From Downing's lead ship there stabbed one of the heavy dymodine beams, its danger area marked with the characteristic heterodyne of light. It thrust a pale green finger into the sky before it, and as it came around, the other ships moved aside. That was the breaker. The flights reformed into twin interlocked spirals that thrust against one another with pressors and tore at one another with tractors in an effort to break up the other's flight. Lane snapped: "That's a stinking trick." "He's warning--" "Oh, nice of him to heterodyne it. I wish I had a roboship. I'd drive it into his beam and tell him that he clipped my men--" Stellor Downing grinned at his unit commander. "I told you he'd duck," he said loftily. "Wouldn't you?" "Nope. I'd drive into it and see if he'd shut it off before I hit it." "Supposing he didn't shut it off?" "Don't ask me," said Downing. "If he did, it would be to spare the men with me. If I ducked at the last minute, it would be for the same reason. If we were alone, I wouldn't dive into a beam--but we might try a bit of rivet-cutting." The unit commander's face whitened a bit. That was an idea he disliked. And yet some day he knew they'd get to it. Just as practically everybody knew it. The hard ground of Mojave whirled up at them, and the twin spirals flattened out. Like a whirling nebula, they spun, slowing as they dropped. Clancey groaned from the top of the tower: "There ain't room for fifty ships in Circle One. There ain't room for six ships fighting one another. Holy--" 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. "You fouled me," snarled Downing. "Who, me?" asked Lane saucily. "I broadcast a crash-warning." "You should have done it before you dropped interferers. All I know is that you disputed my course." "So I did. So what?" Lane reached for a cigarette. He did it with his left hand, though he knew that Downing wouldn't draw his modines while either hand was occupied. Downing was fair, anyway. "So you didn't get what you wanted--again." "Neither did you."