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that is an excellent suggestion. But the idea of looking tough in front of Bernie is hard to resist. “Let’s just take a quick look around,” he says. “We can call them later if we still think we should. It’s probably nothing.”
    Cautiously, Orel walks toward the far end of the room. Bernie follows, his flashlight casting Orel’s shadow on the wall ahead, creating the illusion of a giant lurking in the corner. At the end of the tank, a shovel harvester hangs from a runner in the ceiling. Every other day the machine travels along the track, its metal jaw bending down to scoop up the algae before spitting it upstairs to be processed into something edible . . . if not necessarily appetizing. It hangs motionless now, occasionally releasing a burp of steam. As they walk around it, their feet stick in a thin film of drying algae. Between the machine’s housing and the wall is a narrow space littered with trash. The mold growing on the wall has been smeared away at shoulder level.
    “It looks like somebody tried to squeeze through here,” Orel says.
    Bernie’s respirator exaggerates his labored breathing. “You can’t honestly intend to go in there.”
    Orel shines his light into the gap. The rumble of the great dynamos above reverberates in the narrow space. Far within, his flashlight beam glints off something shiny.
    Now would be a fine time to turn back, he thinks. The idea of running away doesn’t bother him. He’s not that proud. But the thought of waiting for someone else to come and investigate — waiting for some soft-handed bureaucrat from upstairs to figure out the mystery and explain it to them — galls him.
    What’s the danger? he thinks. What are the odds that this is actually something dangerous? Not high, he decides. Probably just some kid. And whoever it is might be in trouble. Turning sideways, he slides into the gap. He is embarrassed to note that he is only slightly less wide sideways than head on. Holding his flashlight in front of him, he shuffles in. Bernie takes a nervous look backwards, then moves to follow.
    After about ten meters, they come to a dead end. The space widens somewhat where the machinery meets the wall, and there, pushed into one corner, they find a mound of torn paper and cardboard, large enough for a man to sleep on. Orel fishes through the shreds of paper with the toe of his boot. Tucked into the paper on one side are several pieces of glass, broken and polished into the shape of crude knives. There is also a smooth, shiny stone, just the right size to fit comfortably into a person’s hand.
    “Weird,” Orel whispers.
    “Look at this.” Bernie indicates a thick mylar tube. A hole big enough for a man to fit through has been ripped into it.
    “The breach,” Orel says.
    The tube runs into the wall. Climbing inside, Orel sees an air circulator with the grill broken off. Cautiously, he pushes into the aperture. There is barely enough room for his head and flashlight. The filters within have been torn apart and the fan disassembled. There is dried blood on the blades. Beyond that are more torn filters and the darkness of the duct.
    Bernie’s voice sounds very far away. “What do you see?”
    “It looks like he stopped the motor with his bare hands.” Orel pulls himself back a little too quickly, the jagged edge of the broken grill scraping his neck and jaw. He feels a trickle of blood run down his neck. He rubs it away as he crawls out of the tube. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here.”
    They work their way back through the gap. “The sound we heard must have come from here,” Bernie says. “We scared the intruder, and he snuck out through the tube.”
    “Let’s hope so.”
    “But who in their right mind would want to live in Hydro-ponics?”
    Orel takes a deep breath. “I think — and I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the only theory that fits the evidence — I think it has to be a Rat.”
    “It can’t be! They’ve never come this far in.