"Umbra 30/?"
			       By Dawson E. Rambo

Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any
other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter
remain his copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions,
and the property of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox,
Inc. No infringement of any copyright is intended. Characters
created by the author remain his property.

Original Post  :  August 15, 1997
Archive Entry  :  "Umbra 30"
Classification :  Action Adventure, MSR
Rating         :  PG-13 (Language)
Casting        :  Val Kilmer "Commander Matthew Stone"                 
               :  John Glover, "Danny Graves"
Timeline       :  Fourth season, prior to "Momento Mori."


Enjoy!
------
Billings, Montana

	Pain.
	Throbbing pain. Not shooting, but throbbing.
	Stone opened his eyes and glanced around the hospital room. 
Carefully, slowly, he lifted his left arm and spied the IV catheter 
inserted into it. He sighed, slowly, carefully, knowing that any sudden 
motions would only cause waves of dizziness and pain to wash over him. 
But the good news was, he reminded himself, he wasn't being restrained. 
He could leave any time he wanted.
	He moved his head to the side, checking the other arm. He had an 
IV in that one, too. Blood, he thought. I lost a lot of blood. He 
glanced up at the IV pumps mounted on twin poles on either side of his 
bed. The bags were a liter each, and judging by the instrument displays, 
the machines were scheduled to deliver the full contents of the two bags 
within the hour.
	Closing his eyes, Stone drifted off thinking, I can wait.

***
Apartment of Dana Scully
Annapolis, Maryland

	The trio returned from the restaurant tired, cranky and ready for 
sleep. True to his word, Skinner went for a walk, leaving Scully and 
Mulder alone for two precious hours.
	The moment the door clicked closed behind Skinner, Mulder turned 
to his partner and smiled thinly. "I'm not sure we're going to be able 
to use the two hours," he said softly. "I just don't feel up to it."
	Scully nodded, smiling just as softly. "I'm not really in the 
mood, either. Firing over a thousand rounds in an afternoon kinda takes 
the romance right out of me."
	Mulder chuckled. "But you do look so sexy in body armor, toting an 
MP-5 and opening up a can of whoop-ass on paper targets."
	"Watch it, G-man," Scully teased back. "Or I might open up that 
can on you!" They moved towards each other and into a comfortable hug. 
Mulder gave silent thanks that things between them had progressed to 
this point. He didn't know how he would have been able to face what was 
coming had he not had the chance to tell Scully how he felt, and more 
importantly, act on it.
	"I have an idea," Scully mumbled against his chest. 
	"I'm listening."
	"Let's take a bath."
	Mulder nodded. "Good idea."
	So they did.

***
Sterling, Virginia

	Graves sat in his workshop, going over his handiwork one last 
time. The six devices were in various stages of construction. Each of 
them would be placed in strategic locations around the DC metro area, 
the better to run the little rag-tag band into the ground before the big 
event.
	His fingers flew over the keyboard of one of the laptop computers, 
writing and debugging the arming and disarming software. It had to be 
perfect. It had to be hard enough to force Mulder to make decisions, 
difficult decisions, but not hard enough to defeat. Mulder had to be 
tested, Graves knew. Those were his orders.
	Odd thing to be doing on the eve of your death, old boy, he 
thought. The simple, known fact of his own death didn't bother Danny 
Graves in the least. He'd taken an oath years ago, an oath similar to 
the ones the Guardians took, but different in many ways. While the 
Guardians weren't supposed to sacrifice their lives for the greater 
good, the oath Graves had taken had all but specified exactly that. He 
was a tool, he knew, nothing more. A conduit. A way to bring a certain 
set of circumstances about, a way to make sure that certain events 
happened in a certain order. To deviate from the plan was insanity 
itself. 
	He was quite insane, he knew. The last vestiges of what could be 
called normal thought had left his mind close to a decade ago. The hunt, 
the chase had replaced all manners of rational thought. All that 
mattered was the Project, and his specific role in bringing the desired 
results about.
	His mind considered taking that ultimate, final step, and actually 
making it so the six CBX devices couldn't be disarmed. It was one way to 
end the suspense, he knew; one way to bring about a final end to the 
waiting, the planning, the almost soul-crushing expectations that he, 
and every member of the Project Team lived with every single day.
	All except that smoking bastard.
	No one knew who he was or where he came from. He had suddenly 
appeared years ago, somehow entrenched in the shadowy world of 
intelligence and an arena that was quaintly described as "executive 
action."
	Assassination, sabotage, disinformation. There was no one better 
at it, no one better suited at manipulating long, dangling tentacles of 
foreign policy and military actions. You had to give the son of a bitch 
that much, Graves admitted. His world was a stinking pit of lies, 
deceit, double-crosses and death dealt close up and personal. But he was 
damn good at it.
	Graves knew enough of what was coming to know that his role was 
vital, critical. That if he were to fail tomorrow, the repercussions 
would be felt for years.
	Generations.
	He wondered if the makers of the first atomic weapons felt this 
way, sequestered in the New Mexico desert in the 1940's, working towards 
something they barely understood, hoping to create a weapon of such 
devastating destruction that their country's enemies would be brought to 
their knees, crying and begging to surrender.
	He wondered if they had felt the same Godlike power that he did at 
this moment.

***
Annapolis

	Walter S. Skinner ducked into the small pub and bellied his way up 
to the bar. Never a heavy drinker, he decided that tonight, at least, he 
could afford one or two. 
	The bartender was leafing through a copy of the newspaper, peering 
as the race results and silently mouthing numbers and names to himself, 
mentally calculating his profits and losses for the day.
	"Help ya?" he asked, more of a challenge than a question.
	"Draft," Skinner replied, not caring particularly what was on tap. 
A moment later a tall, cool, foaming glass of beer slid in front of him. 
Taking a sip, Skinner began to feel the first clutching fingers of panic 
twisting in his belly.
	His role in all this had changed. At first, when he'd been brought 
in as Assistant Director, his brief had been clearly laid out. Keep an 
eye on Mulder. We'll give him the cases, make sure he has enough 
information to get to the point we need him to be. And then we'll take 
it all away, again and again, over and over. We're going to stretch him 
to the breaking point...
	And then push him over.
	It wasn't cruel, at least, the intention wasn't cruel. The effects 
sometimes were. Scully's abduction had been an unplanned facet of the 
entire operation, explained only in retrospect, and Skinner had found 
himself, against his better judgment, in agreeing that the decision to 
let Scully almost die had accomplished its intent: Scully and Mulder's 
bond was forged steel, harder than titanium, more dense than a neutron 
star. Nothing could separate them. And that had been the requirement, 
almost from the beginning.
	They had to be a team, a single functioning unit that thought as 
one, moved as one, acted as a unique, forcible entity that did what had 
to be done.
	What had to be done, Skinner mused. He had less information than 
Graves did, knew little of the ultimate objectives of the Project. But 
he'd been told enough, been given a glimpse of what was to come in one 
possible future, and he agreed with the general outlines of what needed 
to be done.
	He had problems with the specifics sometimes, but he kept 
reminding himself of two facts. First, he had asked to join this. Being 
a part of the Guardians was only one small part of his presence in the 
general outline; there were other, deeper connections, connections that 
he could never speak of, never reveal, even under the most extreme 
conditions.
	As he sat there sipping his beer, Skinner thought back over his 
association with Scully and Mulder. The fights, the accusations, the 
things that he'd been forced to do by design and circumstance. He'd 
hated himself after most of them, found it hard to look at his own face 
in the mirror. But he knew, intellectually at least, that they had to be 
done.
	Like Terry.
	The name, almost forgotten by everyone that had ever known him, 
was the only thing Skinner had to remember him by. He remembered the 
last time he'd seen his old friend. In an elevator, in Mulder's 
building, with Terry holding a high-capacity 9mm pistol in his face. The 
shock of recognition as the elevator doors had slid open on oiled tracks 
had almost stopped Skinner dead. Pieces of the puzzle had slammed 
together in his mind and he'd acted before he'd had a chance to think.
	Skinner's mind wandered back, back to Vietnam, back to the jungle 
fire that had forged the steel in his soul. Terry, assigned to his unit, 
a `consultant' for operations and plans. Not military, not CIA, not 
State. Somewhere in the middle, in the darkness, in the shadow. Even 
back then, when the United States was just getting its first taste of 
moving in the spaces between darkness and light, Terry was there, 
already experienced, already growing more powerful, stronger.
	Terry, who believed in the ultimate objective with his entire 
being, who had known about Mulder since before Mulder was born. Terry, 
who had shown Skinner the ropes, who had instructed him on the facets of 
the project that Skinner was allowed to know. Using the trust forged in 
the jungle fire between them to convince Skinner that the Project's 
objectives were true, were right, were morally acceptable; required.
	"Freshen that?" the bartender asked. 
	Skinner looked up, surprised, and then down again. His glass was 
empty.
	"Sure," Skinner said, sliding it across the bar. Moments later it 
was returned, filled to the brim, one lazy tendril of foam sliding down 
the slick surface of the stein. 
	He lifted the glass in silent toast.
	Here's to you, Mulder. May your aim be true, your mind be clear, 
and may the love you have found in your heart guide you to the destiny 
that others have planned for you. Skinner hoisted the glass to his lips, 
paused, and raised it again, finishing the silent toast. 
	Here's to you, Mulder, and guys like you. Damn few left.
	He drank, and then raised the glass again. To Scully, he thought. 
To the tiny woman with the fierce warrior's heart, the genius with a 
scientist's mind and the soul of a romantic poet. To the only woman who 
could ever be Mulder's equal. To the only woman who could find it in 
herself to love that man the way he needs to be loved. 
	He drank, almost a third of the glass, and raised it one last 
time.
	To the both of you, he thought. To Mulder and Scully.
	Saviors of the world.
	He drank. 
	He had one last sip-and-a-half left. He held the glass by the rim, 
rotating his wrist slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl against the 
sides.
	To me, he thought dourly. That I might live to see another day 
past tomorrow.
	Somehow, he doubted it.

***
Billings, Montana

	Stone woke again and looked up. Two fresh bags had been hung while 
he slept, but he felt immeasurably better. The fluid replacement was 
doing it's job, and he knew that he should wait for the rest of it, but 
after glancing at his watch, he decided that he didn't have the time to 
spare.
	Sitting up carefully, he reached with his left hand and carefully 
worked the catheter out. A small drop of blood appeared. Stone jammed a 
finger against it and raised his arm for a silent count of sixty. When 
he checked again, the oozing had stopped. Repeating the process on his 
other arm, Stone glanced around the room, wondering where they'd hidden 
his clothes.
	Clothes, he thought. Weapons. I need money, weapons and a plane.
	The plane was no problem; the Lear he and Dana had flown up was 
still sitting at BMA. Money would be no problem, if he could find his 
gear bag. He'd stowed over ten thousand dollars in it on the off chance 
that he would need it.
	Carefully getting to his feet, Stone made his way over to the 
closet. Opening it, he found his gear bag and his clothes. Gently 
leaning over, he slid back the zipper on the gear bag. Skinner had left 
a single pistol, a Glock, and half the money.
	That was all right, Stone thought. They may need it. But what they 
really need is...me.
	No one knows Graves like I do.
	No one.
	With that thought in mind, Stone reached for his clothes and 
gingerly began to dress. He was almost finished when he felt the swirl 
of cool air around his shoulders signaling that someone had entered the 
room. He looked up to see a young nurse standing in the doorway, her 
mouth hanging open in surprise.
	"Just what do you think you're doing?" she demanded.
	"Isn't that rather stupid question?" Stone replied. "It's patently 
obvious what I'm doing. I'm getting out of here."
	"Oh no you're not," she said primly, marching over to him, just in 
time to see Stone's Glock leveled at her face. 
	"Oh yes I am," Stone said softly. "Listen to me very, very 
carefully, young lady. I am not going to hurt you. But I must leave."
	"You're in no condition to-"
	"Be quiet," he said softly, "and listen to me. There is no room 
for discussion. I have to catch a plane to Washington. Tonight. Now."
	She gulped, and then nodded. "Why?" she asked.
	He smiled his best smile. "To save the world, ma'am. To save the 
world."
	
***
Apartment of Dana Scully
Annapolis, Maryland

	They had dressed after the bath, he in track shorts and a soft 
cotton T-shirt, she in a pair of his boxers and his old Knicks shirt. 
The comfort of his familiar clothing was something she needed at that 
moment; the shirt smelled like him, the soft cotton against her skin 
reminding Scully of his touch.
	They hadn't made love, as much as each of them might have wanted 
to. It seemed...desperate, somehow, as if they were trying to force it, 
trying to make it happen so that they would have just one more, just a 
single encounter to cry against the despair that was beginning to fill 
their hearts.
	They were at her kitchen table when Skinner returned. He let 
himself in with a spare key that Scully had given him before he left, 
and found them preparing for the next day. Boxes and boxes of ammunition 
were scattered on the tables, the plastic and Styrofoam carriers 
discarded in a huge pile on the drainboard.
	Mulder had the ten magazines he'd acquired for his new Colt 
Commander loaded, and was working on what looked to be the tenth or 
twelfth magazine for his MP5. He was grunting, thumbing the rounds down, 
his face straining with the effort.
	"They don't call `em thumbusters for nothing," Skinner observed.
	"Tell me about it," Mulder said. 
	Scully, ever the pragmatic one, was using an autoloader. A plastic 
device with a rotating crank on the side, the autoloader jammed the 
cartridges into the magazines as easily as feeding quarters into a slot 
machine.
	"Why don't you use the autoloader?" Skinner inquired, pointing at 
the device with his chin.
	"He says it's a girly thing," Scully replied dryly.
	"Oh," Skinner said, because that was the only thing he could think 
of. "Well, I'd better get started."
	"We already did yours," Mulder said, hitching a shoulder at 
Skinner's duffel. Walking over to it, Skinner opened it and saw that 
Mulder was telling the truth. All of his magazines were loaded, and 
judging by the faint smell wafting from the interior, they'd also re-
cleaned and lightly oiled his weapons.
	"Thanks."
	"Sure, no problem," Mulder said, gritting his teeth as he tried to 
force just one more round into a magazine.
	"Don't overload it, Mulder," Scully chastised. "Or they'll all 
come spitting out the first time you pull the trigger.
	Nodding, Mulder relented, dropping the now-full magazine and 
picking up another.
	"Do you really think we're going to need all these?" Scully asked.
	"Never need a fresh magazine more then when you need one and don't 
have one," Skinner observed.
	Scully nodded and cranked.

***
Sterling, Virginia

	Done, Graves thought. He looked at the six devices, all of them 
small enough to fit in a standard briefcase. He walked down the 
workbench, running one more diagnostic each. Typing the commands into 
the keyboards, he watched as the software interrogated the hardware and 
reported back.
	No problems.
	Time, he thought. Time to make the delivery.
	He picked up his cellphone and the six index cards he'd written.
	The first call went to the Pentagon. A high-ranking operations 
analyst with the Army's Department of Logistics answered, and Graves 
gave him the code phrase.
	"Where?" the Colonel asked.
	Graves told him.
	The next call went to the Department of Energy. A White House 
speechwriter, seconded to the DOE to escape the legally-imposed limit on 
White House employees, answered the phone. Phrases were exchanged, and 
Graves told him where the second device was to be planted.
	Federal Bureau of Investigation.
	Federal Emergency Management Agency. 
	Army Corps of Engineers.
	And finally, the last one. Graves dialed the last number with 
shaking hands.
	"White House Switchboard," the voice answered.

***
Apartment of Dana Scully
Annapolis, Maryland

	Scully made up the couch for Skinner and then said good night, 
taking a moment to give him a brief hug and a soft kiss on the cheek. 
Mulder shook his hand and retired with his partner to her bedroom.
	They snuggled in the bed, arms wrapped around each other, waiting 
for sleep to take them.
	"Are you scared?" Scully asked, her voice quiet in the dark room.
	"Shitless," Mulder admitted.
	After a minute, Scully replied, "Me, too."
	They held each other tighter, fighting against the demons. 
	"I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a very strange day," 
Mulder said wryly. Then his tone turned serious. "But I want to tell you 
some things, Scully."
	She waited for him to continue. She had some things she wanted to 
say as well, but she'd wait for him to finish.
	"No matter what happens tomorrow, I want you to know that I 
wouldn't change a thing, Scully. Not about us."
	"Or me," she said. "But-"
	"I know. The flukeman." She giggled in the darkness, and it was a 
beautiful sound to both of their ears.
	"I feel safe," she whispered. "Safe here with you, in your arms. I 
feel like nothing can get to us when we're in here together. I feel like 
I never want to get out of this bed again."
	Mulder nodded against her. "I feel the same way. Funny, though, 
that I feel like you're protecting me, shielding me from the monsters in 
the dark."
	She poked him in the chest. "Why is that so hard to believe, 
Mulder?"
	"Not that it's hard to believe, but that it's just...different." 
He paused, and then added, "Not that I would change it for anything."
	"Different how?" Scully insisted.
	"Well, I'm the man, and you're the..." His voice trailed off as he 
realized the mistake he'd been about to make. "Forget I said anything," 
he added hastily. 
	After a long, long pause, Scully said quietly, "Forgotten."
	Mulder said something that had been on his mind for a while. "You 
ever get the feeling that Skinner knows more than he's letting on?"
	"Like what?"
	"Oh...I don't know specifically. Just that he's got more 
information about this whole deal."
	Scully considered it. "Well," she finally said, "I'm not sure if 
he's necessarily hiding anything from us; I'd hate to think that. And 
he's given us no concrete reason to believe that. He may know things in 
general that we don't, Bureau policies, what the ultimate aim of the X-
Files are in the overall scope of the Bureau. Sometimes..." 
	Sensing her hesitation, Mulder refrained from prompting her.
	"Sometimes...," she continued, "...I feel like he's watching us."
	"He's our supervisor," Mulder pointed out.
	"And you, technically, are mine. But you don't watch me the way he 
watches <us>. Like's he's...evaluating us."
	Mulder thought about what Scully had said, chewing his lip in the 
darkness.
	"I love you," Scully said softly, tightening her arms around him. 
"So much."
	"I love you, too," he replied, meaning every scary word of it. 
Something was nagging him, teasing the back of his brain, something 
started by Scully's observations of Skinner.
	He turned the full attention of his considerable mind towards the 
problem, turning it over and over in his head, looking for the handle.
	"Sleepy," Scully yawned.
	"Shhh," he said, and she knew that sound. Mulder was thinking. 
Smiling, Scully tucked her head against his chest and let sleep claim 
her at last.

***
Sterling, Virginia

	The six operatives had all come and gone, each of them spaced 
twenty minutes apart. All six devices were on their way to their 
designated locations. 
	Graves stood over a map of the Metro DC area, using a stopwatch to 
gauge times and distances. Each of the devices was equipped with two-way 
radio communications. He could adjust the timers on any of the six 
devices in either direction.
	Right up until the moment of detonation, he thought.
	Sighing, he sat back, contemplating the plan. When they had first 
come to him, after Afghanistan, and told him what they wanted from him, 
Graves had thought them all insane. To start a plan in motion that was 
so grandiose, so complicated, when the primary focus of that mission was 
still in junior high school was laughable.
	But they'd shown him.
	They'd shown him one possible future, and that had scared Danny 
Graves, had scared him badly. And so he'd done what they'd asked, he'd 
tarnished his name in the intelligence community, becoming a `rogue' to 
those that had once counted him as a friend. He'd slowly cut the bonds 
that had tied him to friends, family, co-workers. He'd started 
recruiting, using the paranoia of the times and the ever-worsening 
criminal and political situations to his advantage. He smirked, 
wondering if he should thank the moronic, imbecilic politicians that had 
made it all possible.
	Had they only seen what he had, there wouldn't be the problems 
there were today, he thought. If the knew what was coming, they'd 
understand what had to be done, and why.
	But they could not be told, for there were more than one or two of 
Them amongst the elected officials. It was up to me, he thought, and men 
like me to do what had to be done.
	"Mr. Graves." The voice was steady, almost melodious. To his 
credit, Graves didn't jump or start. He twisted his neck and spoke to 
the smoking man.
	"I expected you an hour ago."
	"Unforeseeable delay, I'm afraid. My apologies."
	"Accepted," Graves grunted.
	"How is the plan?" the man inquired politely.
	"Moving according to plan." He pointed to the map. "Device 1, the 
Naval Observatory. Device 2, Arlington National Cemetery. Device 3, 
Watergate Hotel. Device 4, Department of Energy. Device 5, Supreme 
Court. And, device 6," Graves said.
	"The White House," the smoking man muttered. "Devious, I must say. 
They'll never be able to get that one." 
	Graves nodded. "Mulder's going to have to make some very tough 
choices."
	The Smoking Man smiled, and then frowned. "I have little doubt 
that he will make the correct ones, at least as far as this mission 
goes."
	"What <are> the correct choices?" Graves wondered. "You never did 
tell me that."
	The smoking man lit another one, took a drag and held it a long 
time before exhaling. "Think of it this way," he finally said. "It's not 
so much which choices Mulder makes, but that he proves that he can make 
tough choices. This little jaunt is but on small step on a very long 
path for Mr. Mulder and his partner. Once he proves that he can make the 
hard decisions, we will advance him and Miss Scully to the next stage, 
where the decisions will be even harder."
	Graves nodded. "I still don't understand all of it," he muttered.
	The Smoking Man considered this. "Would you like to?" he offered.
	Graves slowly turned to face him. "Very much. But why now?"
	The other man's gaze turned to one of pity. "Oh, I get it," Graves 
said. "I'll be dead within 24 hours. Who am I going to tell?"
	The Smoking Man nodded. "Precisely."
	"Well, then, shit. Lay it on me, old fella. Tell me what I want to 
know."
	The smoking man stubbed his cancer stick out and took a step 
towards Graves. "Perhaps," he said, "it would be better to show you."
	The Smoking Man reached a hand out to the other man, cupping his 
forehead in his palm, as if taking his temperature. Graves watched as 
the man closed his eyes and then-
	The images impacted against Grave's mind like a barrage of 
gunfire. Pictures, sounds, smells, thoughts. He heard the screams of a 
billion dying people, saw the reality of cities dissolving in walls of 
flames, smelled the sound of total and complete destruction, of the 
annihilation of an entire planet in a matter of...
	Minutes?
	"That's all it took?" Graves asked the room. "Minutes?"
	"Less time than that," The Smoking Man gasped. "Less time than you 
can comprehend, Mr. Graves."
	And then Graves realized something; the world he was seeing was 
not his own. It was another world, somewhere in the Universe. The people 
there looked very much like the people on this planet, except for the 
skin tone, which was somewhere between red and not so red. And their 
eyes. Their eyes were different somehow. Not alien, in the classic sense 
of the word, but...different. Strange.
	"Where was this place?" he asked.
	"It is not visible from this planet with the current technology," 
the Smoking Man replied, "and so the scientists have not given it a 
name. The word that was used to describe it translates roughly to 
"sanctuary."
	"Were you there?" Graves asked, suddenly scared.
	The Smoking Man smiled. "Are you afraid, Mr. Graves?"
	"Not...exactly."
	"Curious, perhaps?"
	"Yes."
	"It is impossible to describe to you, the...level of my 
participation in what you are seeing. In one way, a part of me was down 
on the surface of that world, looking up, while another part was above, 
looking down."
	"I don't understand."
	"I know. It must be that way; to show you any more would most 
likely render you useless for the mission."
	The smoking man removed his hand. "Do you understand a little more 
now?"
	"That? That's coming here?"
	The Smoking Man nodded. "Yes. And very soon."
	"How soon?"
	"Soon."
	Graves thought about the images that he'd seen. "Was that your 
home?"
	The Smoking Man grinned. "No."
	"Can you show me your home?"
	Shrugging, he said, "If you insist." Again, he placed his hand 
against Graves' forehead.
	After a minute, Graves saw...
	Nothing.
	Empty space. A vacuum of space between dead star systems. There 
was nothing there and it was cold. 
	Very cold.
	"Where is this place?"
	"Everywhere. Nowhere."
	"Cryptic, aren't you?"
	"It is hard to describe."
	"Who are you?"
	The Smoking Man laughed again. It was a cold, chilling noise, 
Graves thought. "A better question, or at least a more accurate one 
might be `what are you?' But that, again, is not easy to describe, and 
even harder to illustrate."
	"Are you a man?" Graves asked.
	"Enough questions," the Smoking Man replied. "This is serving 
little purpose."
	"Please!" Graves begged.
	"Very well. Yes, I am a man, in much the same way that you are. 
And in other was, more important ways, I am not a man."
	"Can you be killed?" 
	"What would make you ask such a question?"
	"Curiosity."
	"Yes, I can be killed. But by nothing on this world."
	Graves chewed his lip for a moment. "Tell me something."
	The Smoking Man sighed. "Now what?"
	"Can you stop it? What you showed me. Can you stop it from 
happening here?"
	The Smoking Man turned his gaze on Graves, trying to show his 
sincerity. "Directly? No. But that is what Mr. Mulder and Miss Scully 
are for. That is why this all must happen according to my plan. I have 
stopped it twice before." He paused. "But I failed to stop it three 
other times. I'd like to even the score this time."
	"How long?"
	"Four years, Mr. Graves. Four more revolutions around this puny 
star you call a sun, and then the day I have been waiting for will 
arrive." He paused and offered a thin smile.
	"Of course, by then, I will be long gone."
--------------
END CHAPTER 30