"Then there's no ship to pick us up from this mudball?"

Trent glanced at the jostling Skirkhi, then at Guthrie. His brow furrowed.

"Well, of course the government and the spaceline will send ships to search this volume of space. I think the crew got off a message...."

"Aw, hell!" grunted Guthrie contemptuously.

Trent's voice trailed off. Then, ignoring Guthrie's scowl, he tried to pick up where he had left off.

"... but I thought, perhaps ... couldn't you send a message about us?"

Guthrie regarded the crowd of Skirkhi, who gaped back with gleaming eyes and hanging jaws. Old Thyggar raised a thick, four-fingered hand at him and demanded, "What do they say?"

"Later, Old One," retorted Guthrie, turning to look at the girl.

"Oh—this is Miss Norsund," Trent explained. "Listen, if you don't want to send a message, couldn't you have some of these people guide us?"

"First," said Guthrie, "travel is dangerous. You might get eaten or made into window-flaps. Secondly, I don't know where they could guide you to."

He let them absorb that, then went on.

"And I can't send any message because I don't know the right spells and incantations to summon any good spirits to carry the message."

Trent and Miss Norsund began to develop glassy stares.

"And finally," growled Guthrie, "they won't let me send a spirit message because they're saving me for the first night with no moon!"

A subdued chattering sprang up among the Skirkhi when they heard his voice rise to a shout. Guthrie controlled his accumulated frustration with an effort. Meeting the girl's shocked glance, he felt a twinge, and knew he had better stop.

"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 

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