Spinning provided the only choice. It wasn't necessarily fatal, but it increased the chances for perpendicular strikes. Actually, with such conditions, Bleck's sneering odds held more merit.
Bleck!
The shadow behind him, only a vague outline on the control panel, moved. Hiller fell sideways from the seat, twisting around one of the arms.
Bleck's magnetized boot slammed into the seat and left him overbalancing long enough for Hiller to scramble to his feet.
The man appeared berserk with fear, except he had it channeled toward the destruction of what he assigned as its cause—the ship commander.
No need to search; nothing serving as a weapon lay within reach. Taking the time to stoop and remove his boot meant suicide.
Warily Bleck advanced with the retrieved boot upraised, clumsily limping on the other. Hiller backed until he felt the acceleration straps behind him on the bulkhead. There was no more backing after that.
The last resort—something he did not relish doing—was broadcasting the crew his plight, pulling them from their stations. Anyway, by the time someone arrived—if that didn't faze the man, he would have to try ducking under the weapon and fighting it out.
As Bleck paused to savor his ascendant position and measure the clobbering distance, Hiller started the first word of the announcement. His thinking was riding the crest of a wave of fear which threatened at any moment to break. And the first word was all he managed.
What saved him was his grasp of the straps behind him. On low for movement, his boots would not have held.