The barriers had enclosed the main warp in a faceted enclosure, their barrier planes intersecting to make a complete prison. Then, in through the surface of the volume went nullifier bombs; once more space exploded as the main vortex was broken. Then it was dash, blot-out, and circle; dart, dodge, and wipe away tongue and finger of flame again until the last scintillating trace of vortex was gone. Steve wiped his face. "Halligan!" "Check, Cap'n." "Y'all right?" "Shook up but alive." "Can y' make it back?" "I'll be late but I can make it." "Hagen!" "Yes sir?" said Steve. "You follow Halligan for safety." "Cap'n, maybe I'd better have Norman," came Halligan's voice. "Hurt worse than you admit, huh? Okay, Norman, you heard him. Hagen, this is no slur; you'll have your chance when you have more savvy." "I'm aware of my inexperience," said Hagen. "We'll let you get experience enough; stay with the wipe-up squad." "Check." Hagen felt a bit miffed, but he knew that he should not be hurt. This was his first alarm, his first job in the Guardians. Halligan had every reason to prefer a more seasoned man to a raw recruit when his life depended upon it. Then, automatically, Hagen felt better. He was, at least, appointed to help the clean-up squad. They would patrol this space at random, watching for a trace of flaming vortex. If none appeared for two hours, they would watch for a total of six to be certain before going home. Minute vortexes, space warped into a complete circle with a flow of radiant energy coursing around in them, might maintain for some time invisibly, feeding and growing by their contact with the discrete atoms of interstellar space, attracted by the monstrous force of gravity centered on the vortex. If left unswamped, they might grow into a real menace to navigation. But the barriers would blanket space, and the swampers would be ready to wipe out any vortex broken against the plane of force. Then, their job done, they could go home for a well-earned rest. Hagen watched the squadron re-form, watched waiting rescue craft collect from the distant flights, then watched them disappear, heading back the way they all had come. He felt a bit of panic; he felt alone in the depths of interstellar space in a unique spacecraft that was sixty percent accumulator, fifteen percent driver, and fifteen percent swamper-beam. The other zero-percent was put there for his comfort and protection. He was one hundred and sixty pounds of analog computer, employed to serve a monstrosity of spacecraft built for a single purpose. He was there only because no man could cram enough binary circuits and analog differentials to equal one thousandth of the human brain into one hundred and sixty pounds and a few cubic feet. But Steve Hagen was a Guardian! 2