"I'm sorry, Dad," she said all in a rush. "I've thought about it a long time. I thought I'd forget him after a little while. I wasn't able to. I'm in love with him—I'll always be in love with him. When I come back, I'm bringing him with me. We're going to be married here."
Now, finally, the storm broke out of him. He yelled at her, he stamped around, his fists pounded the air—it was just as she had pictured it, dreaded it. Yet she was unshaken now, detachedly able to watch him as if he were some unruly, unintelligent child. I am going to marry him, she had said, and once the words were out, everything else was easy. There were no problems. There was nothing to be afraid of.
"His name is Gregrill," she said. "They don't have last names. We'll have to make one up or perhaps use mine."
"I'll see my daughter dead before I let her marry a Martian!" Harley roared.
"But if she really loves him—" Ethel intruded timorously.
"Loves him? Love that miserable scum?"
"Dad, please," Joyce said quietly. "You're condemning somebody you've never seen."
"I don't have to see him! He's a Martian, isn't he? He has horns, doesn't he?"
"They're not horns. They're antennae."
"Call them what you like, they're horns!"