They were turning to leave when Lynn Clark presented herself. "Hold on," she said. "I'm going along."
"Nonsense!" exploded the director. "The women are staying here in the ship!"
Matt said, "Don't be obstinate, Lynn."
But the girl set her mouth. "I'm the official photographer and reporter. It's my job."
She was dressed in breeches and boots and a loose shirt. She had a holstered automatic slung about her hips, and it wasn't a woman's pearl-handled toy, but an ugly black .45 automatic pistol.
Matt said, "We don't know what we might run up against. Frankly, Lynn, we can't afford to be handicapped with looking after you."
She gave him a scathing glance. "I can take care of myself. I don't need you or anyone else to look after me!"
She walked to the open air lock, drew the automatic and fired six shots at a sapling some twenty-five yards distant.
Bark flew. The sapling quivered. All six shots, Matt realized, could have been covered by a four-inch circle.
She turned around and eyed the palaeobotanist coolly. "As for taking care of myself, Mister Magoffin, I may not be as big as a horse, but I can handle you. If you've any doubts, I'm perfectly willing to bat your ears down to prove it." And she eyed him wickedly.