"_If_ it gets here," gasped the Martian. "That attack at Fort Nelson was just a feint to draw off our reinforcements." Tex nodded. "Even if the varmints broke through there, they'd be stopped by French River and the broken hills beyond it." A map of Fort Washington's position formed itself in his mind; the stone blockhouse commanding a narrow tongue of land between strips of impassable swamp, barring the way into the valley. The valley led back into the uplands, splitting so that one arm ran parallel to the swamps for many miles. To fierce and active men like the swamp-dwellers, it would be no trick to swarm down that valley, take Fort Albert and Fort George by surprise in a rear attack, and leave a gap in the frontier defenses that could never be closed in time. And then hordes of white-haired warriors would swarm out, led by that beautiful fury on the winged lizard, rouse the more lethargic pastoral tribes against the colonists, and sweep outland Peoples from the face of Venus. "They could do it, too," Tex muttered. "They outnumber us a thousand to one." "And," added Breska viciously, "the lousy taxpayers won't even give us decent equipment to fight with." Tex grinned. "Armies are always step-children. I guess the sheep just never did like the goats, anyhow." He shrugged. "Better keep an eye on Kuna. He might try something." "What could he do? If he deserts, they'll catch him trying to skip out, if the savages don't get him first. He won't try it." But in the morning Kuna was gone, and the lock of silver hair in Tex's pocket was gone with him. * * * * * Five hot, steaming days dragged by. The water sank lower and lower in the tank. Flakes of rust dropped from every metal surface at the slightest touch. Tex squatted on a slimy block of stone in the compound, trying to forget hunger and thirst in the task of sewing a patch on his pants. Fog gathered in droplets on the reddish hairs of his naked legs, covered his face with a greasy patina. Breska crouched beside him, coughing in deep, slow spasms. Out under the sagging net, men were listlessly washing underwear in a tub of boiled swamp water. The stuff held some chemical that caused a stubborn sickness no matter what you did to it. Tex looked at it thirstily. "Boy!" he muttered. "What I wouldn't give for just one glass of ice water!" "Shut up," growled Breska. "At least, I've quit being hungry." He coughed, his dark face twisted in pain. Tex sighed, trying to ignore the hunger that chewed his own belly like a prisoned wolf. Nine more days to go. Food and water cut to the barest minimum. Gun parts rusting through all the grease they could put on. The strands of the net were perilously thin. Even the needle in his hand was rusted so that it tore the cloth.