It was surprisingly sensible. There were two groups of soldiers approaching along the edge of the swamp, and they were in the middle. It was logical to assume that one group of soldiers would consider the so-called tank as belonging to the other.
His eyes were adjusting to the changed light: he could see dimly through the outline that surrounded them. A hundred yards away a soldier appeared through the trees, saw the tank and stopped. Rains didn't like the way he fingered the rifle.
"Can you move this thing?" he asked nervously.
"Why not?"
"Good. Let's get away from here."
It weighed little more than nothing—as insubstantial as air. It was air, bound together on a molecular level by forces originating in the Hindu's mind. It moved out on the plain as fast as they could walk.
"Halt!" a voice rang out from the edge of the swamp.
"Let them try to stop us," whispered Gowru cheerfully.
Again the voice commanded, but Gowru paid no attention. A rifle shot sounded behind them and a bullet whizzed uncomfortably close. "Maybe we'd better stop," suggested Rains.
"A Chandit never surrenders," said his guide stubbornly. Abruptly the darkness around them deepened. Another rifle shot rang out. The bullet struck the tank shape, and glanced away.