"Let me remind you who is the new race. And who is the old," Strughold responded coolly. "What would be gained by withholding anything from them? By pretending ignorance? If this signals that Colonization has already begun, then our knowledge may forestall it."
"And if it doesn't?" retorted the Well-Manicured Man. "By cooperating now we're but beggars to our own demise! Our ignorance lay in cooperating with the Colonists at all."
Strughold shrugged. "Cooperation is our only chance of saving ourselves."
Beside him the Cigarette-Smoking Man nodded. "They still need us to carry out their preparations."
"We'll continue to use them as they do us," said Strughold. "If only to play for more time. To continue work on our vaccine."
"Our vaccine may have no effect!" cried the Well-Manicured Man.
"Well, without a cure for the virus, we're nothing more than digestives anyway."
All eyes turned to see how the Well-Manicured Man would react to this. He was well respected by the members of the Syndicate. If his was now the lone voice crying in the wilderness, they would still hear him out.
"My lateness might as well have been absence," he said in barely restrained fury. "A course has already been taken."
Strughold gestured at the TV and the Cigarette-Smoking Man pointed a remote at the monitor. The tape froze. The Well-Manicured
Man glanced at the screen to see a hospital cor-ridor, where Mulder and Scully were talking with a young naval guard. "There are complica' tions."
"Do they know?"
"Mulder was in Dallas when we were trying to destroy the evidence," said the Cigarette-Smoking Man. "He's gone back again now. Someone has tipped him off."
"Who?"
"Kurtzweil, we think."
"We've allowed this man his freedoms," interrupted Strughold. "His books have actu-ally helped us to facilitate plausible denial. Has he outlived his usefulness to us?"
"No one believes Kurtzweil or his books," said the Well-Manicured Man impatiently. "He's toiler. A crank."
"Mulder believes him," someone else said.
"Then Kurtzweil must be removed," said the Cigarette-Smoking Man.
"As must Mulder," pronounced Strughold.
The Well-Manicured Man shook his head angrily. "Kill Mulder and we risk turning one man's quest into a crusade."
Strughold turned on him with a look of icy malevolence. "We've discredited Agent Mulder. Taken away his reputation. Who mourns the death of a broken man?"
The Well-Manicured Man met his gaze with one of challenging disdain. "Mulder is far from broken."
"Then you must taken away what he holds most valuable," said Strughold. He turned to stare at the monitor, where a woman's face now took up most of the screen. "The one thing in the world that he can't live without."
CHAPTER 9
BLACKWOOD, TEXAS
(t T don't know, Mulder…" Scully shook J. her head, squinting into the glaring sunlight. In front of her a children's playground rose from the otherwise barren earth, cheerful counterpoint to the surrounding Texas desola-tion. "He didn't mention a park."
Mulder paced from the swings to the jungle gym to the slide. Everything brand-spanking new, plastic and painted metal in bright pri-mary colors: blue, red, purple, yellow. The grass underfoot seemed newly minted as well, thick green grass that breathed a sweet cool scent wherever he stepped.
"This is where he marked on the geological survey map, Scully." He jabbed at the folded paper in his hand. "Where he said those fossils were unearthed."
Scully made a helpless gesture. "I don't see any evidence of an archaeological dig, or any other kind of site. Not even a sewer or a storm drain."
Mulder scanned the area, confounded. In the distance the Dallas skyline shimmered in the heat, and children rode bikes in front of a modest housing development. He went back over to Scully, and together they walked around the edges of the playground.
"You're sure the fossils you looked at showed the same signs of deterioration you saw in the fireman's body in the morgue?"
Scully nodded. "The bone was porous, as if the virus or the causative microbe were decom-posing it."
"And you've never seen anything like that?"
"No." Now it was her turn to look con-founded. "It didn't show up on any of the immunohistochemical tests—"
Mulder listened, staring down at his feet. Suddenly he stooped and ran his hand lightly over the tips of bright green there.
"This look like new grass to you?" he asked.
Scully tipped her head. "It looks pretty green for this climate."
Mulder knelt and dug his fingers into the thick carpet of turf. After a minute, he lifted up a corner of a new square of grass, revealing white root mass with chocolate-brown earth clinging to it. Under this the hard-baked sur-face of Texas dirt could be seen, brick-red and tough as sandstone.
"Ground's dry about an inch down," Mulder announced. "Somebody just laid this down. Very recently, I'd say."
Scully turned in a slow circle, looking at the brightly painted swings and seesaws. "All the equipment is brand new."
"But there's no irrigation system. Some-body's covering their tracks."
From behind them came a sound well-known from childhood, the whizzing of bikes on blacktop.
Scully and Mulder turned, gazing back at the cul-de-sac where their rental car was parked near the development. Four boys were riding there. When Mulder whistled loudly at them, they stopped, puzzled, and stared blankly at him across the distance.
"Hey," called Mulder. They said nothing, only stared and shielded their eyes from the sun as the two grown-ups approached.
"Do you live around here?" asked Scully.
The boys exchanged looks. Finally one of them shrugged and said, "Yeah."
Mulder stopped and regarded them. Pretty standard-issue middle America boys in buzzcuts and T-shirts. Two of them straddled brand-new BMX bikes. "You see anybody digging around here?"
The boys remained silent, until one of them replied sullenly, "Not supposed to talk about it."
"You're not supposed to talk about it?" Scully prodded him gently. "Who told you that?"
The third boy piped up. "Nobody."
"Nobody, huh? The same Nobody who put this park in? All that nice new equipment…"
Mulder gestured at the swing sets, then looked sternly down into the boys' guilty faces. "They buy you those bikes, too?"
The boys shifted uncomfortably. "I think you better tell us," said Scully.
"We don't even know you," the first boy sniffed.
"Well, we're FBI agents."
The boy looked at Scully disdainfully. "You're not FBI agents."
Mulder suppressed a smile. "How do you know?"
"You look like door-to-door salesmen."
Mulder and Scully pulled out their badges. The boys' mouths dropped.
"They all left twenty minutes ago," one of the boys said quickly. "Going that way—"
They all pointed in the same direction.
"Thanks, guys," Mulder called. He pulled Scully after him and hurried toward the car.
The boys stood, silent, and watched as their rental car spun out onto the highway, red dust billowing behind it like smoke.
• • •
Mulder hunched at the wheel, foot to the floor. The car raced on, passing few other vehicles. Beside him Scully pored over the map, now and then looking out the window in concern.
"Unmarked tanker trucks…" Mulder said as to himself. "What are archaeologists hauling out in tanker trucks?"
"I don't know, Mulder."
"And where are they going with it?"
"That's the first question to answer, if we're going to find them."