Months of solitary field work culminated for Moreaux with the rejection of his grant proposal. Unsatisfactory scientific rigor, they said. Like a stomach-punch. (He was once literally gut-punched in college to small-brained jeers of “Wolfman!”)
Some things are hard to detect. You have to be diligent. You have to keep looking. Moreaux crested the next pliant dune and peered ahead. He could not associate numerical adjustment with guilt or blame. It was them; they knew, and wanted him to fail to keep it quiet.
To the West there was a deprecated old highway. And a van. Moreaux knew it was them. The lizard-men were coming for him.