“You mean to tell me that that bleached blonde over there won’t spill everything she knows fifteen minutes after we leave here?” Cloud demanded.
“Just that. You can’t judge character by hair, even if it were bleached, which it isn’t. You owe her an apology, Storm.”
“If you say so, I do, and I hereby apologize, but. . . .”
“But to get back to the subject,” the Lensman went on, narrowing his thought down so sharply as to exclude Joan. “You can do something. You’re the only one who can. Such being the case, and since you are no longer indispensable. I withdraw all objections. Go ahead.”
Cloud started a thought, but Joan blanked him out. “Lensman, has Storm been sending—can he send information to you that I can’t dig out of his mind?”
“Very easily. He is an exceptionally fine tuner.”
“I’m sorry, Joanie,” Cloud thought, hastily, “but it sounded too much like bragging to let you in on. However, you’re in from now on.”
Then, aloud, “Vesta, I’m staying with you,” he said, quietly.
“I was sure you would,” she said, as quietly. “You are my friend and Zamke’s. Although your customs are not exactly like ours, a man of your odor does not desert his friends.”
Cloud turned then to the four lieutenants, who stood close-grouped. “Will you four kids please go back to the ship, and take Joan with you?”