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."
"All right. Are you happy? Got to have the best, don't you?" growled
Lane. "Can't stand to see anybody take even a toothpick that you can't
have two of."
"If you were more than a drug-store cowboy ... brother, what a get-up."