The shell expanded, moved outward against the fire. The atomic spheres moved backwards, and as they moved they were silent. The Loard-vogh took advantage of the silence to shove farther. A salient fingered out—
"Cut it!" snapped Downing.
"With what?" asked Hayes, the commander.
"Drive in there—they're cutting off projector seven."
The salient swept out, forcing Terran arms back. It curved around, swept back, and had Number Seven within the loop. The pocket closed and the bitterly contested area was a wide bulge on the edge of a circle.
Another landing took place.
And another, not more than a mile away.
And then across the plains of Planet IV, of Procyon, there rolled endless, countless mile after mile of ground equipment. The heavy portables started to hurl their might as soon as they came in sight, and the Terrans were pinched.
Pinched between an embattled circle and a closing circle. The inner circle expanded, the outer circle contracted.
Downing's ship roared into the concentric fire, its turrets whipping back and forth and spitting sheer energy. Behind him there sped the twenty-four ships of his command. Into the holocaust they drove, piercing the Loard-vogh line momentarily. The hole widened briefly, and then closed down behind them. Englobed, the flight pressed close together and fought outward.