She was tall. I am short and thick. I had to look up to see her face—to see as much of it as the rain-grey night would let me see.
“You’ll be soaked to the hide, running around in this rain,” I objected.
“What of that? I am dressed for it.”
She raised a foot to show me a heavy waterproof boot and a woolen-stockinged leg.
“There’s no telling what we’ll run into down there, and I’ve got work to do,” I insisted. “I can’t be looking out for you.”
“I can look out for myself.”
She pushed her cape aside to show me a square automatic pistol in one hand.
“You’ll be in my way.”
“I will not,” she retorted. “You’ll probably find I can help you. I’m as strong as you, and quicker, and I can shoot.”
The reports of scattered shooting had punctuated our argument, but now the sound of heavier firing silenced the dozen objections to her company that I could still think of. After all, I could slip away from her in the dark if she became too much of a nuisance.
“Have it your own way,” I growled, “but don’t expect anything from me.”
“You’re so kind,” she murmured as we got under way again, hurrying now, with the wind at our backs speeding us along.