"Cut out that damned caterwauling!" he ordered. "This is war. The fact that just you and me, and some wild Martian Indians, are involved in this war doesn't make it any less deadly. If we don't get them, they'll get us." He held up his bandaged hand. "Do you think the tribesman who did that was after my fingers? He wasn't! What he wanted was my head!"
"All right, all right, I understand this intellectually, it's just that my emotions got involved."
"Get them uninvolved," he said. "How could you see that Martian when I couldn't?"
"Better ability to differentiate colors, probably," the girl answered. "Women can usually see colors better than men. That was the way I picked him out."
"Do some more differentiating between colors," he invited, waving her back to the sight of the Rangeley. "Maybe, by Harry, we'll get out of here alive after all!" Hope surged in his voice. "If we do—"
"If we do, then what?" the girl asked.
He shook his head. "If we do get out, I couldn't tell you anyhow. There's no point in talking. But in case we don't get out, I want you to know that you're a mighty nice kid."
"Well—thanks." Her eyes were deep blue again, like the skies of Earth. She moved toward him.
"Hey, what did you do that for?"
"Just an impulse. I always kiss men who tell me I'm a nice kid."