He waited until he was quite close to Short and Linda, until Short fired the blaster once more. Then he hurled his thunderbolt.
Short howled with rage and darted away, triggering the blaster again. But this time Liddell was on him before he could take careful aim. Dimly, Liddell was aware of Linda hovering near, touching the thunderbolt gingerly.
Then all his attention was centered on Jason Short. They were fighting for their lives, fighting tooth and nail, where fighting or any physical activity should have been impossible. But what did the edicts of science matter when Short slammed a hard left hook against Liddell's jaw, staggering him spilling him backward through the gray murk?
Short followed up his advantage and lunged after Liddell, straddling him weightlessly as they floated off, finding his throat with strong fingers, applying pressure.
He drove Short off him with two left jabs, snapping the bigger man's head back. Short was like a bulldog, though.
Slowly, the fingers around Liddell's throat released their pressure. In a world with no air and where no air was necessary, the choking pressure hadn't damaged Liddell, but his throat ached from constriction alone. He drove Short off him now with lefts and rights to the head. They were weightless, but they hurt. He couldn't explain it, no more than he could explain the sudden trans-mutation of the blaster's energy beam to solid matter. It was one of the unknown natural laws of sub-space, that was all.
Presently, he was aware that Short no longer fought but hung there in sub-space with his arms slack. He drove a few more left hooks and right crosses into the face floating so near his own, then swam back and clear.
Short hung there, suspended.
"But how," Linda gasped, "how did you ever—"