Ross sprinted for the office area. Scrambling up a ladder to the first catwalk, he peered down into the rooms below.
Already Mawson's men were running for the door to the street. But of Mawson himself, and of Veta Hall, there was no sign.
Breathing hard, Ross moved on along the catwalk.
Now, abruptly, Mawson came into view, racing his grav-seat out away from a spot where two partitions intersected, and into the open area in the center of one of the larger rooms. His movements were jerky, and he sat hunched forward in the seat, an air of tension heavy upon him.
The next instant Veta appeared, darting after the adjudicator. An ugly bruise showed on her forehead. Panting, stumbling, she snatched at Mawson's tunic.
But he dodged and flipped up an elbow sharply, so that it struck the girl in the mouth. Then, as she sagged back momentarily, he swung the chair in, and slammed a palmed paragun flat to the side of her head.
Veta crumpled to the floor ... lay there in a limp, still heap.
Instantly, Mawson whirled the grav-seat away again, racing it up over the room's partitions in a swift, spiraling arc.
Ross held his position on the catwalk like a statue. Only his eyes moved—first flicking down to Veta's motionless form, then away from her and up to Mawson.
Still the grav-seat climbed. Mawson gave hardly a glance to the roaring sea of flame that now enveloped the whole central area of the warehouse. His face was lined and set, his eyes riveted on some spot in the building's upper reaches.