The man stood on the doorstep for a moment, his face obscured by a cloud of gray vapor. Then he tossed some-thing into the snow and walked to the vehicle.
The Cigarette-Smoking Man. Mulder watched as he yanked on the door of the snow tractor and clambered inside. The vehicle reversed, driving over its tracks in the snow, then slowly crawled off toward the far horizon.
Mulder drew the binoculars back from his eyes. He was breathing even harder now, more excitement than exertion, and had to force himself to sit for several minutes, to calm him-self for what was ahead.
Finally he pocketed the field glasses, stumbled to his feet, and started down the far side of the slope toward the ice station.
He moved cautiously and with effort, care-fully weighing each step before setting foot on the ice crust before him. When he reached the bottom of the slope he glanced furtively behind him, still unable to shake the fear of being fol-lowed; then turned and went on.
Mulder's gaze remained fixed on the domes. Ahead of him, the ice station very gradually grew larger as he approached, until the domes loomed up against the cloud-streaked sky. He had only a few hundred yards left to go, when with a cry he stumbled. Beneath one boot the ice crust gave way. There was an instant when the world seemed to trembled before him, the domes like huge bubbles floating atop a milky sea. Then the ice collapsed under him.
He fell, landing on his back. The surface beneath him was cold and hard and smooth. He lay there for a moment, grunting as he caught his breath and trying to determine if he'd broken anything. Pain shot through one arm, and the gun wound at his temple throbbed, but after a minute had passed he rolled over, wincing, and began figuring out where the hell he was.
He had fallen on some hard, narrow, metal-lic structure, like a catwalk or steel floor. Its dull black hue was in stark contrast to the dead-white of the ice that encased it. There were vents in the floor through which air blew.
Warm air only by the relative standards of the Antarctic; but when Mulder lifted his head to gaze upward he saw what had happened. The air had caused a bubble, an air pocket, to form beneath the ice: above him the ceiling had been carved into patterns corresponding to the vents below. Where he had fallen through, the ice had softened and melted enough that it at last gave way at his tread. He rose to his knees, the air from one of the vents blowing onto his face. The vent was open, with no protective grate or covering, and big enough for a man to crawl into. Mulder pulled off the hood of his parka and his gloves, and looked deep into the vent, then back up at the hole he'd fallen through. No way back up there, and nothing around him but solid ice. He gazed back at the vent.
It was his only choice. He took a deep breath, then pulled himself forward into the darkness.
Inside the vent was cold and pitch-black, its sides corrugated to give him easy purchase. He moved cautiously, feeling ahead of him as the ribbed corridor snaked downward, until a pinprick of light appeared. Several more min-utes of creeping and he had reached the end, another vent opening into god knows what. He squeezed through headfirst, grabbing at a small ledge that projected beneath him and with dif-ficulty maneuvered his legs until he could swing himself down and then onto the ground.
Mulder blinked and shoved his gloved hand into his pocket, fumbling until he with-drew a flashlight. It clicked on; he swept it up and down in front of him, revealing a terrifying landscape.