He laughed, and let go a cracked rebel yell. Then he turned and lurched back outside, toward the steps.
The net sagged to the weight of white-haired warriors and roaring lizards. Breska's gun choked and stammered into silence. Tex groaned in utter agony.
It was too late. The rust had beaten them.
His freckled, oil-smeared face tightened grimly. Drawing his gun, he charged the steps.
"Where the hell did you go?" snarled Breska. "The ammo belt jammed." He grabbed for the other gun set in the narrow gap.
Then it wasn't rust! And Tex realized something else. There were no rust flakes falling from the net.
Something had stopped the rusting. Before, his physical anguish had been too great for him to see that the net strands grew no thinner, the gun-barrels no rustier.
Scraps of the explanation shot through Tex's mind. Breska's cough stopping because the air was dried before it reached his lungs. Dry stone. Dry clothing.
Dry metal! The water-eating organisms kept the surface dry. There could be no rust.
"We've licked 'em, Breska! By God, we've licked 'em!" He shouldered the Martian out of the way, gripped the triggers of the gun. Shouting over the din, he told Breska how to drink, sent him lurching down the steps. He could hold the gap alone for a few minutes.