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.
Someone tittered.
Matt could feel himself getting red. His neck swelled. Then his sense
of humor came to his rescue, and he roared, slapping his thighs. He
couldn't have done anything that would have disconcerted Lynn more.
She flushed darkly and slung the camera about her neck. "Nevertheless,
I'm going along."