As Robert pursed his lips tightly, they turned. "This is an alien species. The injection could be anything. A pheromone for instance. It could be used to track his movements or attract something to him. Or maybe it's a slow acting poison, meant to kill over time. It could do nothing at all. Or it could just affect his mind, cause him to act irrationally and put the rest of us in danger."

"He was acting irrational when he put the Europhid in the incubator," Connelly said with a grimace.

"Your affections can do that to a man."

Connelly shot a fiery stare in to Robert that threatened to broil his brains inside his skull.

"Sorry," he said quickly. Robert regained his composure and continued. "But it's most likely something we haven't even conceived of yet. We have to remember that these are alien organisms. They may not have arms, legs or even mouths, but we know by observing the environment they live in, they're survivors. Of course, I'll be damned before I let a one foot tall, red eggplant outsmart me. If the Europhids can understand the human eye, I'll have them figured out soon enough."

Robert played with his beard for a moment. "The real question is, for what other reason could Peterson have been stung?"

*   *   *   *   *

Peterson stood before the Med-lab doors, pushing the button to open them over and over. But the doors were locked. He turned to the security panel and accessed the door mechanism. The lock was password protected.

His head shook. Drool collected at the corner of his mouth. He stared blankly while twitching, his voice making a scratchy click with each breath. Then he typed: Quaren104—the password known only to Harris and Choi.

Stumbling like a stiff legged man in the middle of a grand mal seizure, Peterson made his way through the halls of the Surveyor. He bumped loudly in the walls and nearly tumbled over with each step. What was left of his personality and consciousness was tucked away in the far reaches of his mind, like watching a baseball game from the nose bleed section. His eyes, once deep and brown, were now glazed over with a dark crimson haze.

After a skin-bruising five minute stroll, Peterson's movements became smoother. Along with an increase in balance, his steps became even and quick. With a quick jerk of the head, he stopped moving in the center of the hallway. Twisting with a robot-like rigidity, he looked back over his shoulder, back the way he came, toward a dimly lit hallway.