Silently they followed him, as he led, to a small room. There was a bed, a set of controls—from this point the mechanisms for opening the double doors had been set in motion—a small heating unit, and a large armchair. As their eyes roved about the room, a figure arose unsteadily from the chair and faced them—a tall, gaunt man, white-haired, his eyes looking as if he had been lost for a thousand years.
Wordlessly he stared at them, as Nick stepped forward, his voice husky.
“Steve!”
The older man looked at him, a sort of dull bewilderment spreading across his face. “Hello, Nick,” he said softly. “I was sort of wondering when you’d come. Who are your friends?”
“I’m Dorothy Gilbert,” spoke up that person coming forward, “and I think I’d better fix something for you right away, Steve. You look as if you haven’t had a square meal since Sinbad went sailing.”
The older man grinned wanly. “Guess I haven’t been eating any too regularly. Haven’t had much company, you see since—”
“Tell us about it later,” interrupted Dorothy. “Edgar, break out the rations and help me with this thing. Looks like an old model.”
“Nothing to it,” murmured Vickers. “I’m Edgar Vickers,” he added in Hartnett’s direction; “my brother, Bob, is the slack-mouthed individual you see behind me. There’s three other fellows in the party, but they stayed back in the ship.”
Hartnett sat down on the bed, his eyes wandering from one to another. “Nice girl you have there, Nick,” he whispered. “You’re not letting any of these other lads get the jump on you, eh?”