Harley's yo-yo whips out like a fishing lure, flickering bright for a moment in the twilight of the storm. But nothing goes for the bait, nor is there anything to be seen just beyond the door. Nothing seems to be lying in wait there.

Not there.

The next sound comes from behind them, beyond one of those solidly frozen airlocks. It's one Palmer, perhaps, knows better than the others. The slow grind and creak of cracking ice, crunching as it gives way. Then an impact that rings through the hull.

And then it's metal that begins to groan, to shudder, to squeal as it's wrenched apart...

Knock, knock.