Now, abruptly, Mawson came into view, racing his grav-seat out away from a spot where two partitions intersected, and into the open area in the center of one of the larger rooms. His movements were jerky, and he sat hunched forward in the seat, an air of tension heavy upon him. The next instant Veta appeared, darting after the adjudicator. An ugly bruise showed on her forehead. Panting, stumbling, she snatched at Mawson's tunic. But he dodged and flipped up an elbow sharply, so that it struck the girl in the mouth. Then, as she sagged back momentarily, he swung the chair in, and slammed a palmed paragun flat to the side of her head. Veta crumpled to the floor ... lay there in a limp, still heap. Instantly, Mawson whirled the grav-seat away again, racing it up over the room's partitions in a swift, spiraling arc. Ross held his position on the catwalk like a statue. Only his eyes moved--first flicking down to Veta's motionless form, then away from her and up to Mawson. Still the grav-seat climbed. Mawson gave hardly a glance to the roaring sea of flame that now enveloped the whole central area of the warehouse. His face was lined and set, his eyes riveted on some spot in the building's upper reaches. Ross stared after him. Then, turning, once again he looked down at the office area. Veta Hall still lay unmoving where she'd fallen. Ross started along the catwalk towards her. Only then, as if his eyes somehow were drawn by some psychic magnet, he paused in mid-stride and yet another time looked around for Mawson. Simultaneously, the other's grav-seat came to rest on the second, higher catwalk, close under the roof. Unfastening the seat's safety belt, Mawson thrust his twisted legs down onto the walk, dragged himself to his feet, hobbled clumsily to a nearby switch-box and pulled a lever. * * * * * A faint grinding of gears rose above the noise of the fire. Twin roof-plates slid back to reveal a skylight. For the fraction of a second Ross hesitated. Then, pivoting, he ran for the nearest ladder that stretched upward from his catwalk to Mawson's. Above him, the adjudicator slapped shut the switch-box and began a slow-shuffling return to the grav-seat. Ross reached the ladder. Cat-agile, he swung up it, hand over hand, two rungs at a time. Mawson reached the grav-seat as Ross topped the ladder and scrambled up onto the catwalk. Now, pausing for a moment as he adjusted the seat's safety belt, the older man--young now--gazed out across the holocaust, a sardonic smile twisting his thin lips. Sweat streamed down his pale face and dripped from his chin. Puffing a little, he swabbed his forehead with his sleeve. Behind him, Ross silently crept forward through the well-nigh unendurable heat in a half-crouch. His lips were parted, the skin taut and shiny across his cheek bones. Mawson glanced up at the open skylight. His hand dropped to the seat's arm. His fingers moved over the controls.