The black alarm

Twenty years as private secretary to William Wrightwood had prepared Miss Peters to meet any contretemps except the angry, purposeful arrival of Steve Hagen, who strode through her outer office with no more than a nod at her, and opened the door to Wrightwood's private office.

"Is this another of your tricks--" roared Steve, cutting off his voice by shutting the door behind him abruptly.

Miss Peters had a quiet nervous breakdown, for Hagen was William Wrightwood's stepson, who had renounced his rechristening not long after reaching adulthood. She began to plan an explanation--which would not hold water since Wrightwood was the kind of executive who gives orders not to be disturbed and demands that they be observed. Not even the angry arrival of his estranged stepson was excuse for not having an appointment.

She wondered what was going on, and slyly opened the key of the desk phone.

"You're as devious as a scenic railway and you know it."

"Walter, my boy--"

"My name is Steve Hagen and you know it!"

"If you persist; but to me you will always be my son."

"I wouldn't have you for a father as a gift," roared Steve. "Now tell me how you wrangled this."

"I didn't wrangle anything. Just what makes you think--?"

"This is just too damned trite for accident."

"I've not had any finger in the pie of your little interstellar fire-department, son."

"No? Then explain why and how a rookie out of training school gets an appointment to District One Control Base?"

"You were an honor student, were you not?"

"Not that high. Base One is staffed with men of experience, not raw trainees."

"Never?"

"Not in twenty years, at least. And the last rookie that did it came from school to Base One because he was Marshall Craig's son."

"You should be gratified."

"I'm mad as hell. I want no interference nor help from you--or the likes of you."

"That's not a nice thing to say about a foster father."

"Do I owe you allegiance because I was taken into your clutches at the age of three?" demanded Hagen angrily.

"Your mother--"

"Leave her out of this!" gritted Hagen. "Get back to the subject; just what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm not doing anything!" roared William Wrightwood. "And no one can say that I am."

"If you think for one moment that I'm going to do anything for you--"

The smoothness came back into Wrightwood's voice. "I don't have to play games with new recruits," he said. "Things work out my way in the long run."

"All but one," sneered Hagen; "you haven't been able to steer me."

"Have I ever tried?"

"Hell, yes."

"Then it is the proper responsibility of any man to try to mold and direct the character of his son--"

"Like Fagin, training pickpockets?"

"Son, you've yet to learn that villainy is just a point of view."

"So it may be--but this is my view."

"Wal--Steve, if you insist--just why do you want to join the Guardians instead of taking your place as head of Interstellar?"

"And command a squadron of Large Oak Desks?"

"It takes your kind of brains to run a company as big as Interstellar, but any idiot can buckle on a sword and play pirate."

"So--you've trained me for better things?" sneered Hagen.

"Yes. I have."

"I don't like it. I--"

"I'm not stopping you," said Wrightwood. "Go on and play your game of fireman; I'll wait until you come to your senses. Then, as usual, I'll have my way. But remember--I did not in any way tamper with your affairs. Go look elsewhere for a reason why you were appointed to First Base."