I object to Broeske's objection that Sigourney Weaver bucked sci-fi tradition by not leaving her derring-do to her male counterparts.
It's not that I knock Weaver's intergalactic predecessors, you understand. Gee whiz, under normal conditions, I'd be the first to swoon complacently into Michael Biehn's arms. But being pursued by an acid-spewing, slime-soaked beastie with a one-track mind is not what most normal women would cal normal conditions (but then again . . .).
I guess what I'm trying to say is that should I ever find myself in similar circumstances, I would happily eschew the company of a squealing objet d'sex for that of a strong-willed lady with good aim and sensible shoes.