Attempting to make Venus safe for colonists turns out to be a very dangerous job for Tex and his partner Breska.
Tex stirred uneasily where he lay on the parapet, staring into the heavy, Venusian fog. The greasy moisture ran down the fort wall, lay rank on his lips. With a sigh for the hot, dry air of Texas, and a curse for the adventure-thirst that made him leave it, he shifted his short, steel-hard body and wrinkled his sandy-red brows in the never-ending effort to see.
A stifled cough turned his head. He whispered, "Hi, Breska."
The Martian grinned and lay down beside him. His skin was wind-burned like Tex's, his black eyes nested in wrinkles caused by squinting against sun and blowing dust.
For a second they were silent, feeling the desert like a bond between them. Then Breska, mastering his cough, grunted:
"They're an hour late now. What's the matter with 'em?"
Tex was worried, too. The regular dawn attack of the swamp-dwellers was long overdue.
"Reckon they're thinking up some new tricks," he said. "I sure wish our relief would get here. I could use a vacation."
Breska's teeth showed a cynical flash of white.
"If they don't come soon, it won't matter. At that, starving is pleasanter than beetle-bombs, or green snakes. Hey, Tex. Here comes the Skipper."
Captain John Smith-Smith was a common name in the Volunteer Legion-crawled along the catwalk. There were new lines of strain on the officer's gaunt face, and Tex's uneasiness grew.
He knew that supplies were running low. Repairs were urgently needed. Wasn't the relief goin' to come at all?
But Captain Smith's pleasant English voice was as calm as though he were discussing cricket-scores in a comfortable London club.
"Any sign of the beggars, Tex?"
"No, sir. But I got a feeling. . . ."
"H'm. Yes. We all have. Well, keep a sharp. . . ."