eyes

but a small wooden dock ran out into the lake. At the far end of the dock an old rowboat lay tethered. And—quite obviously—it was no longer the middle of a bright afternoon, the air was beginning to dim, to shift towards evening.
Barney turned to find McAllen’s mild, speculative eyes on him, and saw the old man had put a tackle box and fishing rod on the table.
“Your disclosures disturbed me more than you may have realized,” McAllen remarked by way of explanation. His lips twitched in the shadow of a smile. “At such times I find nothing quite so soothing as to drop a line into water for a while. I’ve some thinking to do, too. So let’s get down to the dock. There ought to be a little bait left in the minnow pail.”

When they returned to the cabin some time later, McAllen was in a pensive mood. He started a pot of coffee in the small kitchen, then quickly cleaned the tackle and put it away. Barney sat at the table, smoking and watching him, but made no attempt at conversation.
McAllen poured the coffee, produced sugar and powdered milk, and settled down opposite Barney. He said abruptly, “Have you had any suspicions about the reason for the secretive mumbo jumbo?”
“Yes,” Barney said, “I’ve had suspicions. But it wasn’t until that happened”—he waved his hand at the wall out of which they appeared to have stepped—“that I came to a definite conclusion.”
“Eh?” McAllen’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “What was the conclusion?”
“That you’ve invented something that’s really a little too good.”
“Too good?” said McAllen. “Hm-m-m. Go on.”
“It doesn’t take much power to operate the thing, does it?”
“Not,” said McAllen dryly, “if you’re talking about the kind of power one pays for.”
“I am. Can the McAllen Tube be extended to any point on Earth?”
“I u