The spattering of force-beams, tractor and pressor, died as the last hundred feet of altitude closed in. The ships, still wabbling slightly, slowed their spinning around and curved to drop vertically for fifty feet.
The ground shook—
And there was left but one dustless landing circle at Mojave—the other one.
Windows in the control tower cracked, a fuse alarm rang furiously, and somewhere a taut cable snapped, shutting off the fuse alarm for lack of juice. The lights went out all over the Administration Building, and every ceiling dropped a fine shower of plaster freckles.
They landed on empty desks and open chairs.
Seven thousand employees of Mojave were crammed out on the view-area, wiping the dust from their eyes and shaking their heads.
And through the dust, weaving their way between the ships of either command. Cliff Lane and Stellor Downing advanced upon one another.
Out of a cloud of dust came Lane. Downing emerged from the other side and faced the Venusite.
