Hoven pushed the gurney down polished corridors. Men in fatigues with guns ran past him; men and women in black bearing strange devices walked, but hurried. Hoven turned left down a side corridor, keyed open the door to a dark, narrow mechanical-access corridor, and proceeded down the narrow, dank space without turning on the lights.

He suddenly stopped halfway down.

This wasn’t right. He’d meant to go down one more intersection and turn right. This wasn’t the way to secured containment.

He wondered if he was losing his clinical detachment. He’d been so excited, it had been so long since he’d had material to work on. That was unscientific of him. Detachment, restraint: hallmarks of a great scientist.

For that’s what he was. Yes. Great. If only he wasn’t being held back by these fools. That stupid cunt, Winters, bossing him around, him.

Hoven rubbed his eyes. For a moment, he thought he saw flickering sparkles before his eyes, a swirling column of dust motes in the darkness before him.