He turned again, and setting his teeth firm, let the big aircraft fly in a straight line.
The missile looped forward and came back at him, nose-on again and at a slight angle to force him to turn. Vinson ignored it.
There was a racketing crash, and the guided missile ripped through the left wingtip. The plane shuddered, lost flying speed, and began to flutter. Vinson swore and put the nose down.
He had been wrong.
The plane hit the water with a crash and bounced. It did not sink. Vinson sat in the co-pilot's seat and wondered what would come next. He watched the radar screen, and soon he knew. A flight of three planes—he recognized them as such by their velocity—came from the North. He saw them, later, as they came in sight, circled, and made neat landings on the water near him.
They taxied towards him while he sat there cursing his inability to move the damaged plane. It was but a matter of time before the other planes touched his. His plane was opened from the outside—
And machines entered.
They came for Vinson. He wrenched the radar cabinet from its rubber shock mountings and hurled it at the foremost. The machine put forth grapples and caught the heavy cabinet neatly, then turned and hurled it through the walls of the plane. It was a dramatic gesture to prove Vinson's complete helplessness—a feat no human being could duplicate.
Then, turning again, it came forward and took Harry Vinson by the forearms, for all his attempts to prevent this by keeping his arms in wild swinging motion. Then, paying no attention to Vinson's protest nor his fighting, the machine reversed its half-tracks and retreated, leading Vinson against his will. He had to walk or be dragged.
It held him thus while the flying boats took off. It held him—standing—while an hour passed by and the flight of planes approached a small, widespread convoy. Then, moving again, the machine drew Vinson along the deck of the hindmost craft towards the stern cabin block.