Metal screeched a protest. The seat rocked violently.
Ross wrenched again.
A contact-point snapped. Connections tore loose. Sideslipping, out of control, the seat careened down to a precarious landing athwart the catwalk.
Convulsively, Mawson beat at Ross' face—raking the cheeks, stabbing for the eyes.
Ducking his head, Ross levered the control-arm still farther out of place.
A sound close to that of a sob echoed in Mawson's throat. He pounded Ross' back. "Stop it, you fool! Stop it, before you kill us both!"
Panting with strain, Ross paused for an instant.
Mawson, babbling: "Don't you see? There's no way left for us to get out of here except that skylight—and it's too high to do us any good without the grav-seat."
A small, spasmodic ripple of movement, like the passing of a chill, crossed Ross' shoulders. He still didn't speak.
"Turn me in to FedGov Security if you want to, rack you!" raged Mawson. "Do you think I care about that? Just get us out of this hell-hole alive; that's all I ask!"