Was this the kind of man for Paul Arnold to choose as a patron, particularly when he was in pursuit of the incredibly advanced science which must exist on Io? A science that might benefit the human race immeasurably, or might result in wholesale destruction and confusion, if it was wrongly and selfishly used?
Evan Harwich couldn't have answered yes or no to this question.
There was a painful pause in the conversation. Harwich found himself looking at the girl, who had entered with the big printer, and to whose arms the latter clung with a kind of bearish possessiveness. She was small and dainty. Her blonde hair, combed back tightly, fitted her head like a cap. She was wearing a plain but tasteful black dress with a white collar.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Paul Arnold exclaimed after a moment. "Clara, this is Evan Harwich of the Patrol. Evan, this is my sister. I didn't tell you that I had a sister, did I?"
The girl only nodded slightly, and smiled a warm, friendly little smile. But why did the big patrol pilot find her more attractive than any other girl he had ever seen? Perhaps mostly it was those wistful eyes of hers, not gold flecked like her brother's, but clouded amber. They were mild and troubled and knowing. Maybe Clara Arnold's life, as the daughter of a martyred scientist, had made them like that. Harwich knew that he might conquer not only the Forbidden Moon, but the stars themselves, and still remember those eyes.
"Now we all know each other," Bayley boomed. "We're one big happy family—or are we?" He looked at Harwich significantly, a definite scowl now crinkling his heavy brows. "Harwich," he added, "we appreciate your company a lot. Only we are engaged in some pretty serious business here, and it doesn't allow us to take in outsiders."
For reasons of his own, Bayley was trying to get rid of the big patrol pilot. But Harwich was inclined to be very stubborn, naturally, and faint, pleading looks from both Clara and Paul Arnold, made him doubly so, just at present.
Harwich had the aspect of a very dangerous adversary in a physical encounter; his weathered features were far from beautiful, and at certain times he had a way of grinning that made him look like a good-natured devil with a hot pitchfork hid behind his back. He turned on that grin, now.
"What's in that package sticking out of your coat-pocket, George?" he asked the fat printer breezily. "It's about the right size and shape to be the new Gyon condenser we need. I was going to buy one myself; but seeing that you've already done so, we might as well go to work installing it in the Penetrator apparatus."