Again and again Desquer fired. His gun clicked on an empty chamber; he emptied the other one. Then he reached for his belt—and Tony heard him curse.
“Dieu! Those damned Copts! The priests—they got my ammunition belt in the fight!”
Tony stopped, turned. Desquer was standing straddle-legged, the carbon-pistols, futile without coal, pointing at the priests. His face was set into rock-hard lines.
Thotmes shouted something and lifted the missing ammunition belt in one hand. He raised it tauntingly.
“Got any coal?” Desquer rasped. The other two men shook their heads.
The priests began to move forward.
Tony said, “You can’t destroy the machine now, Desquer. You’ve doomed the world—and yourself.”
Desquer’s knuckles were white; he stood as though carven from granite. His jet eyes squinted at the oncoming mob.
Jimmy started to laugh. “How do you like it, Desquer?” he mocked. “You’re not the commander now. You’re just a guy with an empty gun. And—you’re going to die, Desquer. You’re going to die!”