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
