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?"