Peterson's red eyes glowed with recognition. He spun on his heels and pounded toward the hallway. Rounding the corner at top speed, he tipped over. His shoulder hit the smooth wall and his tilted body slid as he continued walking forward. A moment later he sprung back up into a vertical position. With each step, his feet hit the floor harder and harder. His knees began bending and he broke into a sprint.

Three more turns and two long stretches later, Peterson skidded to a stop and peered at a labeled doorway. His lips mouthed the words three times before his lungs provided the air to give them voice. "Bio-lab."

Looking at the doorway, he scanned up and down and eventually turning his red eyes to the button next to the door. He pushed the button and door whooshed open. A crooked, unattractive grin spread on his face. With a wrinkled brow, Peterson lifted his hand and rubbed his mouth, inspecting the smile.

Interest in facial expressions quickly waned as he stepped into the Bio-lab, taking in the scenery. Trees, flowers and plants filled every nook and cranny of the room, except for the research area closest to the door. This is the section that attracted his attention. He stepped forward and bent down to the shielded plant incubator still containing the Europhid. He felt the broken glass on the floor with his finger tips, rubbing back and forth. He smiled again, this time, with more control.

Peterson stood up and turned his head to a yellow closet marked, "Supplies." He shuffled forward, dodging incubators and work benches, but never took his eyes off the double-door closet. Taking the closet door handles in both hands, he threw the doors open, revealing an array of metal gardening tools. Shovels, hoes, trowels, even a pitchfork.

Reaching forward, Peterson took hold of a spiked, metal rake. He brought it out and admired it briefly before tapping his hand on the sharp spikes. He winced and pulled his hand back. A trickle of foamy blood slid out from a fresh wound on the palm of his bandage-free hand. He watched as the blood slowly trickled down his thumb and began dripping onto the floor.

A perfect Michael Peterson grin flashed onto his face and he chuckled lightly. The chuckle grew in fervor, becoming a manic laugh. He stopped suddenly and turned toward the exit.

OCEAN

CHAPTER 16 -- THE DEEP

Dim light from the sphere's interior dome lamp filtered out through the glass, past the water surrounding the sphere and reflected off the smooth ice walls outside. Variations in the color and texture of the ice revealed millions of years of Europian history. But now, instead of taking core samples by drilling into the ice, Robert and Connelly were gliding straight to the bottom.