When he and Polf approached the hut in which the newcomers were quartered, signs of obstructionism appeared; but the spacer sneered them down. By the time he found himself seated on the ground facing Trent and the girl, the onlookers had been reduced to Polf and a trio of glum guards. The former seemed to take pleasure in his comrades' loss of face.
"Sorry I took so long," Guthrie apologized. "There's a certain act you have to put on around here. They been treating you all right?"
He looked at the girl as he spoke, reflecting that a little cleaning up had improved her immeasurably. With the mud off, she displayed a glowing complexion and a headful of chestnut curls; and Guthrie was no longer sure she was too thin. He determined to check the first time she stood up in the short, borrowed dress of Skirkhi leather.
"Look here, Guthrie—that is your name, isn't it?" Trent asked peevishly.
"That's right. Pete Guthrie, currently employed, I hope, by the Galactic Survey. And you two are Trent and Norsund?"
"George Trent and Karen Norsund, yes. But what I want to say is that we find your attitude very strange. How can we expect co-operation from the natives if you throw your weight around the way you do?"
"And what," asked Karen Norsund, turning her big gray eyes on Guthrie, "was that remark about the natives saving you from something?"
"It's for something. I think I'd better tell you the local superstitions."
"If you don't mind," Trent interrupted, "I'd rather know how far it is to a Terran settlement. We tried to treat the crowd like humans after you left, but we'd prefer not to stay here until a rescue ship arrives."
"As far as I know," said Guthrie, "we are the only Terrans on this planet."