For frantic seconds they hung there thus, struggling for the paragun. Twice, Mawson triggered charges. Both times, they went wide.
But now Ross had a grip on seat as well as weapon. With a sudden jerk, he wrenched the gun from the other's hand. It spun away in a long, catapulting arc that ended in the flames below.
Like lightning, Mawson thumbed a button set in the grav-seat's control-arm.
The chair came down on the catwalk with a crash, then bounced high into the air, almost to the roof. Ross' nails gouged long tracks in the seat's plastox upholstery as his fingers slipped under the shock.
Mawson spun a dial. The grav-seat whipped round in a tight circle that all but hurled Ross clear across the warehouse by sheer centrifugal force.
White to the lips, Ross clutched at Mawson's safety belt.
The adjudicator spun the dial the other way. Simultaneously, he caught the hand on his belt by a forefinger and levered the member back so violently as to make the snap of its fracture audible even through the din of the fire.
Ross gave a low, hoarse cry. He smashed a fist down on the fingers with which Mawson gripped the grav-seat's controls.
It was Mawson's turn to jerk back; cry out. Gripping the control-arm with cable-taut fingers, corded muscles standing out along his forearms, Ross twisted.