"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."