Nimble-fingered, the adjudicator flipped switches. The grav-seat rocked back out of reach like a swing, then forward again in a short arc that smashed the chair's base against Ross' shoulder with numbing force as he sprawled off-balance on the catwalk.
Rolling with the blow, Ross went half off the narrow footway. Before he could recover, Mawson spun the seat again. It swished down like a powered sledge.
Spasmodically, Ross threw himself clear off the walk, dangling in mid-air, suspended by the fingers of one hand only.
Above him, Pike Mawson's face contorted in a leer. The seat ground on the edge of the catwalk, searching for his fingers.
Jaws clenched, Ross swung sidewise violently, letting go of the footway with his one hand as he hooked on with the other.
It was like hanging from a spit above a literal inferno. Flames roared below him. The draft that swept from the building's entrance up to the open skylight carried heat like a chimney.
Again, Mawson tried to grind the grav-seat down on Ross' fingers.
Again, Ross swung clear.
Mawson cursed aloud, then leaned far forward over the front of the seat and leveled his paragun at Ross' head.
Free arm flailing, Ross let go his precarious grip on the catwalk and lunged upward towards Mawson, paragun and grav-seat. His clawing fingers locked around the weapon's barrel.