Mulder shook his head. "No you didn't."

"Oh, yeah. Had you big time."

"No, you didn't—"

She slid past him into the stairwell, ignor' ing his protests as she headed for the freight elevator. She punched a button and waited for the welcoming ping as the doors opened.

"Sure did," she said smoothly, still grinning as Mulder shouldered into the elevator before her. "I saw your face, Mulder. There was a moment of panic."

Mulder stood with forced dignity as the ele-vator dropped. "Panic?" he said, and shook his head.

"Have you ever seen me panic, Scully?"

The elevator drew to a halt. Refreshingly chill air pooled around them as the doors opened on to a busy lobby: suits with brief-cases and sheaves of paper, deliverymen, uni-formed couriers, and a bored-looking security guard.

"1 just did," Scully said triumphantly as she sailed into the lobby. Before her a group of schoolchildren parted, heads turning excitedly at sight of her FBI jacket.

"When I panic, I make this face," said Mulder, staring at her completely deadpan.

Scully glanced at him. "Yeah, that's the face you made. You're buying."

Mulder followed her, heedless of the teacher now trying futilely to herd her charges into an adjoining elevator. "All right," he said reluctantly.

Scully stood with her arms crossed and stared pointedly at a door crowned by a sign that read SNACKS/BEVERAGES. Mulder dug in his pocket, fishing for change as he asked, "What'll it be?

Coke, Pepsi? A saline IV?"

"Something sweet." She flashed a victory smile. Mulder rolled his eyes and headed for the lounge. He walked slowly, sorting through a handful of change, as someone else elbowed by him on his way out of the room. A tall man in a blue vendor's uniform, hair close-cropped. His gaze passed briefly and casually over Mulder. Mulder glanced back, then hurried inside to catch the door before it closed.

Inside the windowless room he bypassed the ranks of snack and candy machines for a large, brightly lit monstrosity displaying soft drinks. He counted out the correct change and one by one plunked the coins through the slot, waiting for the reassuring chunk as each one hit bottom. Then he hit a button, leaned back on his heels, and—

Nothing.

"Oh, come on," groaned Mulder. He beat his fist against the front of the machine—still nothing—and finally rummaged through his pocket for more change. Slid it into the machine, stabbed the button—nothing.

"Damn it."

He stared at the cheerfully glowing display of cans, then pounded it with both fists; after a moment he gave one last jab at a button.

Nothing.

Swearing under his breath, Mulder stepped away from it, glared, then moved around to the back of the machine. There was perhaps a hand's-span of space between it and the wall. He crouched and peered there, frowning.

On the floor snaked a heavy black electri-cal cord. The plug lay a few inches from Mulder.

The machine wasn't plugged in.

He picked up the plug, stared at it with growing comprehension. Then, very quickly and very carefully he set it back onto the floor, and lightly stepped once more to the front of the machine he had just been pounding at. He opened the front panel and stared inside in hor-ror. He grimaced at the memory of slamming his fist against the brightly lit surface, then turned and hurried to the door. He grabbed the knob, turned it—and met resistance.

"Shit," he murmured. He jiggled the knob, pulled on it, twisted it back and forth… but there was no longer a shred of doubt in his mind. He was locked in.

Frantically, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number, pressed the phone tight against his ear as he stared at the soda machine. A moment later Scully's voice fil-tered through the receiver.

"Scully."

Mulder took a deep breath. "Scully, 1 found the bomb."

Outside the vending room, Scully paced the lobby and rolled her eyes. "Where are you, Mulder?"

"I'm in the vending room."

She nodded to herself, glanced down a short corridor, and headed down it. When she heard faint pounding she turned and found herself facing a door.

snacks/refreshments

"Is that you pounding?" she questioned, and tentatively turned the knob.

On the other side, Mulder cupped the phone against his chin and pounded even harder. "Scully, get someone to open this door."

Scully shook her head. "Nice try, Mulder."

Mulder twisted away from the door and started pulling at the front of the soda machine. "Scully, listen to me." A desperate edge crept into his voice as the hinged front of the machine swung open. "It's in the Coke machine. You've got about fourteen minutes to get this building evacuated.

Scully shook her head. She tried the door again—still locked. Losing patience, she said, "C'mon.

Open the door."

Her response met with even more hard pounding. For the first time, Scully felt a spark of fear.

"Mulder?" she breathed into the cell phone. "Tell me this is a joke."

Mulder's voice echoed in her ear. "Thirteen fifty-nine, thirteen fifty-eight, thirteen fifty-seven…" As he intoned, Scully bent to exam-ine the keyhole beneath the door's metal knob.

It had been soldered over. She pressed her thumb against it, felt the faintest warmth and pressure—-recent work.

"… thirteen fifty-six… Do you see a pat-tern emerging here, Scully?"

"Hang on," said Scully. "I'm gonna get you out of there."

Inside the vending room, Mulder's phone went dead. He snapped it closed and shoved it back into his pocket, then squatted in front of the soda machine. Inside was a battery of cir-cuit boards and snaking wires, digital readouts and row after row of clear plastic canisters filled with fluid hooked up to what had to be bricks of plastique. In the middle of all this a blinking LED display registered the countdown. Mulder stared at it, fighting dread, and thought, It's gonna take an expert a lot longer than thirteen min-utes to figure out where to even start on this…

• 0 a

In the building lobby, Scully strode up to the security desk, barking orders as she swept her arm out to indicate the oblivious crowd of office workers.

"I need this building evacuated and cleared out in ten minutes!" She stabbed at the air in front of the security chief and yelled, "I need you to get on the phone and tell the fire department to block off the city center in a one mile radius around the building."

The security chief gaped. "In ten minutes!"

"DON'T THINK!" shouted Scully. "JUST PICK UP THE PHONE AND MAKE IT HAPPEN!"

But people in the lobby were already run-ning out and she was gone before he could protest or command an explanation, already dialing another number on her phone.

"This is Special Agent Dana Scully. I need to speak to S.A.C. Michaud. He's got the wrong building—"

She stopped beside the front revolving doors and stared out to where anonymous vans and cars were suddenly screeching up to the curb. Agents in FBI windbreakers ran from the unmarked vehi-cles, Darius Michaud among them.

"Where is it?" he demanded as he rushed into the lobby to meet Scully. Around them workers streamed out of the building, their voices high-pitched with anxiety. The school-teacher shouted as she hurried her class past, the children crying out excitedly when the saw the mob of FBI agents. Scully paused and stared out the huge glass wall, to where fire engines roared up alongside the unmarked vans, fol-lowed by a phalanx of city buses. Everything suddenly had the feel of a situation that was verging out of control.