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.