In spite of the heat, Tex shivered. How much longer would this silent war go on? The swamp-men had to clear the fort before the relief column came. Where was Kuna, and why had he stolen that lock of hair? And what scheme was the savage beauty who led these devils hatching out?
Water slopped in the tub. Somebody cursed because the underwear never dried in this lousy climate. The heat of the hidden sun seeped down in stifling waves.
And suddenly a guard on the parapet yelled.
“Something coming out of the swamp! Man the guns!”
Tex hauled his pants on and ran with the others. Coming up beside the lookout, he drew his pistol and waited.
Something was crawling up the tongue of dry land toward the fort. At first he thought it was one of the scaly war-dogs. Then he caught a gleam of scarlet collar-facings, and shouted.
“Hold your fire, men! It’s Kuna!”
The grey, stooped thing came closer, going on hands and knees, its dark head hanging. Tex heard Breska’s harsh breathing beside him. Abruptly the Martian turned and ran down the steps.
“Don’t go out there, Breska!” Tex yelled. “It may be a trap.” But the Martian went on, tugging at the rusty lugs that held the postern gate. It came open, and he went out.
Tex sent men down to guard it, fully expecting white figures to burst from the fog and attempt to force the gate.
Breska reached the crawling figure, hauled it erect and over one shoulder, and started back at a stumbling run. Still there was no attack. Tex frowned, assailed by some deep unease. If Kuna had gone into the swamps, he should never have returned alive. There was a trap here somewhere, a concealed but deadly trick.
Silence. The rank mist lay in lazy coils. Not a leaf rustled in the swamp edges.
Tex swore and ran down the steps. Breska fell through the gate and sagged down, coughing blood, and it was Tex who caught Kuna.
The boy lay like a grey skeleton in his arms, the bones of his face almost cutting the skin. His mouth was open. His tongue was black and swollen, like that of a man dying of thirst.
Kuna’s sunken, fever-yellowed eyes opened. They found the tub, in which soiled clothing still floated.
With a surge of strength that took Tex completely by surprise, the boy broke from him and ran to the water, plunging his face in and gulping like an animal.
Tex pulled him away. Kuna sagged down, sobbing. There was something wrong about his face, but Tex couldn’t think what.
“Won’t let me drink,” he whispered. “Still won’t let me drink. Got to have water.” He clawed at Tex. “Water!”
Tex sent someone after it, trying to think what was strange about Kuna, scowling. There were springs of sweet water in the swamps, and even the natives couldn’t drink the other. Was it simply the desire to torture that had made them deny the deserter water?
Tex caught the boy’s collar. “How did you get away?”
But Kuna struggled to his knees. “Breska,” he gasped. “Breska!”
The older man looked at him, wiping blood from his lips. Kuna said something in Martian, retched, choked on his own blood, and fell over. Tex knew he was dead.
“What did he say, Breska?”
The Martian’s teeth showed briefly white.
“He said he wished he’d had my guts.” His expression changed abruptly. He caught Tex’s shoulder.
“Look, Tex! Look at the water!”
*
Where there had been nearly a full tub, there was now only a little moisture left in the bottom. While Tex watched, that too disappeared, leaving the wood dry.
Tex picked up an undershirt. It was as dry as any he’d ever hung in the prairie air, back in Texas. He touched his face. The skin was like sun-cured leather. His hair had not a drop of fog on it.
Yet the mist hung as heavy as ever.
Captain Smith came out of the radio room, looking up at the net and the guns. Tex heard him mutter, quite unconsciously.
“It’s the rust that’ll beat us. It’s the rust that’ll lose us Jupiter in the end.”
Tex said, “Captain....”
Smith looked at him, startled. But he never had time to ask what the matter was. The lookout yelled. Wings rushed overhead. Guns chattered from the parapet. The attack was on.
Tex ran automatically for the catwalk. Passing Kuna’s crumpled body, he realized something he should have seen at first.
“Kuna’s body was dry when he came into the fort. All dry, even his clothes.” And then, “Why did the swamp-men wait until he was safely inside and the door closed to attack?”
With a quarter of their guns disabled and two-thirds of their garrison gone, they still held superiority due to their position and powerful weapons.
There was no concerted attempt to force the walls. Groups of white-haired warriors made sallies, hurled beetle-bombs and weighed bags of green snakes, and retired into the mist. They lost men, but not many.
In the air, it was different. The weird, half-feathered mounts wheeled and swooped, literally diving into the gunbursts, the riders hurling missiles with deadly accuracy. And they were dying, men and lizards, by the dozen.
Tex, feeling curiously dazed, fired automatically. Bodies thrashed into the net. Rust flakes showered like rain. Looking at the thin strands, Tex wondered how long it would hold.
Abruptly he caught sight of what, subconsciously, he’d been looking for. She was there, darting high over the melee, her silver hair flying, her body an iridescent pearl in the mist.
Captain Smith spoke softly.
“You see what she’s up to, Tex? Those flyers are volunteers. Their orders are to kill as many of our men as possible before they die themselves, but they must fall inside the walls! On the net, Tex. To weaken, break it, if possible.”
Tex nodded. “And when it goes....”
“We go. We haven’t enough men to beat them if they should get inside the walls.”
Smith brushed his small military mustache, his only sign of nervousness. Tex saw him start, saw him touch the bristles wonderingly, then finger his skin, his tunic, his hair.
“Dry,” he said, and looked at the fog. “My Lord, dry!”
“Yes,” returned Tex grimly. “Kuna brought it back. He couldn’t get wet even when he tried to drink. Something that eats water. Even if the net holds, we’ll die of thirst before we’re relieved.”
He turned in sudden fury on the distant figure of the woman and emptied his gun futilely at her swift-moving body.
“Save your ammunition,” cautioned Smith, and cried out, sharply.
Tex saw it, the tiny green thing that had fastened on his wrist. He pulled his knife and lunged forward, but already the snake had grown incredibly. Smith tore at it vainly.
Tex got in one slash, felt his knife slip futilely on rubbery flesh of enormous contractile power. Then the venom began to work. A mad look twisted the officer’s face. His gun rose and began to spit bullets.
Grimly, Tex shot the gun out of Smith’s hand, and struck down with the gun-barrel. Smith fell. But already the snake had thrown a coil round his neck and shifted its grip to the jugular.
Tex sawed at the rubbery flesh. Beaten as though with a heavy whip, he stood at last with the body still writhing in his hand.
Captain Smith was dead, with the snake’s jaws buried in his throat.
Dimly Tex heard the mellow