"Your face. Do not say to Polf you not want. And if you not admit she is his woman, it is not bad enough a thing to do."
"You don't understand, Polf," said the spacer. "I couldn't ... that is, it's not the same for me...." My God! he thought. I'm beginning to sound like Trent!
"The storms come," murmured Polf. "You want the wrong spirits for friends? If it is tonight, elders stay with Trent. Will be easy."
"Won't you have to be there? And your friends?"
"Gah!" exclaimed Polf. "Whole dumb village be there. What better time to do bigger spirit work? You want Thyggar steal her first?"
Guthrie sat up abruptly, and almost slid from the roof.
"Well, why not?" he muttered after a moment. "She must have warned Trent by now. If he can't think of a way out, I'd better save what can be saved. That was his own idea. I can't help it if he wouldn't listen to me."
It did not sound quite right to him, but time was running out. The thought of being transformed lingeringly into a few pounds of hacked and burnt meat crossed his mind once again, and he could feel himself beginning to sweat. He glanced over his shoulder at the broad, expectant face.
"All right," he whispered. "Tell Retho and your brother."
What else can I do? he asked himself. If it has to be one of us—