"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.
* * * * *