"Are they good spirits?" demanded old Thyggar impatiently.
"Ask them, Old One!" said Guthrie, turning on his heel.
He seized the unguarded moment to jab the heel of his hand under the short chin of the nearest Skirkh, propelling the latter against his fellows. Through the narrow way thus cleared, the spacer stalked out of the crowd.
"Thyggar wear sour look," mumbled Polf, trotting doggedly at his heels.
He sounded more respectful than at any time during the day. Guthrie reminded himself to watch out. He seemed to be earning too much admiration; it might be wiser to slack off before it drew retaliation. Through experience, he was learning to keep the score even, but....
Polf somehow managed to trip him as he turned into the doorway of the house assigned to him. He plunged through the low, dark entrance head first, displacing a crude but sturdy bench someone had left in the way.
"Your father was undoubtedly a good spirit who stole your mother's wits with a dream of soft summers," said Guthrie, sitting up just in time to thrust a boot between Polf's ankles.
The Skirkh sprawled in his turn upon the hard-packed floor. The two of them sat there for a long moment, raising both palms in the ritual gesture to the sky spirits and glaring at each other in mutual respect.
On the second morning after the arrival of Trent and Miss Norsund, Guthrie judged the time ripe for a longer talk.