---

"I hate to leave."

"... But the time has come."

"I suppose so ... but momma?"

"Yes?"

"May we leave them a present?"

"What, my child, what could they want for?"

"... I don't know: surely there's something. One of my toys or something. I'd like to leave them something."

"That's very thoughtful, but...."

"Please, momma."

"Perhaps we could."

"They might find use for a toy, someday."

"Might they, child? Well.... Who knows? Perhaps they might."

---

The night, starry, cold, clear, was around them, unfriendly. The natives huddled at the edge of the clearing and stared out at the stockade. There was movement there—two sentries, abreast, threading their way in and out of shadows. The moonlight was pale and uncertain, blending away harshness, distorting, enlarging. The night was still. One of the natives let himself down until he lay flat upon the ground. A twig crackled sharply, and the other four held their breath, but the sound did not carry to the sentries. Another and another and another lay down near the first, and then all of them began to inch their way slowly through the tall swift growing grasses toward the stockade.

Their progress was slow; every few minutes they paused until their breathing returned to normal. The light, sunset shower had not softened the ground, for it was in the middle of the dry season when the rain fell sparingly. After tedious, hard gained feet, sweat stood glistening on their nearly naked bodies and grass shoots, saw edged, itched and stung their skins. Rough top roots and sharp, brutal rocks reddened them in welts and bruises.

Still they went forward, slowly, doggedly. The moon fell away toward the horizon, and the shadows unhuddled from trees and the stockade wall and stretched out on the grasses.

With clock-like precision the sentries passed along the narrow walk atop the wall. The wall was made of conje trunks, sheered of limbs, driven upright into the ground, pressed so closely together that between logs there was scarcely a chink. For the people inside the stockade, aided by a howling demon of steel that uprooted and stripped trees effortlessly, it had been scarcely the work of a day; for the natives outside, depending for power upon their own muscles it would represent the year's work of a village.

Each time the sentries passed the spot nearest the natives, they pressed hard to the ground and held their breath for fear some tiny, artificial movement would reveal them.

The moon hovered on the far tree tops and then vanished from sight, leaving a curtain of night, faintly star-dotted.

The five natives were at the edge of the grasses. Beyond them, to the stockade wall, there was no protection. As one they straightened and ran fleetly to the conje trunks. Under their feet, a few pebbles crunched and rattled. They pressed in against the wall, merging with the darker shadow of it, waiting for the sentries to pass. The heavy booted footfalls became louder and louder, until they came from directly overhead. The natives hugged the wall, praying silently to their alien Gods, and the footfalls slowly emptied into silence.

---

One of the five sent exploring hands over the wooden surface. It was rough enough for his purpose, and awkwardly, hesitantly, he began to work his way upward. Once bark peeled from under his foot and fell away, but it was caught and silenced by one of those below. He drew himself over the top of the wall with a swift, sure movement, and dropped the two feet to the walk on the other side. He crouched there, fumbling with the coil of rope at his waist.

It was a slender, moist rope, and, as he cast the end over the wall, it slithered through his hand like a line of liquid. He could hear the muffled approach of feet, and his heart beat faster. Hurriedly he expanded the slip loop in the end of the rope. He placed the loop over one of the trunks and forced it down between those on each side. It was a tight fit, and he had to jerk it savagely once. That done, he pulled it tight and slipped over the wall, looping the rope in his hand to support himself. Almost immediately the sentries were overhead.

The rope began to slip down the pole; it slipped an inch and jerked; two inches. His muscles stood out, bulging the skin. He closed his eyes.

There were voices above. The rope slipped again, and then the knot began to peel. In another moment, the rope would give way and the native would crash loudly to the ground. The footsteps began again, but only one pair now. Somewhere above in the silence a sentry was waiting. The sentry, unconcerned, lit his pipe and the match flare made those below catch their breaths. The rope slipped again.

In desperation, the native threw one arm over the wall. He glanced down fearfully. Then cautiously he drew himself up. In the pale star shine he could see that the sentry was not facing him. He dropped to the inside walk. The sentry half-turned.

Reluctantly, the native leaped the few intervening feet and hit him. There was a brittle snap and the native lowered the sentry gently to the walk. Then he turned, relooped the rope, pulled it more securely around the trunk. Up came the four who had been waiting below.

In a whispery hiss, he explained what had happened. The leader of the group shook his head in the darkness. "If we go inside, now," he said, "the other will discover this one and then warn the demon before we can destroy it. We must silence the other one too."

They nodded.

One of the group bent and removed the fallen sentry's weapon. He turned it over and over in his hands, curiously.

"Hey! Hey!" the other sentry called, suddenly, from out of the darkness along the wall. "Hey, Ed!" Receiving no answer, he fumbled his weapon into his hand. "Hey! Ed! Answer me!"

"Too late," the leader of the natives hissed. "He will wake the demon. Run!"

They vaulted the wall, striking the ground and scattered toward the tall grasses and the forest beyond. One dragged a broken leg painfully.

---

The body of Ed, the limp sentry, teetered for a moment on the walk and then slipped awkwardly over the side. It struck a wall buttress and bent over it like a horseshoe.

The other sentry rushed to the corner. One glance was enough to tell him what had happened. He grabbed the huge spotlamp at the juncture of the two walls and tripped the button. Inside the stockade a generator whined and the arc of the lamp flared its sunbright blue.

The beam was temporarily blinding, and the sentry cursed. Then his field of vision came clear, and all the details of the grassy stretch were etched sharply. He saw two running figures, each at the outer edge of the beam. He swiveled the light until it focused upon the nearest one.

It was the leader—the one with the broken leg—and he froze in the light. He did not even attempt to fall to the ground.

The sentry stared for a fraction of a second before he could bring his gun to eye level and fire it.

The leader of the natives waited, blinking his faceted orange eyes in the cruel blinding glare. The eyes glistened brightly. The four arms hung motionless, relaxed at his side.

The sentry shuddered involuntarily as the leader came within his sights. He squeezed the trigger and a burst of hissing flame came from the muzzle. The flame died in the air and the gun jumped in recoil.

The projectile struck and the leader screamed in pain. He twitched but he did not fall. One hand shot out to support himself, but still his eyes blinked into the light and still he remained upright, a perfect target.

The sentry fired twice more, one projectile kicking up a tiny shower of rocks and moaning away, almost spent; the other, scoring in the target.

The native in the field whined. But still he did not fall.