Roote's pinkish eyes were open, staring at nothing. The mouth was an empty black cavern. No bubbles escaped from between the pale, slack lips.

"Is he dead?" asked one of the five civilian scientists.

"He looks it," offered another in a whisper.

"Could I have some quiet, sir?" asked Corporal Elber of the last man who had spoken.

The corporal's breathing came with difficulty. His heart pounded as he crossed over to the side of the tank. A metal ladder scaled the high plastic wall. Gun in hand, Elber began climbing. Below him, the nervous scientists began whispering among themselves once more.

"We should have drugged the water," said one. He bit the already chewed skin around the remnants of his thumbnail.

"I suggested that," said a voice from the rear of the crowd. He was ignored.

"They said he wasn't supposed to get out," challenged yet another. He was referring to the Army Corps of Engineers, who had constructed the tank.

"They didn't even know what we were putting in there."

At this they fell silent.

Corporal Elber was at the top of the ladder by now. High above the floor, he stepped over the upper lip of the tank, placing a boot on the plastic platform connected to the interior wall. One hand trained his semiautomatic pistol squarely between Roote's shoulder blades. The fingertips of the corporal's free hand snaked slowly out to the floating body, brushing the ghostly white back.

The skin was cold and clammy. Like touching a corpse.

"He's dead!" Elber called down to the scientists. Exhaling his anxiety, the corporal holstered his gun.

Reaching, somewhat off balance, he grabbed Roote by the right bicep and tugged the limp body toward the platform.