"What I'm trying to tell you," the Skipper said, "is that Miss Palmer has a Company pass to ride with you."
"Miss Palmer!" The trouble shooter frowned belligerently. "Any relation to Palmer who is the manager on Venus?"
"Daughter, I think."
"Well, you can tell Miss Palmer for me that she's out of luck. Hell, I'll make a bet she's one of two kinds of dames: Either she's the flighty kind who thinks it's just too too divine to explore another planet, or she's the needle-nosed kind who'd drive me nuts with her complaints in half a clock-around!"
"I can assure you that she fits neither of those descriptions," the Skipper said, smiled. "In fact, she's about the nicest bit of meteor fluff that's crossed my rockets in many a day."
"Thank you, Captain," Jean Palmer said amusedly from behind Don Denton. She walked past the trouble shooter, turned to face him squarely. "Woman hater?" she finished quizzically.
Don Denton flushed, his tan deepening, his startlingly blue eyes evading the mocking, brown eyes of the girl. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, his collar suddenly tight and constricting.
"Er—no!" he said defensively, "I—er, well, just don't want any company on my ship."
He felt the flush deepening beneath the level glance of the girl, and hot blood was suddenly pounding at his temples.
The Captain had been right; certainly she didn't fit either of the descriptions Don Denton had given. She was tall, her softly waved crown of hair almost even with the trouble shooter's mouth. And the mannish cut of her plastic dress only served to emphasize the femininity of her body.