barriers had enclosed the main warp in a faceted enclosure, their
barrier planes intersecting to make a complete prison. Then, in
through the surface of the volume went nullifier bombs; once more space
exploded as the main vortex was broken. Then it was dash, blot-out, and
circle; dart, dodge, and wipe away tongue and finger of flame again
until the last scintillating trace of vortex was gone.
Steve wiped his face.
"Halligan!"
"Check, Cap'n."
"Y'all right?"
"Shook up but alive."
"Can y' make it back?"
"I'll be late but I can make it."
"Hagen!"
"Yes sir?" said Steve.
"You follow Halligan for safety."
"Cap'n, maybe I'd better have Norman," came Halligan's voice.
"Hurt worse than you admit, huh? Okay, Norman, you heard him. Hagen,
this is no slur; you'll have your chance when you have more savvy."
"I'm aware of my inexperience," said Hagen.
"We'll let you get experience enough; stay with the wipe-up squad."
"Check."
Hagen felt a bit miffed, but he knew that he should not be hurt. This
was his first alarm, his first job in the Guardians. Halligan had every
reason to prefer a more seasoned man to a raw recruit when his life
depended upon it.
Then, automatically, Hagen felt better. He was, at least, appointed
to help the clean-up squad. They would patrol this space at random,
watching for a trace of flaming vortex. If none appeared for two hours,
they would watch for a total of six to be certain before going home.
Minute vortexes, space warped into a complete circle with a flow of
radiant energy coursing around in them, might maintain for some time
invisibly, feeding and growing by their contact with the discrete atoms
of interstellar space, attracted by the monstrous force of gravity
centered on the vortex. If left unswamped, they might grow into a real
menace to navigation.
But the barriers would blanket space, and the swampers would be ready
to wipe out any vortex broken against the plane of force. Then, their
job done, they could go home for a well-earned rest.
Hagen watched the squadron re-form, watched waiting rescue craft
collect from the distant flights, then watched them disappear, heading
back the way they all had come. He felt a bit of panic; he felt alone
in the depths of interstellar space in a unique spacecraft that was
sixty percent accumulator, fifteen percent driver, and fifteen percent
swamper-beam. The other zero-percent was put there for his comfort and
protection. He was one hundred and sixty pounds of analog computer,
employed to serve a monstrosity of spacecraft built for a single
purpose. He was there only because no man could cram enough binary
circuits and analog differentials to equal one thousandth of the human
brain into one hundred and sixty pounds and a few cubic feet.
But Steve Hagen was a Guardian!
2
Steve's return with the clean-up squad was made without mishap. It had
been lonely work, for the half-dozen vortex-fighters swept the skies
singly, roaming back and forth along the millions of miles across
which the explosion had taken place. Sometimes they dropped into the
realm below the speed of light to wipe out a bit of wispy cloud that
looked as though it might be trouble brewing in the more firm structure
of universal space. But mostly they raced back and forth at speeds
that multiplied the velocity of light by many times. Nothing they
saw reacted with their damping beams; nothing splashed against the
nullifying bombs--and then, these, too, had to be destroyed lest they
start a counter-vortex of their own.
Steve had been too busy during the mop-up operations to pay attention
to his own feelings. On the way home he had taken time to think,
and then came that first recoiling in abject fear. Utter emptiness,
absolute nothing, sheer black space closed down upon him with an
inherent fear as strong as the inherent fear of falling. Man had a
million of years of evolution on earth, with a constant of one gravity
pulling him down onto something that his senses told him was flat, hard
substantial, and everlasting. Of all that man could count upon, the
earth was the one thing that he could consider unchanging.
But here in space, with no solid planet below him to rest upon, to
succor him and give him strength, Steve felt the abject panic of
helplessness. The mighty power leashed in the room behind him was
invisible; the surging drivers that hurled him along at a thousand
times the speed of light operated without a murmur, a tick, or a sign
of their positive power. The warp generator that folded space around
him to create his own subspace, a feat of gravitic energy that not even
Sol himself could perform, gave him no comfort.
So Steve fought panic and was glad to see the first sight of Base
One. He landed in his allotted space, climbed down out of his swamper
shakily, and walked off the spaceport slowly, hoping that Lois
Morehouse would be there. She was--standing at the edge of the landing
area; she waved to him and Steve changed his course to go towards her.
Lois was a good-looking girl of about twenty-three, a bit too
healthy-looking to suit the present standard of fragile beauty. She
glowed with health, could send a sizzling backhand, sink an iron shot,
or ride water-skis with the best of them. She was the daughter of
Commissioner Morehouse, the nominal top-brass of the Guardians, and
as such was the eye of every single man in the squadron. Just why, in
three or four days, Lois had found a raw rookie interesting had never
occurred to Steve to question.
For while Hagen had formally and legally renounced his stepfather and
his stepfather's business and way of life, Steve could not renounce the
upbringing his stepfather had given him. Steve had none of the truly,
apologetically, deferential bearing of the average rookie, who usually
came of families of average means and worked his way up. Hagen had
attended the finest schools, had gone to the best college, had played
football and been sought-after by three leading fraternities. None
of this had made him a snob; it was just that he saw nothing odd or
upsetting about the fact that an attractive girl found him interesting.
Had he been brought up according to his present financial, emotional,
and social status, Steve would have been inclined to retire and leave
the pursuit of Lois Morehouse to men who had experience and position.
* * * * *
He did not realize it himself, but Steve Hagen was trained to be the
kind of man who felt no shyness at walking into the office of the Big
Brass and sitting down to tell him what he thought. So he saw nothing
odd about walking over to Lois Morehouse and smiling affably.
"How was it?" she asked him.
"Rough," he said. "Shucks, Lois, I wouldn't know whether it was rough
or whether it was a milk run; this is the first I'd ever seen."
"How was the trip back?"
Steve laughed nervously. "I was never so glad to see solid planet
before in my life."
"You sound as though this were your first space run."
"If it had been, I'd be a screaming imbecile by now. Luckily, I've been
in space a lot; it's just that this was the first time I've made it in
a little over-powered can, completely alone. Brrrrr."
Lois smiled at him. "What happened on your first practise drill?" she
asked.
"We didn't go as far."
"But--"
"Well, I'd had that experience softened, too."
Lois nodded. Steve said: "I could use coffee. Want?"
"I want, Steve. But dad will be looking for me," she told him wistfully.
"Good Lord, Morehouse doesn't make you work?" he exclaimed in mock
horror.
"What did you think?" she asked him with a quizzical glance.
"I thought it was a case of plain, everyday, common, down-to-earth
nepotism."
"So do a lot of people, but it isn't true; I'm told that I earn my
salary."
Steve laughed. "I didn't intend that crack of mine to rub salt in an
open wound."
"Oh, I'll not take it seriously," she said. "But you go on and saturate
yourself with coffee; glad you made it all right."
"See you later," he nodded, and turned from her to walk briskly towards
the mess. Seeing Lois had steadied him as he had known it would. Hagen
was not given to mental analysis, either of himself or of others, but
he did realize the truth of what his professors had taught him in
psychology I--that the feeling of kinship with good solid earth and the
regard of a woman were the absolute basic things that go toward making
a man feel well in heart. So long as he can retain these--
"Steve!" came the call. Hagen whirled instantly and held up a hand to
Lois; he turned and started to cross the space between them but Lois
waved him back. She cupped her hands to her lips and called: "You'll be
at the brawl Saturday?"
"Yes," he called back. "You gotta date?"
Lois shook her head.
Steve beat upon his chest, then polished his fingernails on the lapel
of his leather space jacket.
Lois nodded, shaking her auburn hair vigorously. Then she turned and
headed towards the office building, and Steve went on towards the mess.
Steve Hagen was feeling positively cheerful.
* * * * *
He was still there when Halligan came limping in, to land uncertainly
in his accustomed spot. Like the rest, Steve went out to see the man,
and they all waved him home, surrounding him and pelting him with both
hand-shakes, mild insults and warm greetings. Halligan replied to the
insults stoically, grinned at the rest, and peered around the group
until he saw Steve. Then he shouldered his way through.
"Steve," he said seriously, "I did not mean anyth--"
Hagen smiled. "Naturally," he said, accepting Joe Halligan's hand. "I'd
have been no use to you and I know it. I'll need some more practise."
Halligan laughed. "I need coffee, have some on me?"
"I'll go along for the walk," said Steve. "But I'm loaded to the
space-valves right now."
"Come on then, and watch a hungry man tear into a steak."
"I hope you're hungry enough for stew."
Halligan grunted. "Watch a hungry man tear into a plate of stew, then."
Everybody laughed, and in the midst of it, Steve asked: "Aren't you
going to check in?"
"I suppose regulations call for it," said Halligan cheerfully. "But
Cap'n Charlemagne knows the score, and the commish has heard it from
him. Both of them know I'm in safely; also, they'll both feel that an
hour of relaxation will do both me and the service more good than an
hour of recounting the same tale. I'll go in later."
The crowd began to disperse, and Steve followed Halligan towards the
messhall. "You can stand some practise," mentioned Joe. "And you'll get
it. But I'll take you on for a round or two if you like."
"I'd like," nodded Steve. "And thanks."
"No thanks necessary," said Halligan. "Just repayment; that was a fast
job of wiping out that streamer that caught me."
"I didn't think--"
Halligan laughed. "Of course," he said cheerfully, "what I'm really
after is for you to get experience enough to prevent it. Now, you
see, after a year or so of vortex-fighting, you'll develop some sort
of second-sight or other, and the next guy that runs in the way of a
streamer, you'll know what to do about it before the poor bird gets
clipped. And if not, you'll not wait until the guy gets out of the way
before you squelch it; your aim will be good enough to shave the paint
off the hull before the vortex streamer gets it."
"I was afraid to cut too close."
"We'll practise with light beams until you can write your name in three
types of script," predicted Halligan. "Then--hello, Edwards. Joining us
for coffee?"
Roy Edwards looked unhappy as he stopped before them. "Later maybe," he
said. "We've got to attend the inevitable."
"Oh nuts. On an empty meat locker?"
"You might toss a coin; you'll not be needed at the same time."
Steve nodded. "You stoke the boiler," he said to Halligan. To Edwards,
he said, "I don't know what this is all about, but Joe's ready to eat
raw bear. I've eaten."
"That'll be fine," said Edwards cheerfully. "I hate to bust in on this
love-feast, but there's plenty of time later. Grab your chow, Joe, and
come in as soon as you can."
Halligan smiled. "Sure thing. And kid, don't let a lot of pompous
pin-stripe-and-spats scare you. Treat 'em as you'd treat one of the
Guardians; so long."
"What's up?" asked Steve.
"About once a year there's a stink over a blowup," said Edwards. "This
is it."
"What kind of stink?"
"Charges of laxity, charges of wastefulness, and so forth."
"Laxity?" exclaimed Hagen.
"Interstellar often holds the quaint notion that a more alert outfit
would be able to arrive at the scene of the blowup in time to stop it;
after all, a spacecraft is worth a lot of moola, and they hate to lose
it."
Hagen grunted. "I can't see any outfit getting there before we did."
"Tell 'em that."
"Just how do they think they can create a better outfit?"
"By removing the Guardians from governmental control and making of them
a private organization, a subsidiary of Interstellar."
"I don't see--"
"There's a lot of truth on both sides," said Edwards, "but that is not
for us to settle. All we can do is to stand up for our own ideals.
Just tell 'em what you saw, and what you did; and if you don't let a
few facts interfere with a good story, remember that they're ready to
discount half of what you say anyway. So--here's the inevitable."
3
Hagen entered the office quietly, nodded at Commissioner Morehouse,
smiled at Lois, and eyed Howard Forrest with mild hostility. Forrest,
the representative of Interstellar, returned his hostility with a
stony-cold glance.
It had been years since Forrest and Hagen had met. The last time
had been a hard scene; Forrest had come to Hagen to ascertain the
depth of Steve's feelings regarding the renunciation of his name and
heir-apparent-ship to the commercial empire of William Wrightwood.
Forrest, a clever man with words, had done some of the finest orating
of his life at that time, weaving a verbal web glowing with the glories
of running the whole show. He had given Steve a very rough time.
Steve had yet to learn the first principle of politics, which is never
to admit for one moment that your opponent could possibly be right, or
have an idea that keyed with your own. Steve had attempted to answer
Forrest, and all he got in reply was hard-shelled argument.
The slightest hint of Steve's that Government had any rights at all
was greeted with fine rhetoric and impeccably presented logic to the
effect that Hagen's viewpoint was none other than a leaning towards
Statism, Socialism, and ultimately Communism. Steve resented this.
Yet his lack of preparation for rebuttal left him unable to reply
with good soundness. Hagen had no intention of supporting any form of
governmental control of everything. He believed in the desirability
of self-sufficiency and free enterprise, but he also felt that his
stepfather had taken this freedom as far in one direction as downright
dictatorship would lead it in the other direction.
Forrest had waved away the latter and had fastened upon Steve's
support of free enterprise, pointing out that a group of trained
vortex-fighters with a personal interest in their job would be more
inclined to do the job more thoroughly.
Forrest had finally reduced everything to a matter of dollars and cents
and initiative, leaving Steve only with the weak defense of retreating
inside of a verbal shell and replying that he wasn't going to return
because he did not want to return and that was that. Howard Forrest had
left still making predictions about the future. Now, Forrest looked
at Hagen with eyes that saw him not as a former heir to the throne of
Interstellar, but as a complete stranger.
This was as Hagen wanted it.
He was Steve Hagen; not William Wrightwood Junior, and he did not want
to own up to any relationship with either his stepfather or Forrest.
Steve decided to be curt, cold, concise, and distant.
He had little chance to be any of these. He was asked to deliver his
opinion of the recent eruption, and he did so, addressing alternately
his superiors, Forrest, and three stony-faced gentlemen who had been
introduced as members of a fact-finding board to whom Interstellar had
complained.
Then Hagen expected some form of cross-questioning.
He got none. When he finished, Commissioner Morehouse explained that
this was the opinion of a new man unbiased by experience, and drew the
teeth of any argument by admitting calmly that any Guardian had every
right to talk completely in favor of his chosen service.
Hagen was then excused; he left after tossing a sly smile at Lois.
But once outside, Steve paused. It was not like Forrest to use him so
calmly; this would have been a fine chance to blow an argument full of
holes.
Unless--
Unless Forrest realized that Hagen's position with the Guardians was of
no great importance. At least at the present time.
Which meant that Hagen's position might be of great interest in the
future. This implied that Forrest, Wrightwood, and Interstellar had
some plan in mind. Theirs was more than getting Steve Hagen back into
the fold; that might have been accomplished by several means. Certainly
Wrightwood and Interstellar had enough of power and money to place a
very deep curse on any man who befriended Steve. He would be forced
back from sheer want, from sheer inability to fight an organization so
strong that it would not permit any other outfit to hire him.
Nor was it a matter of waiting until Hagen came to his senses.
It implied some sort of deep-laid scheme, and some of it smacked
of Hagen's call to Base One instead of being sent to the Galactic
Equivalent of Brooklyn until he knew his way around. He smelled the
fingers of politics once again, and decided to step upon them.
* * * * *
Steve turned from his walk down the hall and went to Captain
Charlemagne's office.
The squadron leader looked up when Hagen was announced, and smiled
genially. "How did you make out?"
Hagen shrugged. "I told my tale in a dry voice, and I don't know
whether it went over or not; they didn't ask me any questions."
"They never do. They just compare the notes they make from one man
to the other and weed out discrepancies. That's why all of us being
questioned are called in one at a time. I doubt that you made any
errors, Steve."
"Thanks, Captain Charlemagne." Hagen wanted to call his leader 'Cap'n'
like the rest, but felt that it was not his place to be too bold at
this moment. "But I came here to ask a question."
"Go right ahead."
"Why was I called to Base One?"
"You've been wondering?"
"Of course. I came off with a high grade in training school, but not
that high. So far as I know, I'm the first rook to be called directly
from training to Base One in many's the year."
"That's true," nodded Charlemagne.
"You weren't to be told yet, but since you ask, there's really no harm
in your knowing; you're going to be assigned to a sort of special
routine once we get you some experience in space."
"Special routine?"
"Nothing very grandiose, Steve. We've partly been forced and partly
been convinced to revise our inspection procedure. Formerly, routine
inspections have been carried out by men convalescing from injuries,
or men released from active duty for one reason or another. It has
been pointed out that such men--usually men of long experience, can
hardly look upon such a routine job as anything but punishment, or a
sop tossed to an invalid, or some other odious proposition, and they
can hardly be expected to execute such a job without some bias. For
instance, a man put upon such a job because of some minor infraction of
the rules will smart under this punishment and take it out on spaceport
managers, liner captains, and so forth--or will bugger the works by
overlooking the possible danger spots. An invalid cannot be expected
to do the job thoroughly. A pensioner is usually old enough to be less
active."
"I see; now we're making this a part of initial training?"
"Right. And since Base One is staffed with experienced Guardians, we
needed a newcomer to handle this job; you're it."
Hagen smiled. "When do I start?" he asked.
"Normally we'd start you after your second time out," said Charlemagne.
"But since you've been told of your assignment, I see no reason why
you should sit around day after day waiting for it to arrive. If you
think you can make a long jaunt from star to star without getting the
screaming meemies from space loneliness, you can start tomorrow."
"I think I can."
"Larrimer thinks you can lick it," smiled Charlemagne; "he said you
ran the swamper as though you'd been with the mop-up squad for years."
"I hardly think so."
"You're a well-liked rookie," said the captain. "You'll make out. And,"
he added ruefully, "we'll be looking for another rookie in not too long
a time. We wouldn't care to keep a potentially good man running errands
too long. Just long enough," he said seriously, "so that he knows what
the score is."
* * * * *
Steve found this was tedious work. Furnished with an itinerary,
Steve spent the first day on Planet III of the star nearest to Base
One, prowling in and out among the planetary installations of the
Interstellar Company, finding nothing worth reporting. Pilots and
engineroom mechanics knew that their lives depended upon the proper
maintenance of their equipment, and they behaved accordingly.
Furthermore, most of them resented Steve's insistence upon inspection
because they deemed it a reflection on their workmanship. The fact
that he admittedly knew less than they about the finer points of warp
generators made it impossible for him to pay more than a cursory
compliment as a sop to the interference.
On the other hand Hagen occasionally located a weak spot and pointed
it out to them; some of them were grateful, and some impertinent. Of
the former, they nodded sagely and mumbled something about beginner's
luck or the familiarity that breeds contempt. Of the latter, their
acknowledgment of the weak spot came either as something admittedly
less than perfect but not really dangerous--or that they knew it was
there, but had not reached that spot in their repair routine. Steve
could not argue any of these points, so he clamped down on the sharp
answers he felt coming up and passed it by with only a scowl. Had
he been less certain of himself, Steve would have been ruffled or
possibly hurt by this sort of treatment. But Hagen was the kind of man
who knew that he was not completely capable in such things--although
he was quite capable in other things, which lent the whole proposition
some compensation. It is the man who has no particular accomplishment
of his own who cannot stand to be pushed around by people who have--or
he with the overpowering inferiority complex who _thinks_ he has no
particular excellence.
Steve had neither inferiority complex nor lack of certain successes;
he would study and he would learn, and one day he would speak with
authority.
And so it went as the days rolled on and on. His time was not entirely
uneventful. The ship he drove on these inspections was a scout model,
equipped with space alarm recorder; and although it did not have the
automatic scale-model of the galactic sector such as in the main
office of Commissioner Morehouse, it did have a manual model. When a
muttering call came in on the alarm circuit, Steve would take the time
to classify it, to fix it, then to calculate and enumerate which of the
stations was going out on the call.
* * * * *
This sort of classifying gave Steve a sort of dull shock. For even
though he had known the facts, it took seeing them and calculating them
to drive it home. The Guardians were not constantly fighting the great
menace; such blowups as Steve had been initiated into almost upon his
arrival at Base One were actually few and far between.
Most of these were minor calls. A tramper with a vacillating warp
generator would call the Guardians to have them come out to clamp down
on the space warp before it blew, or long enough for the engineers
to make repair or adjustment. Occasionally the spacecraft would try
to drop speed before the warp blew out, and almost make it; in which
case the resulting eruption took all of the simple technique of a
smouldering fire in a wastebasket. There were far more calls for
_danger_ than calls for _blowup_. Ships' engineers, mindful of the fact
that the life of every man aboard depended upon the efficient working
of the warp generator, knowing that the ship would blow and be lost
if it failed, were inclined to call for aid and help at the slightest
indication of instability; it kept the Guardians busy.
But that was what they were for. Hagen enjoyed that feeling, although
he would have scoffed at any man who accused Steve of harboring a
desire to serve mankind.
All Steve cared about was the fact that it was far better to hale a
crew of Guardians out of bed and hurl them across space to protect
their fellow men than to lose men and material unnoticed.
And Steve knew, too, that blowups were 'headline stuff' and no
indictment of space travel. For every alarm that came whispering its
troubles across the galaxy, a hundred-thousand people traversed the
spacelanes from star to star without mishap. He often wondered how long
he would be in this business before he began to shake his head at the
chances mankind took. Or whether this sort of bias would take place in
him. Certainly, a man living where the dangers are pointed out while
the safeties are not noticed should begin to place too much importance
on the obvious.
But so far Steve had none of this; he plodded on his job and did it as
well as he could, knowing that as soon as he finished this phase of his
activities as a Guardian, he would have more interesting work. This
expectation dispelled the routine drabness of being an inspector; his
off-duty hours were too happily filled for him to do more than consider
the future.
For Steve could not contemplate the future without thinking of Lois
Morehouse. She was interested in him, he knew. And like any man of
intellect, Steve was used to thinking of any desirable woman in
the light of a possible mate and judging her values and virtues
accordingly. But until he knew more about her, Steve could formulate
nothing more than the fact that she was desirable; the big thing was to
discover whether it could last beyond the first stages. Steve had known
too many girls with a Perfect Thirty-Six--with an I.Q. to match--to
place much judgement upon outward appearances.
So, before Steve took on the job of meeting her every morning
across the breakfast table, Steve wanted to know more about her. He
guessed--rightly--that Lois wanted to find out more about him.
He gave her every chance, starting with the evening of the dance.
4
He had little time. The routine of his inspection tours took Steve
farther away from Base One as time went on, and Hagen had small chance
to do other than run in and out. His spare time was his, of course;
Steve was not on twenty-four hour duty. He could have his way in one
of two possibilities; he could either stay near the base of operations
or he could spend the spare time in space-flight to and from Base One.
He did the latter until the running time versus the visiting time ran
smack into the Law of Diminishing Returns, at which point he loafed
his spare time away on a planet near to his course across the galactic
sector. At these times Hagen calmly awaited the future, when he could
be back at the Base.
Steve had not seen nor heard from his foster father since that
meeting in Wrightwood's office, and he knew that another meeting was
inevitable. Hagen would have preferred to have the meeting on a ground
of his own selection where he could choose his own weapons, but this
was not to be.
Yet Steve was not totally unprepared when, inspecting one of the
larger planetary installations of Interstellar, he was asked into the
main office. It was not of Hagen's choosing, but it was better than
to have Wrightwood land at Base One, where the wily magnate could by
word, gesture, and incomplete statement indicate more than the truth
before Steve's fellow Guardians. Such a program requires too vigorous
a rebuttal; no reply or denial is adequate to remove the doubt that
always lingers.
So Steve entered the main office with a wry smile and nodded at
Wrightwood. He waited the older man out.
"How are you doing?" asked Wrightwood.
"All right."
"A bit dull, isn't it?"
"Life is often dull," remarked Hagen noncommittally.
"Look, Steve, why not take it a bit easier?"
"What do you mean?"
William Wrightwood eyed Steve coldly. "Now look," he said quietly,
"we'll admit for once and for all, that you and I don't get along."
"Well, that's a concession."
"All right, take it as you will. But it's true; for some inexplicable
reason you hate my guts--"
Steve grunted. "It's not so damned inexplicable."
Wrightwood sighed. "What's done is done," he said softly. "But take
a look at the present and the future instead of the past; view this,
honestly if you can, in the eye of an outsider."
"Can you?"
"I can and I have; I've also the opinion of outsiders."
"Do tell."
"I will. You are in what might be called an unpleasant situation. You
are the legal heir to the Interstellar holdings whether or not you deny
it. You were rechristened Wrightwood whether you try to deny it or not.
In the eyes of the world you are my son, brought up by my money and
educated by my background. You--"
"Thanks--"
Wrightwood held up a hand to still Steve's sour voice. "Hear me out.
Instead of acting as heir to my fortune and crown prince to my
business, you engage and embark upon a career which is in diametric
opposition to my interest. In shorter words, you have left my company
in anger and signed up with the opposition."
"Correct."
"So now, possibly to salve your own qualms, you are leaning so far over
backwards that you are about to fall on the back of your head."
Steve snorted.
"Deny it," smiled Wrightwood in a superior manner. "Just to prove to
yourself and to your superiors, you've been cracking down hard on me."
* * * * *
Steve eyed Wrightwood sharply. "Seems to me that your underlings might
be more considerate of your holdings," he snapped.
"What do you mean?"
"It doesn't take a lot to keep things ship-shape. Faulty wiring, frayed
connections, generators with rattles, loose bearings, electron tubes
working past their safety-period. I found three hydrogen thyatrons
running at one-and-one-half times their rating because they were so old
that they were beginning to get sluggish. Just last week in one of your
ships.
"Sure," sneered Steve, "you can get another couple of hundred operating
hours out of a tube by running the filament hotter than normal when it
starts to get weak. But you're running a spaceline, not a spot-welder;
when one of them blows, it's a job for the mop-up squad. Someone's
cutting corners, saving a hundred bucks worth of tubes for a couple of
weeks doesn't pay for lost lives and--"
"I'm aware of the safety factors," said Wrightwood angrily. "The
trouble with these safety factors is that they've been set up because
someone in your outfit took the figures presented by the tube
manufacturers and divided them by two. Instead of running on a hundred
percent safety factor, you've forced us to run on five or six hundred
percent. And do you know why?"
Steve did not reply.
"Because one of the guys who makes standards for the Guardians holds
some stock in a tube company."
"That's a lie!" roared Steve, slamming his fist on the table.
"It's no lie; it's just a fine way to raise the sale of tubes. And
tubes are only one part of the whole. Now--"
Steve roared again. "When the lives of a couple of hundred people
depend upon a chunk of wire the size of a piece of string, heated to
incandescence by electric current, any safety factor can damn well
afford to be trebled and trebled again!"
Wrightwood shook his head solemnly. "This isn't all," he said; "this is
only the beginning. The whole adds up to a staggering sum. But I didn't
bring you in here to hurl accusations at you. I merely want to ask you
to use a bit of tolerant common sense."
"Now I'm lacking in com--"
"Now, now, let's stop roaring like a ruffled lion. The only common
sense you lack, Steve, is the sense that should tell you that running
Interstellar is more self-satisfying than being commissioner of the
Guardians. But look. Let's for the moment admit that a ship--called
X--comes into Tandrel and as it arrives the time-meters on the
thyratrons say that their safe life is up. What then?"
"Replace 'em."
Wrightwood nodded.
* * * * *
Steve looked at the man quizzically. If one of the first tenets of
argument is never to admit for a moment that you are wrong, then why
was William Wrightwood doing it?
Wrightwood shrugged. "Replace them," he agreed. "However, remember the
following items:
"One: Thyratrons such as we use are manufactured on Earth; that's a
long way from here.
"Two: If we replace the thyratrons on Tandrel, the replacements must be
shipped out from Earth as unpaid cargo, and entry-duty, taxes, shipping
charges, and the rest of the hidden costs cause an increase in their
price.
"Three: Since the 'Life-Service' of the tube contains a couple of
hundred percent of safety factor, why shouldn't some of that safety
factor be employed to get the ship back home--maybe ten hours at the
most--thus saving a lot of money?"
Steve began to see the beginnings of an attack on the Theory of Limits,
against which there is only a dogmatic defence, ending in the reduction
to an absurdity, and culminating in the posing of an unanswerable
decision. It is sort of like the age-old argument as to where space
begins and where being a planet ends.
Being a-space does not begin when one leaves the planet; men flew
through the air for centuries before they crossed the void to the other
planets. Yet somewhere in the trip across interplanetary space, the
first travellers must have traversed first the limit of Earth, passed
into Space, and then entered the boundary of Venus.
Where Earth ends and space begins is the Limit; and the easiest thing
to attack is this Theory of Limits.
Earth claims legally that the boundary of Her Domain begins at a height
of five hundred miles above the surface. This is a dogmatic decision,
adhered to because it has been agreed upon by all. So, legally, an
orbiting Station at 499 miles is not in space; while legally the sister
Station operating at 501 miles _is_ in Deep Space. Factually, each of
these stations lie within two-tenths of one percent of being in, or
out, of space; and since the surface of the Earth is far from being
as smooth as a sheet of plate glass, the Limit is based upon Earth's
somewhat arbitrary Sea Level.
Similarly, if a tube's life is rated at ten thousand operating hours,
and a safety factor is accepted at five hundred, can the tube be deemed
inoperative at five hundred and ten hours? Especially when these
'over-age' tubes are returned to Earth or to whatever planet can use
them and resold as 'Used' tubes to factories and installations where
their failure will not cause a call-out of the Guardians. Many such
'Used' tubes, Steve knew, gave a total of twenty thousand hours of
service.
But Steve had his answer ready and waiting. "A few hours more or less
isn't of vital importance," he said; "but what about the really weak
jobs?"
Wrightwood nodded. "That particular gentleman has been reprimanded. But
since then you've grounded three of my ships with less than a total of
twenty hours overtime."
Steve shrugged. "Just so they wouldn't end up with five or six thousand
hours on them--waiting for a lazy day on Earth to change them at
leisure. Especially when the ship has been Earthing every week or so."
"But why be more than normally hard? Why attack Interstellar harder
than the rest?"
"I don't; I have my orders and I'll see that they're carried out."
"You can't think for yourself?" sneered Wrightwood.
"I can and I do--and I think we're right."
"You'll change--when you learn what they're doing to you," said
Wrightwood.
"What do you mean?"
Wrightwood leaned back calmly. "I'm big enough of a man," he said
slowly, "to let you go ahead and join the Guardians. But the Guardians
are afraid of you."
"Bah!"
"Look here," snapped Wrightwood, sitting forward abruptly. "You raised
hell with me because you thought I was meddling in your life. I wasn't;
the only reason they got you entered at Base One is because you're too
bright to drop without an explanation, and the Guardians were afraid to
let Steve Hagen go to some remote base because Hagen is none other than
William Wrightwood, Junior! They want to keep a sharp, official eye on
you, and hand you stale jobs until you get tired and quit. Because they
haven't got a plausible excuse for tossing you out. So I--"
"That's a lie!" roared Steve.
"Okay," chuckled Wrightwood. "Just watch what happens when you make a
fumble. Or," he said slowly after a pause, "do you know that already?
Is that why you're leaning so damned far backwards?"
"Is that all you've got to say?"
"Isn't it sufficient?"
"It's too much."
"Call it that, then," grunted Wrightwood. "I'll wait, Steve."
"I'll see you when hell freezes over--"
"Or when it blows up in your face," warned Wrightwood. He said it to
Hagen's retreating back. Steve had had enough and he was leaving as
quickly as he could.
* * * * *
Steve fumed inwardly. It was sheer frustration; nothing would have
satisfied Steve so much as to step forward and send a hard fist into
Wrightwood's face just to feel the skin crush and the bone beneath it
grate against his knuckle. But against that desire was too many years
of viewing William Wrightwood with the awe and fear that a youth holds
for an adult who has authority and power over him. As a youth, Steve
had neither the physical ability nor the mental agility to cope with
his foster father. Now that the tables had been turned by the years and
Steve could handle William Wrightwood physically, Hagen understood that
physical supremacy would hurt Wrightwood, but would bring only contempt
from the man instead of surrender. And the years had given Wrightwood
their wealth of experience and mental advance as the years had also
aided Steve. Hagen was mentally on the same par with Wrightwood,
while the physical parity had reversed but become banal. So it was
frustration to Steve knowing that he could smash Wrightwood's face but
to no end effect upon the older man.
Somewhere, somehow, to bring Wrightwood to his knees, Hagen had to do
something on his own, of his own, for his own, that would command the
respect and envy of his foster father; preferably something that would
advance Steve while clipping Wrightwood where it hurt the most: his
business and his empire.
* * * * *
Steve was still fuming about his foster father's suggestion when he
returned to Base One. He sat over his desk, writing the reports of his
inspections, and constantly repeated the original question: _Was he
being overly hard on Wrightwood because he disliked him?_
Once or twice the urge to lighten a report came, then once or twice the
desire to make one more damning came; and the result of this was to
leave Steve in a quandary.
He wanted to be fair.
But no man can be honestly fair when his emotions are involved; he
gave up, filled in the report statements in a mechanical manner,
transcribing them from his notes as though he had no opinion other than
the notes, and when he finished that, he felt at least that he had not
been inclined to color the data.
Finishing the paper work, Steve headed for the mess hall and met Lois
on the way. "Coffee?" he asked.
She nodded, looking at him carefully. "What's wrong, Steve?"
"Inspection is not a pleasant job."
"What happened?"
Steve stopped short and looked at her. Lois stopped too, to face him
seriously. "Bribery?" she asked.
Steve said nothing.
Lois stamped her foot. "What kind of man is Wrightwood?" she stormed.
"You'd think we were doing this for spite instead of for his own
protection."
* * * * *
Steve nodded. "William Wrightwood is a power-hungry man," he said.
"Nothing but being an absolute dictator of the universe would satisfy
him, and that would only partially sate him because it is not so much
the wielding of power that pleases Wrightwood. It is the gaining of
more and more power."
"I hadn't considered that."
Steve nodded and turned; they started towards the mess again. "What
makes a man that way?" she asked idly.
"Frustration of one sort or another," he said.
"And what is Wrightwood's particular frustration?"
Steve snorted angrily. "Something in his psyche insists that the
inability to father a son means that the man is less than a man."
"That's ridiculous!"
"Sure it's ridiculous. But it is that sort of ridiculous thing that
has caused more war and suffering than perhaps any other single thing.
William Wrightwood lacks a son. He has--like Napoleon--married and
divorced three women because they could not give him a son. He married
the fourth because she already had a son. Then he killed her because
she could not produce a duplicate for him."
"Oh Steve--that's hard to believe!"
Steve grunted. "It was not murder--legally," he said bitterly. "But
bitterness and recrimination are just as deadly as the knife or the
bullet."
"But how about his foster son?"
"Wrightwood tried everything he could to make a real son of him."
"Well, that's an admirable trait."
"Like hell," gritted Steve. "It is all right to accept a fatherless
child and bring it up as your own. But no man should try to do the
impossible. Wrightwood tried to make a natural son out of an adopted
son. It could not work; he cramped the natural personality of the son,
forced the child to follow the footsteps of what Wrightwood thought a
son of his would follow. So instead of following, the son revolted as
soon as he could and went his own way in direct opposition. Two lives
crudded up by the overwhelming drive of one man."
"You know a lot of him."
"I should," he said simply. "I'm the son."
Lois stopped short again. "You're--William Wrightwood, Junior?"
"I'm Steve Hagen," he snapped.
"But you're his son?"
"I am."
"But you've never said so."
"No one has ever asked me; and I'm not proud of the fact."
Lois was silent.
"And I'm not running undercover," said Steve; "I'd prefer to forget the
whole thing."
"Then why tell me about it?"
"Because I don't want to operate under a false banner; especially with
you. I've said nothing about it because of the natural objection too
many people might have if it became known that William Wrightwood's
foster son was working among the Guardians. The outfit that has bucked
every attempt of his to be gathered into his own little empire."
Lois looked at Steve with a quizzical glance. "But are you here because
you want to work as a Guardian, or because you want to strike back at
Wrightwood?"
"That's a question that I have asked myself and cannot answer
honestly," he said.
Lois nodded quietly, thinking for a moment. "For too many years people
have been denying the right of a son to cash in on his father's
position," she said. "I see no reason why the reverse should not be
true; we should not castigate a son who wants to do the opposite,
insisting that he follow his father's position."
"Let's forget it," said Steve. "Life is too short to be filled with
bitterness. I'm here and here I shall stay regardless of the inner
motive I--"
The outside alarm blared forth in a series of short and long blasts.
Both of them stopped to catch the code, which called for an alert at
Base One while Base Seven handled an alarm. Seven might need help; so
the personnel of One came tumbling out of their relaxation and made
ready, just in case.
"That's not you, Steve," said Lois. "But it's me. Be seein' you."
"No," he admitted, "but there's nothing that says I can't go along and
help if I want to. I'm unattached when I'm off of my inspection job.
A little action will make me feel useful; I'm tired of arguing with
techs about crystallized joints, frayed insulation, and unstandardized
measuring equipment."
Lois nodded cheerfully and headed for Morehouse's office; Steve headed
for his quarters to prepare for the possible recall alarm.
5
It came, that recall alarm, a half hour after the first. The men
at Base One tumbled into the ships and ripped into the sky, Steve
following the flight closely in his inspection ship. The whole crew
went anxiously, cheerfully, for the recall alarm meant that the
threatened ship might possibly be saved.
The flight from Base One arrived on the scene forty minutes after
taking off. The ship was in subspace, ripping along without drive at
three or four hundred times the speed of light, still encased in the
warp.
But it was spacewarp held up and maintained by the conjunction of
warp-planes forced edge to edge by surrounding Guardian ships. The
rescue crew had gone to pick up the people who had flown the ship in
life-craft; the swampers and barriers were sticking close to go to work
if the hard-held warp failed. A mishap on the part of one pilot holding
the warp would fracture the englobement; this was as fatal to the life
of the spacewarp as puncture is in the flank of a toy balloon.
Base One's flight came swirling in and caught the orders from the
Guardian director in charge. Base Seven was used up; every available
ship for the job was holding the warp, it was Base One's job to enter
the warp and close down on the generator room, to fasten tractors to
the free-running ship and slow it down below the speed of light before
the warp broke.
As many as could latched onto the ship and applied their drives. The
ship slowed and the warp-holding ships slowed with it, keeping their
distance.
It was tricky business, for there was just enough lack of spacial
homogeneity to make the course a bit rough; it was somewhat like the
job of running a fleet of vessels close together in a heavy sea.
Then the rest of Base One's power ships came in to stand between
Seven's warp-holding craft, and Base One's warp-planes went forth,
entered the hull of the ship, and established a second englobed warp
around the ruined generator. A third warp was thrown about the ship
just outside of the second, and the whole crew took a deep breath.
Now if one broke, the other would be there.
They were safe; the ship was saved, could be repaired and put in
service again.
The tractors slowed the ship and eventually the whole fleet dropped
below the velocity of light and their spacewarp generators thrummed
down to a growling halt. The galaxy changed in color as the ships
entered prime space and the light of the stars was the real light
that mankind had always seen instead of the unreal glow caused by the
central energies of the suns of the universe. For space itself is
warped naturally in the core of a sun, and the energy glows through a
subspace populated only by the phantom cores of prime space stars--and
the few puny bits of sentient brain that warped space artificially.
Technicians breached the ship with their kits of tools to make repair
as the Guardians broke up their pattern and began the trip back to
their bases.
Steve felt gratified; it was the first generator saved by the Guardian
tactics. And it was worth anything, any cost, any sacrifice to realize
that mankind had some control even over mankind's failures.
He followed the flight back to Base, found a magazine, and relaxed.
* * * * *
Steve was awakened from a light sleep by the ringing of the telephone.
Blinking and wondering, he answered it; Lois Morehouse said: "Steve,
you're wanted here."
"Okay, what's up?"
"The usual."
Steve hung up and pulled himself together. Why they'd want his opinion
again he could not understand. It was obvious this time that the
Guardians had done a fine job; nothing was lost. All he could think
of was the fact that he had gone as an observer and had seen the
incident without taking active part in it. That might possibly give
the committee a less distorted picture than the recount of a man whose
attention was filled with the mechanics of operating against the
possible eruption.
He was preparing his account as he entered Morehouse's office, but once
inside, he saw instantly that there was no committee investigation.
Morehouse and Charlemagne were there. Lois was there. And an air of
trouble was there also.
Morehouse held up a hand. "Hagen, look at that."
Steve turned and looked. In the corner, near the galactic model, stood
a rack and panel, obviously disconnected from the generator room of a
spacecraft.
"Go take a good look at it."
Steve went. He looked.
"Test it!"
Steve turned. "I'll have to get my equip--"
Morehouse snorted. "Just turn it on and check it!"
Steve shrugged. He snapped the master switch and turned the function
switch to _test_. He checked the meters, wondering whether they were
standardized and reading correctly. But he had no need to concern
himself about such a refinement; the servo bridge that balanced the
stress of warp against the pressure of normal space and integrated it
so that the total volume of warped space remained essentially constant
was obviously haywire. Instead of operating with a steady thrust
of power--operating on test by balancing the power from a standard
electric cell against a standard resistance load--the servo bridge was
oscillating.
On, off, on, off, on, off, on--
Rapidly like the swinging of the pendulum of a very tiny wall clock,
on, off, on, off, on, off, on--
No meters were necessary to check this failure; it was as obviously bad
as a flat tire.
Steve turned the gear off and faced Morehouse. He waited, for it was
so obvious that he needed to make no explanation. Morehouse wanted
something--
"Hagen, that was in the ship we just saved."
"That way?" asked Steve incredulously.
"That way."
"That should have been planeted."
"We agree."
"It's criminal."
"We also agree. So," said Morehouse pointedly, "why didn't you clap a
restraint on 'em?"
"Why didn't I what--?"
"You inspected that ship about three hours before it took off."
Steve shook his head. "I'd never have passed it."
"You did. Here's your seal."
Morehouse showed Steve the sheet of paper giving the _Astarte_ a clean
bill of health from the Guardian Patrol.
"Hagen, what kind of a game are you playing?"
"Game?"
"Hagen--or Wrightwood?"
Steve looked at Lois. Morehouse said: "She hasn't told us anything that
we did not know, Wrightwood."
"Look," said Steve angrily, "my name's Hagen."
"How long have you had it?" asked Morehouse.
"All my life. I answer to it."
"We know that. Lois called at you half way across the campus and
you turned; a man taking an assumed name doesn't always react to an
unexpected use of it."
"Look," said Steve, as angrily as before, "I've never tried to conceal
the fact; all I've tried to do is ignore it. So I'm William Wrightwood
Junior, according to a few dozen people who do not believe their eyes
or cannot read. To my friends and to the rest of the world, I am Steve
Hagen, which is the name my father and mother gave me long before I
was born." Steve's eyes grew soft for a moment and he smiled in a
reminiscent fashion. "I've been told that my name would have been
Catherine if I'd been constructed differently."
"All right, what's your game?"
"Game--schmame. What do you mean?"
"Hagen, why are you here and what do you hope to accomplish?"
"I'm here because I want to be a Guardian."
"And how is William Wrightwood fitted into this picture?"
* * * * *
Steve sat down suddenly. "Look, Commissioner Morehouse, if you think
for one moment that I am among the Guardians so that I can cast some
discredit upon them so that William Wrightwood can take over, you're
much mistaken. Wrightwood can roast in hell for all of me."
Steve turned and looked at Lois. "Do you believe me? Are you on my
side--or have you been playing Mata Hari with my feelings?"
Lois flushed. "I believe him, dad."
"Thanks," said Steve drily. "Now about the Mata Hari side of it?"
"Steve, forgive me; I had to know."
"So now you know," he said bitterly. "And so do I."
Charlemagne shrugged. "Steve does a fine enough job," he said. It came
ungrudgingly.
"No doubt," said Morehouse. "And somehow I doubt that Wrightwood could
plan all these years to plant his son in such a manner. To make--"
"Wrightwood has made pawns of everybody he could control," snapped
Steve, "but I'll run my own life."
"We're not running the Guardians as a method of personal revenge,
either," Morehouse said.
"What do you mean?"
"None of us can quite justify the idea that you are planted here for
sabotage. We did bring you to Base One so that we could keep an eye on
you, Hagen."
"Then what--?"
"But granting there is no intention of sabotaging the Guardians, there
is still a fine opportunity of seeing to it that William Wrightwood
gets clipped."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning the possible overlooking of a generator so bad that the ship
would explode, losing for Wrightwood a good bit. Kill off a ship a
month by not working too hard, by looking the other way when the
generator is about to cave in, by slowing down operations--"
"Look, I--"
Morehouse stood up. "Maybe it isn't even conscious," he said slowly.
"Just a subconscious act, blinding the eyes so that a ship is sent
forth to explode."
"What am I? An accident prone?"
"Maybe where Wrightwood is concerned," suggested Morehouse.
"Lord knows I have no love for William Wrightwood," said Steve soberly,
"and I want to strike back at him. But no man knows better than I do
that the way to clip Wrightwood is to wrest some of his power from him
or to go ahead and do that which he deemed impossible."
"He is right," said Lois.
Morehouse swivelled around and looked at her. "Lois, are you in love
with him?"
"I might be. Eventually I may be. Now, I don't know him well enough.
But--"
"You're talking in a circle."
"--but I will say this: I will be a very happy woman if Steve Hagen
turns out to be a right guy."
Morehouse looked at her silently; Steve took a deep breath; Charlemagne
stared at the ceiling. In the silence the computer behind the alarm
screen clicked code; none of them had to turn to look at the galactic
sector. They knew it was a distant base responding to a distant alarm,
two or three hundred light years across the galaxy.
* * * * *
Morehouse eyed Steve, then. "Hagen, we can't take chances on you."
"I'm being tossed out on a premise?"
"Why don't you resign?"
"Why split hairs?" asked Steve.
"A matter of prestige. You have always had an excellent record. Had you
shown any blots, you'd have been cashiered during training school. You
graduated high in the class and therefore--according to the laws--we
had to accept you. Mostly," said Morehouse sharply and hitting his fist
in the palm of his other hand, "because we knew that any reason we give
for releasing you must be air tight. Wrightwood owns too many news
agencies, congressmen, and top-drawer statesmen. He'll eye anything we
do and if he can, he'll yell favoritism, revenge, or rank incompetence."
"And if I resign?"
"That will be your prerogative."
"Also an admission to Wrightwood that he was right?"
"That's your problem."
"I decline."
"We can force your hand, Hagen."
"How?"
"You forget that," said Morehouse, turning and pointing at the faulty
warp generator.
"But--"
"It is hard to believe that a Guardian, even a raw recruit, could miss
such an obvious fault; it is even more difficult to think that such an
oversight was made in malice and revenge."
"I--"
"Then how did it happen?" demanded Morehouse.
"I don't know."
"And you won't resign?"
"No."
"Then until you find out how this warp generator got past your
inspection, you'll be released from duty," said Morehouse. "You have no
status, Hagen. You will wear the uniform in courtesy only, since you
are a member of the organization, and you are subject to our rules.
Your pay will continue, since we have no recourse, and your stated duty
will be one of investigation on one subject only: Ascertaining the base
for this near-explosion!"
"But--"
"That's the edict," said Morehouse.
"Lois--?"
"What can I say?"
"You--?"
"Steve, I think a lot of you. More than I have thought of or considered
any other man. And until hatred came out, you were it. Hatred is a
nasty thing, Steve; it is not a good thing to found a love or a life
upon. So until you rise above your hatred, it's no go. Lose it or burn
it or beat it--and then come back."
Hagen turned and left the office. He felt beaten. Where was he to start?
6
Hours later in his quarters, Steve was still pondering the same
question. There were so many angles to follow. Steve did not like to
think that maybe Morehouse was right, that, subconsciously, he had
overlooked the faulty generator hoping that Wrightwood would lose
by the accident. He certainly had not overlooked the generator with
malice. On the other hand there were other factors that could be
plausible. Wrightwood wanted to control Steve; might not Wrightwood's
own men have fouled the generator, knowing that Steve had checked it
only hours before? The fact that the Guardians got there in time to
save the whole ship indicated that someone was on his toes. Any shadow
of suspicion cast upon Steve would work toward Wrightwood's ends.
Nor were the Guardians beyond suspicion. Wanting to bring this thing
into the open, what better way than to louse the generator themselves
and let the natural course of events take care of Hagen.
It was not a pretty tangle. Every angle remained closed to him; Steve
could not open the first door, for he had not the authority to question
anybody.
But until he got the answer, Steve was not going to do what he wanted
to do.
The days wore on into a week, and then the week grew into a month.
Steve, unattached, roved the galactic sector, nosing in generator rooms
of spacecraft hoping to pick up some clue.
He had to give up the idea of substitution. The generator delivered
to Morehouse's office was the generator that had been taken from the
threatened ship; it was the same generator he had checked a few hours
before the ship took off.
* * * * *
After two months Steve was ready to admit defeat. Only determination
remained, and that was wearing very thin. No longer did he have
the regard of his fellows; his unattached state was practically a
condition of disgrace and everybody knew it. He saw little of Lois;
alone he saw her not at all.
But as the months passed, the trail became colder and colder, and the
incident dropped into the files--was covered up by the regular list of
calls that sent the Guardians out from time to time to take care of
trouble, occasionally to fight a blowup, often to go out and calm down
some stormy condition that possibly would not have blown anyway. The
muttering of the alarm came constantly from one or the other sector of
the galaxy and the Guardians would be out, from one base or another.
But not for Steve; he was licked.
He sat in his quarters quietly unhappy for hours before he pulled the
typewriter from its case and placed it deliberately on the top of his
desk. With a shake of his head, Steve put a sheet of paper in the
typewriter and began to tap out his resignation.
He was licked. Morehouse had given orders that he intended to keep.
Hagen was to locate the reason why the _Astarte_ had a faulty
generator. Period. Or else.
This was time for the "or else" part of it. The thought passed Hagen's
mind that not even an official investigation could uncover the truth
at this late date. He had no chance where every man's hand was against
him. And so--
* * * * *
The telephone interrupted his train of thought, and he got up to answer
it. "Hagen?"
Steve said it was and then tried to identify the voice. It was a hoarse
voice, half a coarse whisper and half an undertone which sounded like
someone trying to disguise his voice--successfully.
"Hagen, d'ye want some dope on the _Astarte_?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm a friend. Look Hagen, if you want some dope on the _Astarte_ come
to Sanaron."
"What's on Sanaron?"
"The dope you want."
"But--"
"Take off in half an hour and we'll be watching for you," said the
voice. Then it hung up.
Hagen wondered. But even a fool's lead was better than nothing and
Steve had followed less likely leads than this in the past three
months. He left the typewriter as it was and went to the spacefield,
where he climbed into the inspection craft and took off for Sanaron.
* * * * *
Sanaron was no long run for the fleet Guardian ship. Steve made it in
jig time and as he dropped his ship on Sanaron's one spaceport, he
saw a planet craft awaiting him. He was whisked across the face of
Sanaron to a large city, deposited on the landing stage of a tall hotel
building, and dropped a few stories to a luxurious suite.
And once again Hagen was face to face with William Wrightwood.
"What goes on?" demanded Steve.
"You want some information on the _Astarte_?"
"I do."
"You've been ordered to locate this information."
Hagen grunted. "Yes."
"Steve, did the fact that you are William Wrightwood Junior have
anything to do with this order?"
"What difference does that make?"
Wrightwood sat back in his chair. "Steve, I hate to do this to you,
but your answers have confirmed my suspicions. This order and its
impossible fulfillment is more like an attempt to have you resign. This
smacks of unfair tactic, and upon that fact I am making my final bid."
"What final bid?"
"Since the Guardians have proven themselves unable to operate as a
completely impersonalized agency, they fail in the one thing they
claim--which is to operate for good or bad, for rich or poor alike.
As such, I can prove the ability to operate the Guardians as a more
efficient agency, and I shall do it!"
"Not if I can help it."
"Tell me, Steve, what can you do?"
"I can--"
"There was a faulty generator on the _Astarte_. How did it get there?
Would you maliciously try to wreck my ship?"
"What do you think?"
"Of course you wouldn't, knowing that the lives of a hundred people
were in the balance. Would I try to wreck my own ship to get you
discredited?"
"Hardly, since you'd lose too much."
"Might the Guardians try?"
"No."
"But there are your three possibilities, Steve. One of them is it!"
"So--"
"So it must be your little friends, who knew they could set a fire,
then put it out without harm to anybody but the man they want to be rid
of."
"That's not my fault," snapped Steve.
"No," smiled Wrightwood, "it's all mine. Remember--I told you that no
matter what you did it would ultimately work toward my success? Why
don't you try aiding me instead of bucking me?"
Steve found himself answering slowly, instead of snapping out a reply.
"Just what do you hope to gain from this?"
"I've gained it," smiled Wrightwood. "I've recordings of this entire
meeting, and the tone of your voice during what you have to say is
sufficient evidence to prove my point: that the Guardians have been
wasting the taxpayers' money by ordering an impossible investigation by
a valued man for the spite they hold against his father."
"I might have expected something like this. You've got no news of the
_Astarte_."
"Yes--I have. Play along with me until I control the Guardians and I'll
see to it that your position is granted back to you. There's no need of
investigating the _Astarte_ anyway; and your Commissioner Morehouse is
going to eat crow before he's finished."
"Bah!" growled Steve. Once more he turned and left his father's
presence abruptly.
* * * * *
He was whisked back to his waiting ship and he took off as fast as he
could. It was no more than a fifty minute run across the star trails to
Base One, and Steve was going to make it as fast as he could.
But ten minutes out of Sanaron, the alarm whispered and then broke into
full clamor.
No danger alarm, this. This was the real thing!
Steve swapped his ship around in space and headed for the spacial
co-ordinates given in the alarm. In his mind's eye he could see the men
tumbling out of their quarters and into the waiting Guardian ships and
hurtling into the black.
Steve found the stricken ship as the squadron came into detector range
and deployed. It was a superliner, one of Interstellar's finest. And as
Steve came up to the _Lunalight_ the life-craft broke the spacelocks
and streaked out and away.
Once more the englobement of warping planes started; plate to plate
they formed, jockeying to make their forward-flung planes of warp lie
against one another, edge to edge so that the volume enclosed was
contained without leak. Tractor ships hurtled up and latched onto the
ship and started to bring it down in speed.
But this was not the time; one of the plane ships faltered and the
edge of its warp plane broke contact with its neighbor. The spacewarp
fractured, and then with the enigmatic peculiarity of a collapsing
warp, the volume began to drop back toward prime space from the center
out. The warp generator itself, in the bowels of the ship, broke into
prime space first.
Matter, at a thousand times the velocity of light, dropping into a
space where matter cannot exceed the velocity of light!
Where the tiniest speck of matter will have infinite mass when the
speck reaches the velocity of light.
Where the time-field of the mass becomes zero as the velocity of light
is reached.
It was like a stellar nova.
A searing intensity of energy trailed out behind the ship and left
a streak a million miles long in a matter of microseconds. The ship
itself collapsed over the trail of energy, and the whole exploded
finally in a hundred-billion mile long course leaving the trailer of
raw, unbound energy spread out for the span of a solar system.
Then the trailer itself exploded, blowing streamers of torrential
energy deep into space. Bits and shags of the blazing stuff flew away,
great gouts, shapeless and viciously scintillating, roared along the
ship's course.
The tractors fled; the plane ships had been hurled back, away, and now
were lost in the sky--far behind. They hurried to catch up, for they
could hurl their planes of spacial warp against a flaming mass of raw
energy and bat it aside like a ping-pong paddle slaps the ball aside.
The swampers circled in and the cone projectors fenced with the darting
spears of flaming power.
It was Steve that remembered Sanaron. "Charlemagne!" he roared into his
mike.
"Who's calling?"
"Hagen. Remember Sanaron."
"Sanaron?"
"Ten minutes back at full drive lies Sanaron!"
"God!"
And then, for the first time in the history of space, in the history of
the Guardians, came the dreaded Black Alarm.
* * * * *
Sanaron was a complete stellar system, eight habitable planets well
inhabited by every possible form of sentient life. The star, Sanaron,
was a nondescript G-zero that would not have had even a number in
the Terran catalogs before the conquest of space, but Sanaron was a
full-grown star in the flush of its energic cycle. Once the raving
centroid of raw energy erupted from the _Lunalight_ fell into the
gravitational field of Sanaron it would drop into the star. And then
mankind would see, a supernova in operation--for a brief instant before
this system cremated itself.
The Black Alarm!
Across the galaxy it went. Guardians from every base in Sector One
alerted and took off within a matter of minutes. Guardians from joining
sectors moved into Sector One, spreading out through the sector to
keep the sector protected; Guardians from outlying sectors moved in,
again spreading out. Thinned but active, the Guardians released useful
personnel to go out and fight the Black Alarm.
"Charlemagne!"
"Now what?"
"Can I help?"
"Yes," came the cryptic reply; "stay out of our way."
Steve snarled, but he got no reply.
A gout of energy flashed past his viewport, blinding him. Then he
realized that he was unprotected, and only a nuisance here.
But--
"Go along with him," said William Wrightwood. "Aid him, and--"
Steve laughed bitterly; swapped ends, and flashed along the line toward
Sanaron.
He dropped down upon Wrightwood's hotel and dashed along the corridor.
He shouldered his way into the suite with a yell that brought servants
and hotel detectives running. It also brought William Wrightwood from
his bed, clad in a pair of pale blue silk pajamas.
Somehow it seemed appropriate to flee a holocaust in a pair of
passionate pajamas, and for the first time in years Steve saw a bit of
humor in his father's mien.
"Black Alarm," he said breathlessly. He shoved Wrightwood back into the
bedroom and shut the door on the incoming help.
"Can't save 'em all," said Steve, working his false-fear act for all it
was worth. "Slip out with me and we'll es--"
"Good boy, I knew you had what it took."
Wrightwood started to look for clothing.
"No time," snapped Steve. "_Lunalight_ blew up ten minutes spacedrive
out of Sanaron. The Guardians have the Black Alarm running, but the
magma will get here first. That's raving death from an exploding sun
for a billion people living on eight planets. Come on."
Wrightwood looked out of a window frantically. Everything seemed so
solid, so safe. Yet--
He turned and nodded at Steve.
* * * * *
With a sly grin Wrightwood could not see, Steve led the older man out
into the chill of night and relished the shiver as the cold bit in
through the silk pajamas and struck at the man. Then they were into the
Guardian craft and into space.
"Where--?"
Steve shrugged. "Want to see it?" he asked.
Horrified, Wrightwood nodded.
Eight minutes later they were approaching the scene. Spread out on a
shapeless form ten million miles across, tongues and streamers of raw
energy flared forward, flaying space before it as it came. At a hundred
and seventy thousand miles per second it came toward Sanaron, so near
to the velocity of light that the roaring particles of energy had
enormous mass.
No need for the great searchlights here, for the coverage of the
explosion was so great that there was no need to filter the blackness
away.
Instead, Guardians played before the oncoming death and fought it.
With a quiet disregard for death, Steve ran his little ship to within a
mile of the raving storm front and matched its velocity.
White-faced and awed, William Wrightwood watched the horror without
really knowing how close he was to death. It was too big to be
personal, that flaming front. He saw the circling ships fighting first
this tongue and then that, saw the planers fencing the streamers in,
holding them while coners sucked away the raving energies and spread
them too far apart to be tangible. He saw the swampers soar in to chill
a raving island of exploding space, and watched with heaving stomach
one of the Guardians get touched by a lance of flame--saw it go searing
into death to recreate an island of raw fire of itself.
Then the mad attack against the roaring furnace cleared; Wrightwood
began to see that there was a pattern to this.
Methodically the Guardians were isolating the forward-reaching tongues
of energy from the main mass; cutting them off, and swamping them. From
behind, as Steve circled the scene, planers and swampers were closing
in on the trailing flame, chopping it off bit by bit and chilling it
out of existence.
Sanaron was no longer a star lost in the stellar field. It was a
flaming disc that could be seen, but to look at it hurt the eyes. Steve
knew; Sanaron was not too far away.
He hurled his ship to the front again.
And then, as though it were a wave hitting a breakwater, the
coruscating front dashed against the massed warp-planes of a whole
squadron of Guardians, braced, planted, ready and waiting. The planes
buckled and the squadron was forced back but the raving front
flattened against the planes and was washed aside; turned back, spread
to curl around the edges like tongues of doom reaching for the prey
that lurked behind the wall. The squadron retreated, forming its shape
as it went, until firm pressor rays behind the out-flung planes felt
for and caught the core of Sanaron's outermost planet. With planetary
mass behind, the squadron held a parabolic shield in space, ploughing a
hole in the racing field of exploding energy.
* * * * *
Fire and flame enveloped the planet, passed around it, held from it by
the warp-planes of the Guardians. A ship crumpled and died; its place
was refilled by a spare. Another ship ran out of power abruptly and it
was replaced until it could drop into the planet and recharge.
Then, as abruptly as the passing of an ocean wave, the roaring furnace
in space was passed. The swampers and coners that fought the rear guard
of the flaming death appeared in the tortured sky, scurrying around to
wipe out the isolated trailers that the passage of the holocaust had
left behind.
Another squadron came out of the blackness, a group from a distant
sector that plunged past the planet and hit the flame from the rear.
Steve circled the field of horror again and Wrightwood, his face
pressed against the viewplate, watched the arrival of three more
squadrons that hit Sanaron, formed a plate-to-plate shield while
fighting for position, and established their protection for the next
planet with a matter of seconds to spare.
One streamer leaked through a crevasse in the hastily-made shield, and
the inside of the paraboloid was filled with swampers that fought the
flame right to the atmosphere of the planet before it died.
And as the sun itself came under attack, the bulk of the racing
squadrons came circling in from distant sectors. Men and sentient
beings coming prepared to fight a supernova, to stand in there while a
sun explodes, fighting space to hold a tenuous barrier in place to save
the fragments of humanity that lived on the eight planets of Sanaron.
But Sanaron the Sun had mass, and the flaming particles of the erupting
space had mass but were discrete.
There was a turning in the flame, a coalescence that centered, radially
inward, upon the sun that waited for it and attracted it. With stellar
mass behind, the flung planes of warped space held well, but the mass
of energy, as its volume was, and the gouts and streamers of raw
flaming space flattened against the plates and curled along them,
creeping around and around. And around and around.
"Hold 'em," cried Steve.
Wrightwood turned anxiously. "What are they trying to do?"
Steve smiled wearily. "We're going to establish a complete globe around
Sanaron and hold that raving horror out of the stellar mass."
"But--"
"The rest--on the outside--will fight it."
"And if they fail?"
Steve's expression told him.
"But Steve--there's ten thousand ships trapped inside of that sphere of
raving energy."
"Yup."
"And they'll--they'll--?"
"_They'll?_ You mean _we'll_. Yes. We'll die. But we're not going to
die; the Guardians never die...."
The sphere of roaring energy closed down on the last avenue of escape.
Outside was sheer hell. Below them was the stellar furnace called
Sanaron, giver of life and death. Above them was a completed sphere of
raw hell trying to drop down and add its raw mass-energy to Sanaron.
Somewhere outside raced and circled the rest of the Guardians, swamping
the fires of exploding space and trimming down the depth of the energy
bit by bit.
But doggedly they held, and an hour passed before there came a shout
over the radio, a shout barely heard through the overwhelming roar of
cosmic static. The sphere had thinned!
From that moment on it was certain. Once mankind got the upper hand
over his foe, aided and augmented by beings from far across the galaxy
devoted to the same program, the horror-fires were due to die swiftly.
The flaming skies opened, spread, became isolated bits of intolerable
light, and then winked out as sheer mass of numbers hit them from
all sides with swamping volumes and rayed cones. Planers swept bits
together into a larger flame and called for swampers to come and chill
it.
Then, once more plate to plate, the planers formed into a mighty single
plane and swept space like a cosmic dragnet, forcing the danger out
into deep space where there was no danger.
Then came the final signal; the Black Alarm was finished.
* * * * *
William Wrightwood, Senior, faced Commissioner Morehouse openly. "But
so many--?" he faltered. Wrightwood was wearing his foster son's
clothing and it looked a bit incongruous to see the jaunty uniform on
the elderly Wrightwood.
Morehouse shrugged. "The reptilian culture from Sector Eight is as
helpful as the cockeyed gang of cat-men from Nine."
"But--"
"Of course they're not reptiles nor cats. None of them have ever
been within a hundred light years of Terra. But they're sentient,
brilliantly so. They love their own music and their own literature
and their own art, none of which means anything to any other culture,
really. But we have a common ground to base the Galactic Civilization
upon--someday. We all have the fear of destruction and the willingness
to fight against it. To help our neighbor fight it, even though he sees
colors we cannot, and can hear sounds we cannot hear."
"My mighty little empire looks a bit small--"
"Indeed."
"Morehouse, it strikes me that you're up a tree."
"I am?"
"You've got a fine man here trapped in a lousy job. I'll bet a hat I
can get farther along than either you or he can about finding the truth
about the _Astarte_." Wrightwood smiled. "Then you can take him off
that job."
"Maybe," smiled Morehouse. "But remember that I'm giving the orders. I
can also rescind them--providing they need rescinding."
"Well?"
"Do they need rescinding?" asked Morehouse. "Does Steve still hate you?"
"No man can really hate another man that he's just succeeded over,"
said Wrightwood. "Watch!" Wrightwood turned and called: "Hey! Steve!"
Steve Hagen turned away from Lois Morehouse. "Yes, dad?" he replied.
He came across the office holding her hand.
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