Mawson reached the grav-seat as Ross topped the ladder and scrambled up onto the catwalk.
Now, pausing for a moment as he adjusted the seat's safety belt, the older man—young now—gazed out across the holocaust, a sardonic smile twisting his thin lips. Sweat streamed down his pale face and dripped from his chin. Puffing a little, he swabbed his forehead with his sleeve.
Behind him, Ross silently crept forward through the well-nigh unendurable heat in a half-crouch. His lips were parted, the skin taut and shiny across his cheek bones.
Mawson glanced up at the open skylight. His hand dropped to the seat's arm. His fingers moved over the controls.
The chair lifted just a fraction, till it hovered clear of the catwalk.
Ross' eyes distended. Nostrils flaring, he broke into a headlong run.
But the catwalk vibrated under the impact of his weight. As if by reflex, his quarry's shoulders stiffened. The fingers on the control-arm spun a dial. The seat whipped round like a pointer on a pivot.
For an instant, then, the eyes of the two men met.
Mawson expelled a sudden breath. His lips peeled back in a death's-head grin. His free hand whipped up the paragun.
Eight feet, possibly, separated the two of them now. Not even breaking stride, Ross dived for Mawson.