"Phooey—a woman!"
She saw the half-grin lurking on Andy's face, and jerked away, her cheeks flaming.
"He liked to have you stand close to him, the idiot," said Oscar in an easy way.
"Mind your manners!" said Andy sharply, but the thlot only grinned and wrinkled his nose to show his disgust. Oscar was a woman-hater.
"Now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?" she snapped.
"Do? Do with you—" It was a poser, Andy saw. He hadn't wanted a woman, hadn't bargained for one, and hadn't the least idea of what to do with one. He knew that men frequently married them, and while he was thirty-three and quite old enough to get married, he hadn't been planning on it, for space men on the Jupiter run usually didn't live long enough to enjoy matrimony. And anyhow, Andy had a vague idea that you were supposed to be in love before you got married, after an appropriate interval of moonlight, and romance, and nonsense.
"I'm not going to do anything with you," Andy continued, shaking his head.
"Why did you jump on me then?"
"I! Hell, woman!—I beg your pardon—Why did you shoot at me?"
"Because you and your gang tried to jump my claim. You know that as well as I do."