"You've come to the wrong place," said Ferris, starting forward. "The barrels here are under government combination seal, and can't be opened by anyone other than the inspectors who accompany our regular ships."
"Nevertheless," the tall fellow drew his beam gun, "you have fuel in your repulsion tanks, and that's as good as any."
For a moment Ferris stood there, undetermined. Then he remembered a police bulletin not so long ago. A convict had escaped from one of Earth's interplanetary prisons. He understood now.
"You're Siegal," he said.
The other nodded. "My ship hasn't the fuel to carry me to the Moon. I don't like to insist, but I'm going to drain your tanks."
"The station will fall," Ferris warned. "If the repulsion tanks are drained, gravity will take hold."
"Unfortunate," said Siegal, "but it's me or the station. I've brought a hose along—also a container. I'll give you the pleasure of filling it for me. Hurry."
Ferris had no choice, so he did as directed. Siegal had the drop on him, and it was best to play safe. Perhaps he could talk the fellow out of his wild plan. There was a chance.
"Think you'll make it to the Moon?" queried Ferris as he loosened a valve and inserted the hose. "It's a long trek for such a small amount of fuel. Besides, you'll burn up half the stuff getting started. There's no launch here, you know."
"I left Earth without a launch," said Siegal crisply. "I can do it again."