Flint threw his weight on the control lever.
The bony claw on one wing caught the plane a glancing blow midway its length, sent it spinning end over end. And, when Flint's darting hands leveled it off again, it cut around in a wild circle, out of control. The bulge on the port wall of the cabin said the port fuel pump was smashed.
And the bat circled to come at them again.
Flint's passengers realized their peril. The two men jumped up, panic on their faces. But as Flint throttled the port jet frantically, futilely, Karen Vaun was on her feet behind him crying in a voice that was shaky but nonetheless sensible, "Where's the hand pump?" Miss Vaun was scared stiff but wasn't one to give up in a corner.
The bat came in from the side. Flint threw in his reverse rockets. The plane stopped as if it had rammed a planetoid, hurling the three behind him to the floor. The bat zoomed past them.
"The pump's under the floor!" Flint yelled over his shoulder. "Pull up that trap door." He gave the plane every ounce of juice its starboard jets would take, trying to gain what lead he could before the bat came back. In the mirror he saw the woman on her knees, pulling at the trap door, then jerking the manual pump lever.
And it worked! The port tube sputtered, then streamed smooth, a weak jet but enough to give a push from the left. And on the left, seconds away, Flint saw a medium-sized planetoid. The chase had taken them almost to the Ring.
The bat came down on his tail like another plane attacking. Flint dove straight at the planetoid. Behind him, Karen Vaun worked the pump madly, Hudson and Leggett stood by helplessly, staring up at the hairy face that grew larger every second above them.