"Where does this juice go?"
Morrissey apparently had just realized that Joe was free. He looked at him blankly for a moment.
"Dump it in the tank," he said, pointing to the metal ladder leaning against the tank. "But keep your distance," he added. "We don't want to catch the plague."
Joe grinned, stuffed the remainder of the chicken in his mouth, carried the tub up the ladder, and dumped the conglomerated juices into the circular opening at the top of the tank.
Joe came down the ladder.
"Got enough yet?" he questioned.
"Hell, no," exploded Black Tom. "Look at the gauge we rigged up. Here."
Joe looked at the gauge affixed to the side of the tank. It was about two inches below a chalk line Black Tom had drawn.
"The white line marks the absolute minimum of water we need to get the ship within gravitational pull of the Earth; from there in it's up to our extensor vanes."
"How much do you need yet?" Joe asked.