Stockade weapons swiveled; all the hellish energy that they were capable of spewed in its direction. In its way, it smiled. Then, very methodically, it began to take the stockade apart, cracking the _conje_ trunks like toothpicks. It noticed one of its masters, Neju, lying wounded by the base of the stockade. It bent and carefully scooped him up. It placed him tenderly in the shoulder pocket, out of harm's way, observing the seriousness of his wound and automatically remembering the proper treatment. The helicopter took off and headed east. Absently the toy of a child of the Old Gods swatted the helicopter out of the air, knocking it nearly a quarter of a mile before it crashed into the _conje_ trunks of the forest....