IN THE EARTH'S SHADOW

Ferris was in the tiny cupola, admiring the immense sphere of Earth above him, when the bell sounded. Galsworth again, no doubt. It had been Galsworth every time for twenty-four hours. What did he want now?

Ferris went below, preparing himself for the same ugly face, the usual grating voice. He sat before the screens and snapped a switch. The screen colored, took form. He was right.

Galsworth said: "Fuel Station 12?" As if he didn't know. When Ferris nodded, the company head announced: "Replacement will be in effect within ten hours. You'll prepare for the trip."

"Replacement!" Ferris gasped. "For what reason—"

"You'll have the details when you reach Earth, Ferris. Be ready when Brooks arrives. He'll be there shortly."

"Brooks! Who's he? The kid?"

"You're asking too many questions, Ferris. Brooks is young, yes, but he'll fill the position. We'll explain later. That's all."

It took a few minutes for Ferris to recover. Replacement! After six years of service at the number one fuel station between the Earth and Moon. Why, he was the only man who could handle Station 12! And Galsworth was sending Brooks, a green kid barely out of SM school. What was the guy thinking of?

Angered, Ferris got up from his stool and paced the floor. It was easy to picture Galsworth sitting at his desk. He'd be chewing a big cigar, pounding a pudgy fist into his palm, telling young Brooks that Station 12 needed a stalwart lad willing to face numerous cosmic dangers in order that commerce between the Earth and Moon would not fall below its present status. Only Galsworth would say it like that.

Well, what was wrong with the present status? Ferris had kept the company heads above water; he hadn't fallen down on the job. But they apparently weren't satisfied. Something was wrong, and it seemed that Galsworth was taking it out on Ferris.

Still perplexed, Ferris entered his living quarters and began packing. He dismissed Galsworth from his mind, wondered whether or not Brooks could meet the task of operating the station. It was a lonely job, sitting there in the cylindrical island of space, watching ships approach and pass in the cold void that housed him. Brooks would grow weary of it, just as Ferris had at first. There wasn't a more dismal existence in the solar system, but to Ferris it was home, and even the thought of that was comforting.

The sound of a hissing airlock brought Ferris to his senses. Brooks was ahead of schedule—

Ferris went back to the control room. A tall fellow stood there, his hair drooping, his space tunic ripped open at the collar. His face was stone-like.

"You aren't Brooks," said Ferris. "What do you want?"

"Fuel," the other dropped a hand to a belt holster. "I need fuel for my ship—a lot of it. And you're the only fellow in my path who's got it. Let's not waste time."

"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."

The syphon began a steady flow.

"You won't make it," remarked Ferris. "And if you do get there, what then? There's no place for you on the Moon. They'll track you down in a few days."

Siegal laughed. "You seem quite certain of all this."

"Besides," went on Ferris, "I'll tell them all about you. They'll know just where you are, and they'll be waiting for you when you reach the Moon."

"Not if I destroy your radio," said Siegal, "and not if you ride the station back to Earth."

For a long minute there was silence. The only sound was the trickling of the liquid fuel. Ferris became uneasy.

"That's murder," he said at length.

"True," agreed Siegal. "That is murder, isn't it?"

The container was full. At the point of Siegal's gun, Ferris carried the fuel to the airlock, where he was forced to don a space tunic and transport the container to the lone ship that was anchored outside. He made several trips, until the station's tanks were nearly empty. Through vision screens, the glow of the repulsion jets could be seen, receding gradually.

"The station will move in a matter of hours," said Ferris. "It's a devilish trick, Siegal, and I hope they get you for it."

"Never mind. Just fill the container again. I want to be sure the tank is empty."

Ferris set to work again. As he bent over the tanks, the floor gave a sudden lurch and threw him against the wall. Siegal clutched a door frame and steadied himself.

"No tricks, Ferris."

"But the station's moving. Can't you see?"

"Sooner than you expected. Perhaps you can tell me why."

"I don't know, Siegal. Something's happened."

"It's all right, finish your work."

Ferris complied. Once more the precious liquid trickled into the container. Minutes passed.

"Brooks reporting, sir."

Siegal turned, astounded. The red-headed youngster stood there, a look of bewilderment on his face. Then Ferris leaped, caught Siegal about the hips and sent him sprawling over the station floor. But the convict was elusive. He twisted free, somewhat dazed, and stood erect. He fired a beam at Ferris, who rolled across the floor in pain. Brooks, realization having dawned upon him, started forward. Siegal emitted a shrill noise, grabbed the container and ran for the airlock. Brooks blocked his way, and went down as the gun struck his skull. Siegal leaped over him, vanishing a moment later beyond the airlock.

His brain in a turmoil, Ferris got slowly to his feet and looked about. The room was empty. No Siegal, no Brooks. The station was tilted at an angle, swaying slightly. It was falling, due to the excess weight applied when Brooks anchored his cruiser.

Ferris nursed his aching head. The beam had shaved his neck just below the ear, breaking his space tunic's glass helmet, otherwise doing no harm.

Ferris made his way to the airlock. Through the heavy glass he glimpsed a portion of Siegal's ship. Quickly, a plan formed in his mind.

He removed a metal space suit from a locker, donned it and clumped awkwardly up a stairway leading to the upper level. He crossed to a second airlock, advanced through, and stepped lightly onto the top of Siegal's ship. He dropped flat and crawled to the supply lock, through which a ship's food bundles were loaded. He grasped the latch firmly, and waited.

A minute later the little cruiser moved into space. Behind, Fuel Station 12 continued its Earthward fall. Ferris watched it go, his heart heavy. All his belongings went with Station 12, all the things he had called his home for six long years. He wondered about Brooks. The fellow's cruiser was drifting lifelessly to one side, no doubt having been cut free by Siegal. There was no evidence of Brooks' whereabouts.

Ferris clung to the heavy latch as Siegal's cruiser slipped away in space. Above and all around him hovered the vast outline of Earth, the continents and oceans showing dimly through the deep shadows. To the left was the Moon, drifting aimlessly along the great star-curtain.

Ferris tugged at the latch. It moved a little. He tugged again and it sprang free. Ferris stood up, straddled the circular lock, and pulled back the cover. Air rushed out. Through the narrow hole he saw the tiny storage compartment. Satisfied, he let himself through and dropped to the floor, pulling the cover back in place as he did so.

The room was small—only a few feet higher than Ferris, not much longer. The sound of the oxygen pumps grew louder for a moment, as the semi-vacuum was being replaced.

Ferris waited several minutes, then removed the space suit. Finding the air suitable, he stepped to the compartment door, opened it a crack, and peered out.

Steps led downward to a brief corridor. Beyond the corridor, a portion of the control room was visible.

Ferris moved out, went down the steps and proceeded cautiously along the corridor.

He put a hand to his forehead; a sudden dizziness swept through him. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes. There was blood on his sleeve.

He couldn't remember how long he waited there; it may have been a number of minutes. He could feel his sickness overcoming him. He was weakening.

A footstep sounded, and Ferris tried to open his eyes. Then he turned to go back, but a voice stopped him. It was Siegal's.

There was no use resisting. Siegal still had the drop on him. The convict led him into the control cabin, forced him into a seat.

"You're a good man, Ferris," Siegal said, "but not good enough. I might be able to use you, though—more or less as a shield when I get to the Moon."

Somewhat revived, Ferris looked up. His head still hurt him, but he was able to recollect his surroundings. He thought of Fuel Station 12—it would be nearing Earth now. Soon it would strike, and then Galsworth would be notified. Things would begin to happen.

"Brooks reporting."

Siegal swung, shouting angrily. But the youth was on him, knocking the beam gun away, pinning him against the wall of the cabin. Ferris watched dazedly, wondering where Brooks had come from. Nauseating sensations swept him again, and things went black for a moment. He heard Siegal's yells. A blow was struck, and Brooks tumbled back.

Ferris pushed himself from the stool and fell over the beam gun. As Siegal bore Brooks to the floor, Ferris rolled over, brought up his arm and pulled the trigger. His aim was bad, but the beam did its work. Siegal simply went limp.

For a long minute Ferris lay there, looking up at the youthful form of Brooks over him. He grinned.

"Good work, Brooks. You make a better stowaway than I do."

"This is the first time," said Galsworth, "I've ever seen bandages on you, Ferris."

"I came to talk business, Galsworth. At least, you called me here for that reason, didn't you?"

The company head placed a pudgy fist against his palm. "Of course. I thought you'd like to know why you were called in from 12."

"Because you wanted to send Brooks there. Well, that's okay. He's a good man—"

"No, not just that. We've a passenger pilot's license for you, if you want it. Something we've been planning for some time. You're the only one of our station operators who has passed the exams."

Ferris grew red in the face. "Then, all this was just a—promotion?"

Galsworth nodded. "When the new Station 12 is situated, Brooks will take over. We've better things for you. Willing?"

To Ferris, it was overwhelming—more so than it had been aboard Siegal's cruiser. He felt suddenly as if he would faint—the wound—

He did faint right there in Galsworth's office, but when he revived Galsworth was still smiling. It was all right—after six years!