She tensed. “Such as?”

“Such as cleaning house, washing socks, sewing buttons—”

“I’m a meteorologist! I never sewed a button in my life!”

“Well, there’s a sewing machine in back. We don’t know how to use it.”

“Neither do I!” she snapped.

Gus looked at her with annoying tolerance. “Being feminine bugs you, doesn’t it.”

Perfect shot! Her first impulse was to hit him again, to make him go down with another wail for his buddy. Her second was to launch a tirade on masculine arrogance. But she was better rested now, and dry, and not so hungry, and her more sober third impulse prevailed. She would not be baited! “All right—I’ll sew buttons!”

Gus shrugged with just one shoulder, knowing he had the upper hand now. “You don’t have to. That was only an example.”

“Yes I do have to,” she said with controlled fury. “Because I have other values, and I’m not joining your kingdom.”

The vehicle slowed. “There’s one,” Thatch said.

Another pickup. “Male or female?” Zena asked.

“Female,” Gus said, swinging around to look. “Young. And single. We don’t even stop for nonsurvival types. I told you.”

“Do you mean you leave them standing, knowing they will drown?” she demanded. But that required no answer: of course they did.

It was female, all right. A tall girl with long blonde hair, her breasts standing out like turrets in the plastered mess that was her dress. Zena was relieved to see her; a statuesque blonde was exactly what was needed to distract the men.

Gus got out of his seat and pushed open the door as the motor-home halted. The sound of the rain became loud, making Zena shiver. “Welcome aboard!” Gus cried, extending his big hand.

“Thank you, sir,” the blonde answered. Her voice was low and husky, as befitted her appearance. A sex bomb, despite what originally had been reasonably decorous apparel. She stepped up lithely, showing muscular legs above the tall heels. She was shorter than Gus, but not by much. “That rain! Will it never stop?”