Disclaimer: "The X-Files" as they called it, though it was more a time-line procedure of singular pseudo-scientific scripting, had been given to them by Ten Thirteen Productions as a quid pro quo. The Fox Network would help them to create a prime-time show about alien hybrids who would hide in plain sight in the broadcast schedule, fleshed out by actors and other alien bio-material so there would be an audience immune to the effects of sci-fi programming when the brainwashing for "Millennium" began.

What, you think this job is all voodoo mind control?

Yeah, I can see that you do. God, I hate working with the new mibbies. So young, so earnest. So gullible. You try to keep it light, you know, and they up and crap out on you. Literally. A couple of months ago, this new kid comes in, and I say, "I'm Morris Fletcher, one of the so-called 'Men in Black.' Welcome to Area 51." Then I shake his hand and continue solemnly, "Of course, now we'll have to kill ya." Well, the kid dumps his whole load of slush-hydrogen in his pants right then and there and I get a nasty memo from Wegman about playing nice with the new recruits.

No, this job isn't all voodoo mind control. My personal 'life'--and I use the term loosely--is a continuing exercise in damage control. Chris wants another nose ring. I told her that if she adds any more metal she's gonna qualify as an antenna array and need an FCC broadcast license to make phone calls. Terry, sorry, *Terence* says that naming him after my favorite actor is really pathetic. What can I say? Terry-Thomas had a real gift--he carried that "Mad, Mad World" film. Joanne told me last night that she figures we'll be headlining a "Dysfunctional Federal Families" segment on one of those daytime expose talk shows someday. I offered to pull strings to get us on Sally Jesse Raphael in the first half hour.

I wonder how much a new TV remote control costs. It might have been cheaper not to duck.

Sometimes even *I* don't have all the answers. The other day I'm on my way back from the reading room with some research material tucked under my arm and Howard flags me down from the end of the corridor.

"I should have checked the john," he says, noting the copy of The Lone Gunman I'm sporting.

"This thing is better than a trade journal, Howard." I unfold the paper and show him the headline DEVIL BABIES ABDUCTED BY ANTARCTIC ALIENS.

"I'm thinking of stealing this one, it's so good. God, I love these guys."

Howard nods at me, he's heard it before. Right now he's a man on a mission. I can tell. He drags me off to his office and closes the door after us.

"Morris, we've got a problem."

I recognize this tone.

"Howard, *please* tell me Gillnitz didn't order the kosher meal on Air Iraq again. We get him a high-profile gig, an off-shore tax-free bank account, Cindy Crawford's autograph, and the guy starts whining about a normal life. We got the rabbi in for the bris for his kid, didn't we?"

Howard shakes his head.

"It's not that." Howard makes an unhappy accountant's face. "I can't explain some Majestic charges."

Howard is nothing if not conscientious. He goes over all of the expense reports line by line. If this guy were IRS he'd be scary.

"It's not another black beret and box of cigars thing, is it?" I ask, hopefully. We'd tracked that one back to a division in the White House and some intern using the wrong project code for an expense sheet.

Howard hands me the summary sheet. The details are there, set off with yellow highlighter. Item, stock number, color, size, location, destination, disposition, price, shipping, handling, comments, projections--we're drowning in information here-- and my authorization code is next to each of the items.

I keep it light. "Yeah, so?"

"Morris, what's the deal? I thought the Pentagon guys pulled all the right strings. Did those two from the FBI get something after all?"

His finger is tapping the page over the name of one Fox Mulder. Yeesh, what a name. Then I remember him. Tall, dark and mandroid, with a babe-a-licious redheaded sidekick. We caught them outside the base a couple of months ago and sent them off with a bug in their ears.

No, not literally. But it has potential. I put 'earbugs' on my To Do list after 'Aurora or Borealis'.

Howard is waiting.

"Nah, they didn't get anything. But a good offense is a good defense, right?"

Not good enough, I can tell by the look on his face. Time to stretch the envelope, Morris. Think, boy, think.

"OK, look at this first one. Cleaning crew for this Mulder guy's apartment. The guy's a bachelor, right? Sure, the EPA would probably like to send us a thank-you note for dealing with a toxic waste site, but...it's a way to get a crew in there with no questions asked."

The light dawns in Howard's eyes. Yessssssss! Morris, you are a god!

"And this item about apartment rental, moving, and storage?"

I'm enjoying this. I'm in the groove.

"Look at the number. Same address, Howard. One floor up. The apartment directly over Mulder's."

"Surveillance. Interesting. Might be more cost-effective just to disappear him, though."

"We're keeping our options open," I insinuate. "Notice the 'moving and storage' bit. What do we move and store around here?"

"Slush-hydrogen?"

I pat Howard's cheek Godfather-style. "I hear you make Billy Crystal green with envy. No, Howard, information. If Mulder trips over any more juicy tidbits, *we* get the jump on the news."

Howard is a happy camper now, and I escape back to my office just in time to hear the last bit of voice mail from Joanne about divorcing me if I forget to pick up a quart of milk on the way home. Given that I can't remember ordering a cleaning crew, rental, storage and miscellaneous paraphernalia for Inspector Clue of the FBI, I have to hope that a quart of milk is more my speed. Need to remember to leave a little early today, Morris. Somehow I doubt there's a single store in Rachel, Nevada that sells both milk and TV remotes.

The office door opens and Howard sticks his head in.

"Morris?"

"Yeah?"

"What about the last item?"

OK, I can't help it. I lean back in my chair and start laughing. This is too sweet.

"Howard, it's a bit of creative mischief. This guy Mulder works with a cute female partner, but everything's on the up and up with them. So it should be interesting how he explains a big old Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle 'mirrors on the ceiling' waterbed. It ought to keep the guy busy for a while."

I waggle my fingers and make Groucho eyes.

"Think of it as--" I choke back a giggle, "--prophylactic."

Howard enjoys the joke. With a sense of humor like his, he'd be wasted on the IRS. Then a last brilliant thought occurs to me.

"And you know the best part, Howard? This is bound to have continuing dividends." Hey, it's not smugness if you really *are* this good.

"After all," I tell him, "everyone knows that, sooner or later, waterbeds leak."

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