Thirty-sevenShe was large, brutish-looking woman, a threadbare green pullover stretched taut across her ample bosom, her face deeply wrinkled, burnt the colour of leather by the sun. She appeared mannish, but moved her heavy bulk with a lightness of foot which lent an air of athleticism. Curious, thought Françoise as he looked across to the pilot who, himself, appeared perplexed.
“Who is this?” she asked.
She had not lowered her shotgun, despite the passwords being exchanged. Françoise had the pistol in his belt, the carbine slung over his shoulder, and the powerful rifle in his hands. A devastating arsenal, true enough, but how to bring any of it to bear before those two wicked-looking barrels exploded and made a mess of them both? It troubled him he should think this way. The woman was
