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.
Shuddering, the sentry fired time after time at him, and finally, very slowly, the native crumpled to the ground. Once or twice the tip of the tail twitched and then the body was absolutely motionless.