THE TOY By Kris Neville 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 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.