"Well, have we got company?" a voice boomed heavily after a moment. Evan Harwich turned about slowly. Standing in the arched entrance of the laboratory chamber, beneath the ancient, grinning gargoyle of carven granite that formed the keystone of the arch, were two people. They must have just come in from town. One was a man, as tall as Harwich himself, but much broader. He looked jovial, overfed, and just faintly sly. Harwich knew him a little. He kept a small printer's establishment in Ganymede City, repaired delicate instruments, and made loans on the side. "Hello, Harwich!" the big man greeted loudly. "You look surprised to see me here! Well, I'm just as up in the air as you are, to find you around. How come? You see I've been financing Paul Arnold's researches since old John was killed. Has Paulie talked you into some part in the great miracle hunt on Io, too?" "Hello yourself, Bayley," the patrol man returned in not too friendly a tone. "Yes, I've joined up." Harwich was a little more than surprised to see the fat printer here. He didn't like the setup at all. Not that he had anything definite against George Bayley. The latter had always seemed good-natured and honest, except for some elusive trace of insincerity in his manner, his voice, and his little squinted eyes. 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.