Neju did not hate the God-men, but he did
hate the metal demons they used to destroy his
people. So he prayed to the Old Gods for aid....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"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 orsomething. 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. Thenatives huddled at the edge of the clearing and stared out at thestockade. There was movement there—two sentries, abreast, threadingtheir 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 thesound did not carry to the sentries. Another and another and anotherlay down near the first, and then all of them began to inch their wayslowly through the tall swift growing grasses toward the stockade.
Their progress was slow; every few minutes they paused until theirbreathing returned to normal. The light, sunset shower had not softenedthe ground, for it was in the middle of the dry season when the rainfell sparingly. After tedious, hard gained feet, sweat stood glisteningon their nearly naked bodies and grass shoots, saw edged, itched andstung their skins. Rough top roots and sharp, brutal rocks reddenedthem in welts and bruises.
Still they went forward, slowly, doggedly. The moon fell away towardthe horizon, and the shadows unhuddled from trees and the stockade walland stretched out on the grasses.
With clock-like precision the sentries passed along the narrow walkatop the wall. The wall was made of conje trunks, sheered of limbs,driven upright into the ground, pressed so closely together thatbetween logs there was scarcely a chink. For the people inside thestockade, aided by a howling demon of steel that uprooted and strippedtrees effortlessly, it had been scarcely the work of a day; for thenatives outside, depending for power upon their own muscles it wouldrepresent the year's work of a village.
Each time the sentries passed the spot nearest the natives, theypressed 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 thestockade wall, there was no protection. As one they straightened andran fleetly to the conje trunks. Under their feet, a few pebblescrunched and rattled. They pressed in against the wall, merging withthe darker shadow of it, waiting for the sentries to pass. The heavybooted footfalls became louder and louder, until they came fromdirectly overhead. The natives hugged the wall, praying silently totheir alien Gods, and the footfalls slowly emptied into silence.
One of the five sent exploring hands