It was stalemate—and yet nine of them dropped as inert, flaming masses.
"Enough!" called Stellor. "Back!"
And his flight formed, was forced apart, and reformed. They drove for the inside again and ran up against a solid wall of ships.
Downing's flight dwindled. Pressing close, the Loard-vogh fired their torrents of energy into Downing's ships at projector-burst range. One by one the ships flamed and went down in a smoke-trailing comet.
"Help?" snapped Lane over the sub-communicator.
"Stay out—" started Downing. He was cut off as his command burst into flaming, violent death.
Thompson's voice came over the interstellar band. "Better retreat now," he said.
Lane answered. Here in the scanning-ship, the torrent of energy and deafening sound was gone, and only peaceful quiet reigned. Save for the constantly swirling fire in the battle plotter globes and the everlasting flicker of pilot lights, there was no evidence of the swift, concentrated hell that went on in the space between spheres that approached one another.
"Downing tried it," he said.