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.