Ross raised his head a fraction; stared down at the sea of flame below.
Mawson again—a cunning, crafty Mawson this time: "Think of the girl, Ross! Think of her, even if you don't give a filan for your own neck! She'll roast, down there in that office! But you still may be able to save her, if we get around to the street entrance fast enough."
Ross breathed in sharply. He started to straighten.
Twisting in his seat, Mawson peered back and down over his own shoulder. Then, suddenly, he leveled a shaking finger. "Ross! Look—!"
Ross craned forward, staring.
Like lightning, Mawson whipped back his elbow ... smashed it to the bridge of Ross' nose with the same savage force that had stunned Veta Hall.
Ross lurched backwards.
Mawson spun the chair's control-dial. Wobbling, unsteady, the grav-seat started upward.
Only then Ross, reeling, caught the seat's base. His upflung hand slapped the control-plate. His fingers hooked around its edges. Again, muscles stood out along his forearm as he brought sudden pressure.
The plate tore loose. The grav-seat dropped back onto the catwalk with a crash.