The sentry swung the light again. The other natives were gone. He shuddered again and spat out toward the body.
Lights in the stockade began to come on, sucking at the tiny generator. They were dim lights.
Looking down, the sentry saw his companion lying across the buttress.
The sentry began to curse nervously. Then, with fumbling fingers, he shut off the arc lamp and the lights inside the stockade brightened.
The sentry glanced out at the vast alien darkness beyond the wall. He whimpered in sudden, childish fear.
Within the forest, beyond the terrifying brilliance of the stockade light, the natives stopped running. After the light went off, they called to each other with piping, night bird whistles. Slowly they came together, forming a silent lonely group.
"We must leave him there," one said, in the shrill, chattering native language.
Reluctantly they turned their backs on the stockade. Leaves crackled under their feet. Branches whipped at their faces, bringing sharp tears. They hurried, and dry things rustled and startled animals fled. From time to time they grunted at each other, more for encouragement, more as protest against the tangle of vines than for communication. Neju carried the stolen stockade weapon pressed tightly to his chest.
On they went, and finally the sun came up, penetrating the forest here and there, sending sharp rays of new light mottling the ground. Once they stopped to rest, but only for a short time.