"How do you know they won't ... use ... all three of us?" shuddered Karen.
"The Skirkhi have learned to be frugal. They'll save something for next season. Otherwise, they'd have to raid some other tribe or elect one of them."
"But, before then, either a rescue ship or one from the Survey will have arrived, don't you think?" suggested Trent.
"What are you getting at?"
"Well ... this: assuming that you are not exaggerating your distrust of the natives, if they actually feel it necessary to ... er ... sacrifice to these sky spirits, that will still leave the remaining two of us a good chance."
Guthrie wiped a hand slowly over his face. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Polf and the Skirkhi guards, wondering if they could guess the drift of the conversation.
"And what will your next idea be?" he demanded bitterly. "Want us to draw straws to see which of us goes out and commits hara-kiri for them?"
"Now, now! We must be realistic. After all, nothing serious may come of this. Merely because you and the natives share a mutual antipathy—"
"You make me sick!" growled Guthrie, rising to his feet.
"I don't know what you mean."