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"More concerns than what?" he asked, frowning.
"We've been forced to reassess our role in Colonization." Strughold's tone was even; he might have been discussing a minor unpleasantness on the trading floor. "Some new facts of biology have presented them-selves."
"The virus has mutated," another voice broke in, more urgently.
The Well-Manicured Man looked taken aback. "On its own?"
"We don't know." The Cigarette-Smoking Man withdrew his lighter. "So far, there's only the isolated case in Dallas."
"Its effect on the host has changed," said Strughold. "The virus no longer just invades the brain as a controlling organism. It's devel-oped a way to modify the host body."
The Well-Manicured Man's mouth grew taut. "Into what?"
"A new extraterrestrial biological entity."
A moment while the men took this in. The Well-Manicured Man stared at Strughold in disbelief. "My god…"
Strughold nodded. "The geometry of mass infection presents certain conceptual reevalua-tions for us.
About our place in their Colonization…"
"This isn't about Colonization!" the Well-
Manicured Man exploded. "It's spontaneous repopulation! All our work…"
His voice trailed off, and he turned to gaze at the men around him. "If it's true, then they've been using us all along. We've been laboring under a lie!"
"It could be an isolated case," one of the others offered.
"How can we knowV
Strughold's voice rang out calmly as others joined in. "We're going to tell them what we've found.
What we've learned. By turning over a body infected with the gestating organism."
"In hope of what' ! Learning that it's true?" The Well-Manicured Man stared furiously at Strughold.
"That we are nothing more than digestives for the creation of a new race of alien life forms!"
"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 sca
"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 a
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.