Текст книги "X Files: Fight the Future"

Автор книги: Chris Carter

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"What do you think it is?" Scully asked in a low voice.

Mulder jammed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. "I have no idea."

They started toward it, stumbling as they climbed down the rough hillside. Before them a great plateau stretched as far as they could see, and at the edge of this rose what was illuminat-ing the night: two gigantic, glowing white domes that seemed to float in the darkness. Rolling to a stop beside them was the train that bore the unmarked tanker trucks.

Mulder pointed. Scully nodded, and with-out speaking they continued down, sliding through loose scree and grabbing onto dried shrubs to keep from falling. Finally they reached bottom. Ahead of them stretched the high desert plateau. They moved more quickly now, just short of running as they made their way across the waste. In the near distance something shimmered and rustled in the cold wind, and there was a grassy odor. But it wasn't until they were nearly upon it that the eerie glow from the domes revealed what lay before them.

" Look," breathed Scully in disbelief.

In the half light stretched acres and acres of cornfields, as incongruous in that desert as fresh water or snow-capped hills. Wind rippled through the stalks, corn tassels whispered; and Mulder and Scully walked slowly until they stood at the very edge of the field.

They entered the field, walking one behind the other down a row lined with stalks that grew two or three feet above their heads. Scully shook her head. "This is weird, Mulder."

"Very weird." He gazed to where the twin domes rose cloudlike above the distant edge of the field.

"Any thoughts on why anybody'd be grow-ing corn in the middle of the desert?"

Mulder flicked a fallen husk from his shoul-der and pointed at the domes. "Not unless those are giant Jiffy Pop poppers out there."

They went on, the wind rattling the stalks as they passed row after row of corn like some landscape in a nightmare; but at last they reached the far perimeter of the field. Together they stepped out into the open air.

In front of them, more vast than they could have imagined, were the two glowing domes. There was no evidence that anyone was guard-ing them. No vehicles, so sounds, no signs warning off trespassers.

For a moment the two agents stood staring at the eerie structures. Then they hurried cautiously toward the nearer of the two.

A heavy steel door served as entrance—no lock, no alarm system. Mulder pulled it, slowly and with some effort. It opened with a sucking sound, suggesting that the interior was pressur-ized. He shot Scully a curious look, then stepped inside, Scully at his heels.

Immediately they both jumped, crying out as large fans overhead sent blasts of air down onto them.

There was a thunderous roar, and they lunged ahead, into the echoing stillness of the space beyond.

"Cool in here," said Scully, shivering as she tugged at her jacket. She blinked; the dome was so painfully bright it was as though day-light reigned here, though she could see no lamps anywhere.

"Temperature's being regu-lated…"

"For the purpose of what!"

Mulder let his head fall back so that he was staring directly overhead. A dizzying web of cross wires and cables was strung there, giving an overall impression of simplicity and some perfect, unknown, function. When he looked down he saw a floor that was the earthbound counterpart to this high-wire act: gray and flat, of metal or some sort of sturdy resinous com-pound, and utterly featureless. All around them the air was still, but as the two agents moved cautiously through the dome, they gradually became aware of a sound. A steady, resonating hum—almost an electrical hum, but with a slightly different vibration that Mulder couldn't quite put a name to, as though the air channeled some energy that pulsed at a higher or lower frequency than was humanly recognizable.

They headed toward the middle of the vast open space, stepping with care on the gray sur-face underfoot, until they reached a dividing line where the floor gave way to the dome's epicenter, a space the size of a sports arena.

Before them, laid out in a grid and low to the ground, was row after row of what looked like boxes, sides touching as though they were pieces in some mammoth puzzle or game board. Each was about three feet square, with a dim pewter sheen. Mulder stepped very carefully onto one. It felt reassuringly solid, and after a moment Scully followed him, walking across the grid.

"I think we're on top of something, a large structure," Scully said when they paused to look around.

She stared down, frowning. It was apparent now that the boxes had louvered tops, but these were all firmly shut, so that whatever was inside could not be seen. She tapped gently at the box with her foot. "I think these are some kind of venting—"

Mulder stooped, to rest his head against the top of one box, listening. "You hear that?"

"I hear a humming. Like electricity. High voltage, maybe." She gazed overhead, at the bizarre Crosshatch of cables and struts and gird-ers spanning the interior of the dome.

"Maybe," said Mulder. "Maybe not."

Scully pointed skyward. "What do you think those are for?"

Above them, at the very top of the dome, were two huge louver vents corresponding to the smaller ones underfoot.

"I don't know," said Mulder, scrambling back up again.

They stood side by side, gazing at the ceil-ing when, without warning, a hollow metallic bang echoed through the dome.

In the dome's ceiling one of the vents was opening. As though some great invisible hand was there, the great metal louvers were strain-ing from their flat, closed position; until they pointed straight up and down. Open, so that Scully and Mulder could see a black slab of night beyond, and feel the chill air edging through the gap in the dome. When the first louver was completely open, the second began the same ominous performance, sliding until another series of apertures gaped onto the night. Mulder stared at it, mind racing as he tried to come up with some explanation for what was above them.

Cooling vents? But the dome was already chilly, the temperature maintained by some unseen refrigeration system. Brow furrowed, he looked down and around, searching for some-thing that might provide a clue. His gaze stopped when it came to the mysterious boxes underfoot.

Something occurred to him then. Some-thing extremely unpleasant. Something fright-ening.

"Scully… ?"

His partner continued to stare upward. "Yeah…?"

He grabbed her hand. " Run."

He pulled her after him and she followed; not knowing why, heading for the door where they had entered, a good hundred yards away.

She hesitated and looked back at the gray ranks of louvered boxes on the floor, and saw what they were hiding.

One by one the vents on each box opened, domino-style, sliding back until their contents were exposed. And with a sound like a chain saw ripping through new wood, bees emerged: thousands upon thou-sands of them, pouring from the boxes and streaming toward the open ceiling. Scully drew her hands before her face and turned, staggering after Mulder. He pulled his jacket up around his head and she did the same, clumsily, stumbling as the insects streamed around her. She could see bees clinging to her jacket, her legs; bees swarming so thickly in the air before her that it was like looking through dark gauze.

"Keep going!" Mulder shouted, voice muf-fled by his sleeve. Scully lurched after him. The entrance was only a few yards away now, but she was falling behind, losing her bearings as the frantically humming swarm descended around her.

Mulder looked as though he were swim-ming through the cloud of insects, arms flail-ing, head down.

He was nearing the entryway when he turned to see Scully flagging behind him. Bees covered her like a softly rippling pelt. She moved as in slow motion, dazed and terrified.

"Scully!"

She couldn't even lift her head to acknowl-edge him. Mulder took a deep breath, then raced back to her side. His hand shot out and grabbed her coat, heedless of the bees crawling there. Then he dragged her after him to where the door fans blasted away the insects stub-bornly clinging to her body.

He kicked the door open and shoved her out ahead of him. As they went outside, he asked her if she got stung. "I don't think so."

The night came as a shock, after the false daylight of the dome. But before they could catch their breath something else came through the darkness. Not bees this time, but two blinding blades of light bearing down on them. The rushing whir of turbine engines filled the air as two unmarked helicopters came roaring from behind the other dome. They skimmed above the ground, searchlights blaz-ing, headed right for Scully and Mulder.

The agents fled. Bolting out of sight just as the helicopters blasted over the spot where they had stood seconds before. They headed for the cornfields, darting in between the towering rows and knocking away any stalks or leaves that blocked their way. Directly overhead the choppers swooped, searchlights cutting through the cornrows like twin lasers. Mulder and Scully ran in and out of the rows, barely managing to avoid the beams. The helicopters crisscrossed the air above them, like two great insects escaped from that other swarm, banking sharply as they searched the fields below. The wash from their propeller blades ripped through the cornstalks like a tornado, revealing anything that might be hidden within.

In the field Mulder gasped for breath as dust and pollen coated his mouth and nostrils. He staggered down another row, ducking as the searchlight beam swept just overhead but escaping detection—for the moment. He drew up beneath a broken cornstalk and coughed, covering his mouth, then looked around for Scully.

She was gone. Desperation edged out fear as he plunged back into the row, shielding his eyes as he peered between the endless lines of corn.

'Mulder!"

She was somewhere ahead of him. Mulder crashed through the field, gasping when he saw one of the choppers hovering into view. "Scully!" he yelled. "Scully!" He kept calling her name as he ran. The chopper hung in the air for a moment as though considering which way to go, then swung around and quickly, relentlessly, beared down upon him.

Before him the ranks of cornstalks thinned. A black ridge appeared, untouched by the heli-copter's beams: the edge of the field. His heart pounded as he made a final effort, racing toward open ground.

Behind him the chopper roared, cornstalks crashing in its wake. Mulder reached the end of the field and crashed out into the night.

He staggered to a halt, breathing in huge gulps of air. For a moment he could think of nothing else, but then another helicopter thundered up from behind him. He turned, and saw Scully a few feet away.

"Scully?"

"Mulder!" she said, sprinting toward him. "Let's go—"

They broke into a run, racing side by side toward the hillside that hid their car. When they reached the hill, they climbed, frantically, loose stones and dirt streaming down behind them. It was only when they reached the sum-mit that they slowed and looked at each other in the darkness.

Real darkness, starlit and ominously quiet. The helicopters had disappeared.

"Where'd they go?" Scully coughed, wiping her eyes.

"I don't know." Mulder stood for a moment, surveying the plateau below them: the weirdly glowing domes and acres of ravaged corn. Then he turned and continued running, back to the bluff where their car was parked. Scully followed.

The desert's uncanny silence hung over them as they finally reached the car. They rushed to it and jumped inside, Mulder twisting the ignition and pounding on the gas.

It didn't start.

"Shit," he groaned. He turned the key again—nothing. Waited and did the same– still nothing. Again and again he tried, franti-cally now, while Scully looked back through the rear window.

"Mulder!"

From behind the bluff rose one of the black helicopters. Suddenly the car's engine roared to life.

Mulder threw it into gear and spun out, tires screaming as he turned the car and sent it churning back down the hillside without turn-ing on the lights. Scully stared back breath-lessly, waiting for the helicopter to give chase.

It did not. It hovered for a few seconds, then, as silently as it had appeared, it banked and flew off into the night.

CHAPTER 10

FBI HEADQUARTERS

J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Assistant Director Jana Cassidy did not like to be kept waiting. For the tenth time she rifled through the papers on the table before her, glancing tight-lipped at the closed door to the hearing room. At the table alongside her the other panel members made a point of avoiding her eyes. Cassidy sighed impatiently and looked at her watch, then up again as the door swung open.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner stuck his head in. "She's coming in," he said wearily.

Skinner withdrew to let Scully pass. She had on the same clothes she'd been wearing for two days now, and she brushed surreptitiously at the stubborn bits of cornstalk and pollen that clung burrlike to her jacket. As she entered she dipped her head, smoothing out her hair as she approached the table; then looked up to give the hearing committee a chastened look as she took her seat. Skinner came in behind her and joined the others at the table.

"Special Agent Scully," Cassidy began, reshuffling her papers.

"I apologize for making you wait," Scully broke in. She shot Assistant Director Cassidy a polite look.

"But I've brought some new evi-dence with me—"

"Evidence of what?" Cassidy asked sharply.

Scully reached into the satchel at her feet and pulled out a vinyl evidence bag. She gazed at it reluctantly. When she finally spoke, her tone was anything but confident.

"These are fossilized bone fragments I've been able to study, gathered from the bomb site in Dallas…"

Cassidy scrutinized her coolly, but she didn't take note of the other thing Scully had brought back with her from Texas. Beneath the young agent's mass of auburn hair a bee crawled, as though stretching its legs from the long journey. It hovered momentarily against the navy fabric.

"You've been to Dallas?"

Scully met the other woman's challenging gaze. "Yes."

"Are you going to let us in on what, exactly, you're trying to prove?"

"That the bombing in Dallas may have been arranged to destroy the bodies of those firemen, so that their deaths and the reason for them wouldn't have to be explained—"

Unnoticed, the bee disappeared from sight again beneath the collar of Scully's suit jacket.

Cassidy's eyes narrowed. "Those are very serious allegations, Agent Scully."

Scully stared at her hands. "Yes, I know."

There was a hush of murmured responses to this, the panel members turning to confer with each other in low voices. In his chair, Assistant Director Skinner shifted uneasily, watching Scully and trying to figure out just what the hell she'd come up with this time.

Cassidy leaned back and regarded Scully. "And you have conclusive evidence of this? Something to tie this claim of yours to the crime?"

Scully met her gaze, then dropped her eyes, "Nothing completely conclusive," she admitted grudgingly. "But I hope to. We're working to develop this evidence—"

"Working with?"

Scully hesitated. "Agent Mulder."

At Jana Cassidy's knowing nod, the other panel members all shifted again in their chairs. The assistant director looked at Scully, then indicated the door.

"Will you wait outside for a moment, Agent Scully? We need to discuss this matter."

Very slowly Scully stood. She picked up her satchel and walked to the door, glancing back in time to see the look Skinner gave her, a look compounded equally of sympathy and disap-pointment.

• • •

CASEY'S BAR

SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was late afternoon when Fox Mulder pushed open the door to Casey's. Inside, it might have been the middle of the night. The same few, bleary-eyed regulars sat and talked. Mulder ignored them all, scanning the back of the room, where a Budweiser sign blinked fitfully above a lone figure slumped in a high-backed wooden booth. When Mulder sat down next to him the man jumped, then quickly leaned over to grab the agent's hand.

"You found something?" Kurtzweil wheezed.

"Yes. On the Texas border. Some kind of experiment. Something they excavated was brought there in tanker trucks."

"What?"

"I'm not sure. A virus—"

"You saw this experiment?" Kurtzweil broke in excitedly.

Mulder nodded. "Yes. But we were chased off."

"What did it look like?"

"There were bees. And corn crops." Kurtzweil stared at him, then laughed with ner-vous delight.

Mulder opened his hands in a helpless gesture. "What are they?"

The doctor slid from his seat. "What do you think?"

Mulder looked thoughtful. "A transporta-tion system," he said at last. "Transgenic crops. The pollen genetically altered to carry a virus."

"That would be my guess."

"Your guess!" Mulder exploded. "You mean you didn't knowl"

Kurtzweil didn't reply. Without looking back he headed for the back of the bar. Mulder gaped, then hurried after him, as the few other patrons turned to see what the commotion was.

He caught up with Kurtzweil near the bath-rooms. "What do you mean, your guessl" he demanded.

Kurtzweil said nothing and continued to head for the back door. With a frustrated sound Mulder collared him, yanking the older man so that the two were inches apart.

"You told me you had the answers."

Kurtzweil shrugged. "Yeah, well, I don't have them all."

"You've been using me—"

" I've been using you!" Now it was Kurtzweil's turn to sound offended.

"You didn't know my father—"

The doctor shook his head. "I told you—he and I were old friends."

"You're a liar," Mulder spat. "You lied to me to gather information for you. For your god-damn books. Didn't you?" He shoved the older man against the bathroom door. "Didn't you?"

Suddenly the door swung open. A man hastily exited, making his way between them. As he did so, Kurtzweil broke away and hurried out the back door. Mulder stared after him, then quickly followed.

"Kurtzweil!"

He blinked in the blaze of afternoon light, looking around vain in for his prey. After a moment he sighted him, and Mulder took off. "Hey!"

When he came up alongside Kurtzweil, the older man turned on him with unexpected ferocity.

"You'd be shit out of luck if not for me," he gasped, pushing at Mulder's chest. "You saw what you saw because I led you to it. I'm putting my ass on the line for you."

" Your ass?" Mulder's voice crackled with disdain. "I just got chased across Texas by two black helicopters—"

"And why do you think it is that you're standing here talking to me? These people don't make mistakes, Agent Mulder."

Kurtzweil spun on his heel and strode off. Mulder gazed at him, dumbfounded by the logic of this, when his attention was abruptly shaken by a noise above him. He whirled and looked up to see a figure straddling a fire escape. A tall man, only his legs and feet clearly in sight; but it was obvious he had been watching them. As Mulder moved back to get a better view the man turned and stared down at him, then ducked into an open window and disappeared.

It was only a glimpse, but something about the figure was familiar. His height, the close-cropped hair…

Mulder frowned and ran a hand wearily across his forehead, then hurried down the alley after Kurtzweil.

He was gone. Breathlessly Mulder chugged onto the sidewalk, scanning the street and sur-rounding buildings. Kurtzweil was nowhere to be seen. For several minutes he walked around, searching for any sign of the familiar raincoat and stooped gray head. But finally he had to admit it: Kurtzweil had given him the slip.

When he reached his apartment Mulder jammed the key into the lock and hurried inside, forgetting to close the door behind him. He tossed his jacket on the couch and crossed quickly to his desk, yanking open one drawer after another until at last he discovered what he wanted: a stack of photo albums. One after another he opened them, glancing at the Polaroids and faded 4x5s in their plastic sleeves and then dropping each book on the floor.

Until he found it. An album with peeling daisy decals on the cover, its contents spilling out as he tore it open. Inside, page after page of photos taken during his Wonder Years: lawn sprinklers and summer camp, fishing at the lake and his sister Samantha's fifth birthday party. Fox and Samantha on the first day of school. Fox and Samantha and their mother. Samantha with their dog.

And there, alongside pictures of his parents and cousins he hadn't seen in decades, a family barbecue.

His mother kneeling on the lawn between Fox and his sister; above them their father at the grill, smiling.

At his side a tall man with dark hair, lean-faced, smiling as well, not stooped at all and younger, oh much younger.

Alvin Kurtzweil.

A knock shattered his reverie. Mulder turned, dazed, and looked up to see Scully standing in the open door of his apartment. Her eyes met his.

"What?" He got to his feet, scattering pho-tos around him. "Scully? What's wrong?"

"Salt Lake City, Utah," she said softly. "Transfer effective immediately."

He shook his head, refusing to hear her.

"I already gave Skinner my letter of resig-nation," she added brokenly.

Mulder stared at her. "You can't quit, Scully."

"I can, Mulder. I debated whether or not to even tell you in person, because I knew—"

He took a step toward her and then stopped, gesturing at the photos at his feet. "We're close to something here," he said, his voice rising desperately. "We're on the verge—"

" You're on the verge, Mulder." She blinked and looked away. "Please—please don't do this tome."

He continued to gaze at her. Not believing she was here, not believing this could be it. "After what you saw last night," he said at last, "after all you've seen, Scully– You can't just walk away."

"I have. I did. It's done."

He shook his head, stunned. "Just like that..:"

"I'm contacting the state board Monday to file my medical reinstatement papers—"

"But I need you on this, Scully!" he said urgently.

"You don't, Mulder. You've never needed me. I've only held you back." She forced herself to look away from him, biting her lip to keep herself from crying. She turned and started for the door. "I've got to go."

He caught her before she reached the ele-vator, running to keep up with her. "You're wrong," he cried.

Scully turned on him. " Why was I assigned to you?" she asked fiercely. "To debunk your work. To rein you in. To shut you down."

He shook his head. "No. You've saved me, Scully." He put his hands lightly on her shoul-ders and gazed down into her open blue eyes. "As difficult and frustrating as it's been some-times, your goddamn strict rationalism and science have saved me—a hundred times, a thousand times. You've—you've kept me honest and made me whole. I owe you so much, Scully, and you owe me nothing."

He dipped his head, a knot in his throat as he went on in a voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to do this without you. I don't know if I can. And if I quit now, they win…"

He gazed down at her and she stared back at him, silent, her blue eyes dark in the half light. She moved very slightly away from him, not breaking his gaze; her own registering respect and sorrow. His hands remained barely touching her arms as she lifted herself on tiptoe and kissed his forehead.

He did not move away, did not for a moment respond. Their eyes met and linked. A sudden, inexplicable tension flared. And then his hands tightened on her, his head dipped as he drew her toward him, his fingers moving upward to trace the long line of her neck, her skin warm beneath the thick mane of auburn hair, her eheek. For only an instant she hesi-tated, then reached for him. She could feel his mouth grazing hers, when—

"Ouch!" Scully pulled away from Mulder, rubbing her neck where his hand had been.

"I'm sorry." Mulder stared at her, worried he had done something wrong.

Scully's voice was thick. "I think… some-thing… stung me."

She withdrew her hand as Mulder moved around her, running his fingers quickly across her neck. He shook his head. "It must've got-ten in your shirt."

He gasped as Scully slumped forward, as he hastily caught her in his arms. Her head lolled drunkenly as Mulder whispered, frightened, "Scully…"

She stared up at him through slit eyes and opened her hand. In the palm lay a bumblebee, legs feebly twitching. "Something's wrong," she murmured, barely coherent. "I'm having… lancinating pain… my chest. My… motor functions are being affected. I'm—"

Frantically, but as gently as he could, Mulder lowered her until she lay upon the floor. She felt limp and helpless as a sleeping child, her head rolling to one side. She contin-ued to speak, her voice growing fainter and fainter, eyes no longer focusing.

"… my pulse feels thready and I—I've got a funny taste in the back of my throat."

Mulder knelt above her, straining to hear. "I think you're in anaphylactic shock—"

"No—it's—"

"Scully…" Mulder's voice cracked.

"I've got no allergy," she whispered. "Something… this… Mulder… I think… I think you should call an ambulance…"

He stumbled to his feet and raced for the phone, punching in 911. "This is Special Agent Fox Mulder.

I have an emergency. I have an agent down—"

Scant minutes passed before he heard sirens wailing outside. He ignored the elevator and ran downstairs, holding the door open as two paramedics rushed past him carrying a folded gurney. He followed them, giving them a broken version of all that had occurred. When they reached Scully, one paramedic opened the gurney while the other knelt beside her.

"Can you hear me?" he said in a loud voice. "Can you say your name?"

Scully's lips moved but no words came out. The paramedic shot a look at his partner. "She's got constriction in the throat and lar-ynx." He looked back down at her and asked, "Are you breathing okay?"

No reply. He lay his head beside her mouth, listening. "Passages are open. Let's get her in the van."

They bundled her onto the gurney and Mulder went with them back into the corridor. Neighbors were standing in doorways, staring as the paramedics hustled the gurney toward the elevator.

"Coming through, people! Here we go, coming through—"

Mulder rode with them down the elevator and ran outside to where the EMT van waited, lights flashing. The paramedics banged out the front door, stutter-stepping the gurney down the front walk.

Mulder ran after them.

"She said she had a taste in the back of her throat," he said. "But there was no preexisting allergy to bee stings. The bee that stung her may have been carrying a virus—"

The second paramedic stared at him. "A virus?"

"Get on the radio," the first medic shouted at the van driver. "Tell them we have a cyto-genic reaction, we need an advise and adminis-ter—"

They guided the gurney to the back of the vehicle, lifting it in with expert hands. Scully's eyes rolled and then focused on Mulder. Unable to communicate, she held his gaze as they rolled her into the brightly lit interior. The paramedic quickly moved into the van. Before Mulder could climb aboard and join Scully, the paramedics swung the doors closed.

"Hey—what hospital are you taking her to?" he said as the doors were closing.

He ran to the driver's side of the van, wav-ing frantically. Mulder knocked on the window.

"What hospital are you taking her to?"

He got his first look at the driver, a tall man in a light blue EMT uniform, his hair close-cropped. He stared coldly out at Mulder, who drew up short in shock.

Because suddenly, in a split second, it all fell together. It was the uniform that triggered his memory: the tall man on the fire escape, sliding into an open window; the tall man in a vendor's uniform exiting the snack room where the bomb had been. And now the driver of the van…

It was the same man. His hand was raised, aiming a handgun directly at Mulder. The next instant a blast echoed through the night. Mulder fell backward, clutching his head as the ambulance shrieked away. He lay bleeding in the street and his neighbors watched, horrified, as a second ambulance roared up, skidding to a halt to let two other paramedics leap out and rush to the fallen man's side.

NATIONAL AIRPORT WASHINGTON, D.C,

An hour later an unmarked auxiliary truck sat on the runway overlooking Haines Point, its engine idling. In the distance a private Gulfstream jet emerged from an unmarked hangar and taxied slowly down the tarmac. At sight of the Gulfstream, the truck's engines cut off. Two men in black fatigues hopped down from the cab and swiftly moved to the rear of the vehicle. They opened the doors and care-fully, deftly, removed a large translucent con-tainer, a cryobubble, its exterior a crazy grid of monitors and gauges, oxygen tanks and refrig-eration units. A thin layer of frost coated its interior, and behind this, dimly seen as though through fog, lay Scully. Her body strapped in, her limbs and torso so still she might have been dead; save that as the men carried the con-tainer from the truck, her eyes moved every so slightly, blinking.

The Gulfstream turned and rolled toward the truck, nosing through the darkness. When it was perhaps twenty feet from the waiting truck it halted. The men moved even more quickly then, bearing the container and its human cargo to the jet. As they did a door on the plane opened. Steps unfolded down to the runway, and a moment later man appeared. He stood at the top of the stairs, watching, then withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit one. He stood there for a minute, smok-ing, as the men brought the container to the cargo hold and loaded it inside.

When they were finished the men turned and hurried back to the truck. The Cigarette-Smoking Man dropped his cigarette onto the tarmac and reboarded the aircraft. The steps retracted, the plane swung around and headed for the central runway. Ten minutes later its lights could be seen arcing through the night as it arrowed above the city.