SPACE BAT By CARL SELWYN Out of the caves of space it flew--huge, rapacious, terrifying. But Lou Flint met its vicious challenge happily. For, like the girl at his side, it was worth one million dollars! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The jungle was filled with the shouts of the hunters and the sounds of their heavy boots crashing through the dry sword grass. The long line of men were running shoulder to shoulder, stooping under the red vines, stumbling over the mossy rocks. Bounding ahead in panic surged hundreds of animals of a strange species. Shaped like deer, they had no antlers and their delicate bodies were covered with rich greenish-gold feathers. Eyes large with terror, feathers ruffled, they stampeded through the entrance of a corral that was so well camouflaged it was almost invisible in the tangled plants and tree trunks. In a corner of the corral, shadowed from the late afternoon sun, a tall, bare-chested young man waited motionless as an ironwood tree, watching the animals stream toward him. His only clothing was a pair of faded khaki shorts and soft leather boots. Strapped to his waist was a leather holster containing a heavy pistol, its thick barrel shaped like a flashlight. His ruggedly handsome face was angry, his gray eyes cold as he watched the animals futilely leaping at the surrounding fence. Suddenly the hunters broke through the screening jungle. Their leader bellowed, "Okay! Bash their heads in! Let's get their hides off!" The other men advanced toward the herd of frenzied animals, clubs raised. The leader swung his own stick down toward one of the creatures that tried to race past him. Instantly the ironwood tree came to life. His hand was one blurred motion as it jerked his odd-shaped pistol from its holster, squeezed the trigger. A silver streak flashed from the barrel, struck the man's arm before the club could fall. His arm froze in mid-swing. "Drop those sticks and get off this planetoid!" As the bare-chested one came out of the shadows, his voice had virtually the force of his weapon. The men stood with clubs half-raised, staring at him. "It's Lou Flint," one of them whispered. "Watch him! That's an ice-ray pistol!" They lowered their clubs slowly, glancing toward their leader. The big fellow rubbed his rigid right arm with his other hand. It stuck out before him at a grotesque angle; he couldn't move it yet. As he looked at Flint his eyes were deadly. "Don't stick your nose in this business, trapper." His thick lips curled. "You don't own this land." "I'm sticking my nose into any business that kills off a thousand feather-deer in two weeks," Lou Flint said. "I've seen enough of your butchering."