Summary: Saturday morning at the conference. Would you like Zilm'kach with that, Sir?

**

Saturday morning, they ran into the maid in the corridor. She took one look at them and put her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh, my God! It is you! Oh, my God! I'm such a fan!"

Mulder grinned a little and she stepped past him. "Oh, God. You're really Melvin Frohike!"

Frohike blinked. The woman had a nose ring and vivid purple hair. He wondered if she'd disappear if she stood in front of the Batcave curtains.

She rushed back to her cart and dug around, coming up with a copy of the paper. "I'm a subscriber! I saw you guys in the hall yesterday, and I thought, but then the room is registered to a Mr. Mulder, and, oh my God. This is just so incredible." She broke off abruptly, glancing up and down the hallway. "Are… Are the others here?"

Frohike laughed. "Nope. Just me, this trip."

"That's okay. That's awesome. That's just so totally awesome. Are you enjoying the conference? I went for a couple of hours yesterday evening, but all the good talks were already over, and I'm working all weekend, and I spent more time just trying to get past the Starfleet guys so I could get registered than I did at the con…" She shook her head, purple ponytail flying. "This is so totally awesome. I was bummed because Glenn Campbell, you know, the Groom Lake Desert Rat, is in the Area 51 suite, and that's not on my row, but this is so much better, it's so great to meet you."

She held out her copy of the paper. "Could you—sign it? For me?"

Frohike tried not to laugh and took it from her. "Sure. What's your name?"

"Why does that matter?" she demanded suspiciously.

Mulder snickered.

"Well, I wanted to know who to make it out to," Frohike explained without a trace of irony.

"Oh!" She looked embarrassed. "Well, but you don't really have to know my real name, right?"

Mulder stepped in. "Look, it's got your name on the mailing label, right?"

Frohike cleared his throat. "No. We went to subscriber numbers last year."

Mulder shook his head. "Okay, but you're on the mailing list, right? So he already has your name."

She blinked at Frohike. "Of course he doesn't. Do you really think I subscribed with my real name?"

Frohike laughed and the woman rolled her eyes.

Mulder sighed dramatically. "Okay, let's try it this way. If we called the desk, what would they say your name was?" he asked with exaggerated patience.

She laughed nervously. "My nametag says Cat." They glanced at her uniform. "I don't wear it."

"Cat?" Frohike asked. "Like…?"

"C-A-T, yes."

He grinned. "I bet that's not your real name, either."

"Um, no. I've been here longer than almost all the staff. No one really remembers my name. And then I had it legally changed. Well, a couple of times, really. They'd have to look it up, like on my paychecks and stuff. Cat is fine, really."

Frohike laughed and signed, and handed it back to her. She stared at it.

He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Cat."

"Oh…" she looked flustered. "I can't shake hands, I've been doing rooms, and I haven't washed them yet, I do that when I get into a room, I mean, before I make the bed and stuff, obviously…"

He withdrew his hand. "Makes sense. Still nice to meet you."

"This is so totally awesome. Thank you. Um, would you like some extra pillows or towels or anything?"

"No, thanks." He paused. "Actually, could I get some extra soap and stuff? Langly and Byers would love it."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, my God. Help yourself. You're going to give it to them? Really? Put it in their hands?"

He laughed. "Sure."

She blinked again. "Take whatever you want. This is so awesome. Thank you so much. It's just super to meet you, Mr. Frohike. I love the way you write. I love the way you write."

"Thanks," he laughed.

She grinned at him. "Give 'em hell."

The elevator door closed between them, and Mulder collapsed, laughing, against the wall. "I had no idea you had groupies, Fro."

He shook his head. "Neither did I."

"I thought she was going to ask you to sign her bra." He snickered. "You could probably write your next editorial on her bra."

Frohike sniffed. "Don't talk that way about our subscribers. You're just jealous because she thought you were an idiot."

Mulder laughed. "What the hell is a Desert Rat, anyway?"

Frohike shook his head. "The competition. They mostly do the regional UFO stories."

"Ah."

"I'm having lunch with some colleagues, but we can do dinner if you're not busy."

Mulder looked mildly disappointed. "I suppose I'd be an embarrassment."

"Well, I don't think The Smoking Gun would mind, but the Apple Cart guys are pretty nervous around the Feds."

"They don't have government sources? How do they get any stories?"

"Honestly? They don't, much. They've had one really big story since they started up fifteen years ago, and they got that document diving."

"What was the story?"

"EM surveillance."

"Sounds exciting."

"Well, from a civil liberties point of view, it was. Anyway, the editor of Flap will be there, too, and I don't feel like sitting and listening to him quiz you for an hour about everything under the sun. You're my source, remember."

Mulder grinned. "Why, Frohike, are you jealous?"

"Just protecting my interests. Watching my… assets, so to speak."

"You keep doing that thing you did last night, and you've got nothing to worry about."

Frohike gave him a smug look. "Enjoyed that, did you?"

"Exceptionally."

"Which is why you were going on about vampires and obsessive/compulsive disorders the whole time."

Mulder nearly blushed. "It was the bats."

"I figured, yeah."

"You should feel flattered," Mulder said petulantly. "That was one of my better lectures. I was—inspired."

Frohike grinned. "I was just trying to keep things interesting. I know how you hate being bored."

Mulder laughed. "Call it whatever you want, Fro, just promise me you'll do it again tonight."

"We'll see. So what do you suppose our Non-Human friends will be up to today?"

Mulder shrugged. "Sit-ins? Petition drives? Hunger strike?"

"If they actually ate any of that last night, I imagine a hunger strike is a given. It was like dinner with Langly or something."

"He's really that bad?"

"Put it this way, Mulder. I'd rather eat your cooking."

**

CUFOIN had managed to dig up security for the day. Large men in tight "Staff" t-shirts. Mulder looked a little too long.

Frohike elbowed him, hard, in the ribs. "Focus, Mulder. We're not here for the scenery."

"Doesn't mean I can't enjoy it."

The older man grinned. "How many of these guys do you think could—"

"Good point." Mulder averted his eyes.

"I think they need to work on their polemics," Frohike observed. "Protesting in a language no one understands isn't exactly useful."

"What bothers me is the lack of coordination. I mean, there's a guy with a sign that says 'Non-Humans are People Too', and one over there that says 'Klingons are Aliens Too'. Do they want to be people, or aliens?"

Frohike shrugged. "Both? I've got stuff to do. See you later, Mulder."

The first thing Frohike did was head for the host table. "Can you tell me who's in charge here?" he asked politely.

A harried heavyset woman looked up. "What do you need?"

Frohike gave her his million-watt smile. "I was hoping we could talk about the situation outside."

She looked him over and sighed. "You don't look like a Trekkie."

"I'm a journalist."

She shook her head. "You and half the people here. I'm not giving interviews."

He took a step away, forcing her to follow. "I don't want a story. I wanted to see if I could help."

She stared at him. "You don't want a story? What kind of a journalist are you?"

He handed her a card. She glanced at it. "Oh. A crusader."

He turned up the wattage. She glanced at the card again and snapped her fingers. "You guys broke the Mackerle Expedition story."

"That's us. Mel Frohike, Lone Gunman. Mongolian Death Worms a specialty."

She smiled, finally. "A skink? Really?"

"Mackerle thinks so."

"There aren't any venomous skinks."

Frohike shrugged, still smiling brilliantly at her. She had a wedding ring, so he flirted shamelessly. "Twenty years ago, there weren't chemosynthetic tubeworms, either, though you're far too young to remember that."

Her eyes sparkled at the obvious lie. "Off the record?"

"Completely. This isn't our kind of story."

"What's your interest, then?"

"Soft spot for the underdog. Anyhow, nobody needs the publicity if things get out of hand and the cops turn up."

"All right, Mr. Frohike, you've got my attention. I can give you four minutes. Would you like to join me in my luxurious private office?"

"Lead the way," he said gallantly. He followed her to a large storage room filled with pamphlets and signs and all the usual flotsam of a conference. She hastily cleared a chair for him.

"So how can you help?" she asked, perching on the edge of her makeshift desk.

He overtly eyed her ankles, which were lovely. She grinned. "Or is this just some clumsy seduction attempt?"

He pretended to be offended. "Clumsy?"

She laughed and held out her hand. "I'm Sarah Randall. With two As, two Ls. No relation."

Frohike took her hand and kissed it lightly. She blushed. "Call me Mel. You get asked that a lot, I imagine."

"Yep. Especially in this line of work. So how can you help, Mel? Do you speak The Warrior's Tongue?"

He laughed. "Not really. Can you tell me why the security?"

It took her a couple of seconds to hide the grin. "We, uh, had an incident last night. This is off the record."

"Yep."

"Don't toy with me, buddy. I can get you banned from all CUFOIN events."

"I promise, really."

She grinned sheepishly. "Well, all Indiana CUFOIN events. And I've got strong ties with Missouri CUFOIN, too. And Kansas."

"You're a real heavy hitter, aren't you."

Randall laughed. "Okay, that's out of the way. The incident last night, uh, one of our guests got, well, a cream pie. In the face. He's threatening to sue."

"That's pretty frivolous."

"He says he suffered lasting emotional trauma."

Frohike shook his head. "It happened last night?" She nodded. "How does he know it's lasting?"

She gazed noncommittally at the wall. "He says he can foresee it."

"Ah." Comprehension dawned. "This wouldn't be The Stupendous Yappi, by any chance?"

She snickered. "You know the gentleman?"

"Better than I want to."

Randall broke into open laughter. "It is frivolous, yes. I'm not worried about the lawsuit. But we don't really want things to escalate."

Frohike shook his head again. "Still, that's gotta hurt. A cream-pie in the face from a Klingon."

"I believe it was a Vulcan," she managed.

"That's even worse."

"It is, yes. I think he was actually more upset about his turtleneck than anything else. Off the record, of course."

"Of course."

"I was the one who got the original request for the KLI table. I approved it, tentatively. I have no problems with Starfleet." She smiled, then sobered abruptly. "But then the chapter president called State, and they said no. They feel it lends a circus atmosphere."

Frohike snickered. "And the pickets don't?"

She shook her head ruefully. "Believe me, I know. I would have preferred to not go with the security, even, but Yappi was… insistent."

"He usually is."

"So," she continued, "they feel lied to. I suppose I should be grateful: I expect the cream pie had my name on it." She laughed, and Frohike joined her.

"And State won't reconsider?"

She shrugged helplessly. "They're not here. They don't care. And as far as they're concerned, any publicity is good publicity. I almost wonder if that's why they said no in the first place, but I do tend to see conspiracies everywhere."

"Nothing wrong with that," Frohike said, rubbing his hands together. "State—do you have a list of the people who are empowered to change their minds?"

"Sure," she said, jotting some things down on a sheet of scrap paper. "State president, state vice-president, the board. And National, of course."

He looked her list over. "I thought so," he said, grinning. "Mark Ray."

She looked questioningly at him. "What do you have in mind?"

"Let's see if we can't convince them that not all publicity is good. Look," he said, glancing at his watch. "I've got a panel in about twenty minutes, and I know you're busy. But I'll get to work on this, and we'll see what we can do about arranging a little," he grinned, "rojmab."

She blinked. "I don't know why I'm trusting you."

"Because I'm afraid to screw you over. I don't want to get banned from all Indiana CUFOIN events."

She laughed. "And Missouri and Kansas. Just let me know what you're going to do before you do it. I'm one of the few paid people in this organization, and I'd hate to have to get a real job."

He glanced about the stacks of paperwork and laughed. "Oh, sure. You're a dilettante."

She shuffled through some papers and finally gave up. "What's the panel?"

"Eldridge Bug-Tech."

"Pardon?"

"'Non-Earth Technology in the Philadelphia Experiment'," he recited.

"Oh, you poor man. They roped you into that one?"

He grinned. "They begged. And offered exclusives."

She laughed. "You definitely are a reporter, then. Can we meet in a couple of hours? If you can't find me here, my staff will know where I am."

"No problem."

"Off the record," she pleaded again.

"I promise, Sarah."

"Good. I don't want to sound like I couldn't use the help, because I could. But I'm hoping for damage control at this point."

"Discretion is my middle name."

"Unusual for a reporter."

He laughed.

**

He managed to find a private alcove and started with a call to HQ. Langly answered. "How's it goin', Frohike?" he asked, sounding suspiciously breathless.

"You two aren't fucking on my desk, are you?"

Langly laughed. "Not right now."

Frohike sighed. "Just clean it up afterwards, will you? Try not to get my stuff sticky."

More laughter. "You didn't call to play Emily Post at us. What's up?"

"Mark Ray. CUFOIN, State. Indiana. What do you know?"

"Just a sec."

He heard the question repeated to Byers, and then Byers was saying into the phone, "CUFOIN State president Mark Ray?"

"That's the one. I need dirt."

"There was something several years back. I think he was arrested for drunk driving."

"I never trusted a guy with two first names. No conviction?"

"Not that I remember. Langly's looking."

Mel made a hmm noise. "What else?"

"What do you need, exactly?"

"Something I can blackmail him with."

"I didn't hear that."

"Whatever. But it has to be something that's not already well-known, obviously."

"Well, he's got some interesting hobbies, as I recall."

Frohike waited.

"What's this about?"

"We've got a, uh, intergalactic rumble brewing here."

"I didn't hear that."

"It's not that bad—"

"No… I mean, I didn't hear that. What are you talking about?"

Frohike explained about the Klingons and the Alliance and the KLI.

Byers laughed incredulously, repeating bits of it to Langly. "So how does this involve you?"

Frohike explained how he'd offered to help Randall. "No relation, she said."

"I'm looking at her files here, no. A-L-L."

"That's the one."

"So you're looking for some information to use to get Ray to reconsider?"

"Yep."

"Well, let me think about it for a little while. We'll see what we can come up with. But I don't know anything just off-hand that'd be suitable." Byers didn't bother to ask why Frohike had decided to help. Just another crusade, large or small. And funnier than most. "How's the conference going?"

"The organized events are pretty useless so far. You can't really get the best people to spend a weekend in Indiana. Mulder says it's a Gulf-Breeze-A-Thon."

Byers chuckled. "Enjoy that."

"Yeah, I can't wait. Hey, an old friend is here."

"Fro, it's CUFOIN. A lot of old friends are there."

"Yappi."

There was a pause. "The Stupendous Yappi?"

"Is there any other?"

"I hope not. What's he doing there?"

"Apparently," Frohike laughed a little under his breath, "getting dessert."

"What?"

"One of the Vulcans cream-pied him, right in the kisser."

Byers burst into laughter. "That's perfect. Find out the Vulcan's name. We'll send him a card."

"Yeah, sure. He's suing for lasting emotional trauma."

"Lasting—? Oh, never mind. He foresees it, right?"

"That's the man."

"You want us to see what we can do about that?"

"If you get a chance. It's not a high priority. I can't see Indiana judges being too sympathetic about that. But—"

Byers waited.

"Could you get the police incident reports on that one? I promised Sarah it was off the record, but Mulder would love it, and it's fair for him to find out that way. They're public record, after all."

"Okay. They've been playing nicely?"

Frohike snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Sounds like you're having a good time. Did you come up with anything?"

"Yeah, but I don't want to talk about it now. You and the hippie stay off my desk."

He could hear Byers blushing. "Mel!"

"Hey, I don't care what the two of you do, just don't do it on my desk."

"Right. How's… the hotel?"

Frohike laughed. "I've got pictures. Of the room. The kid's a bad influence on you, you know that?"

Byers chuckled. "We'll get right on it."

"You better not," Frohike growled, and disconnected, smirking.

He took a deep breath and plunged into the meeting room set aside for the Philadelphia Experiment discussion. He was almost on time, but it didn't matter. Only the panelists and the moderator had shown up so far. He slid into his chair next to the tech beat guy from Top Secret, and said in a low voice, "This looks lively. Who've we got here?"

"Mel! How'd they sucker ya into this one?"

Frohike grinned. "Nice seein' ya again, Tarrance. Any more Flapjack leads you're sitting on?"

Tarrance laughed. It was an old joke between them. "Like I'd tell you." He glanced down the table. "Well, let's see. We got a cub from Powder Keg, think they sent him here to cut his teeth. He's here alone. The cheap pricks didn't bother to send a real journalist with him."

Frohike shook his head in disgust. "Sounds just like them."

"Yeah. Catch any of them dead in Indiana. And we have the gals from Fortean Times, you remember."

Frohike grinned. "Sure do. Bets and Darcy Patterson. They're still together?"

"Yep. Still writin' all day, still drinkin' all night." He snickered. "Among other things."

Mel leaned down the table a bit and waved at the women. "Nice to see you two. How's everything over at the Fort Fort?"

They grinned in unison, showing more teeth than a hungry shark. "Mel, baby!" the blonde, Bets, said. "What'd they promise you? Tarrance bit for free membership for two years."

Frohike laughed. "Tarrance, you sucker. I get three years and two exclusives."

The redhead, Darcy, smiled. "We got four exclusives and the book club. And we're hosting a disinformation session tomorrow."

Frohike shook his head. "Damn. How'd you like to negotiate my next contract?"

Darcy giggled. "You're still working that rag?"

Frohike smiled amiably. "It doesn't pay well, but I like my independence."

Bets grinned and nudged her partner. "Yeah, that's what he said when I asked him to marry me a few years back. You're still with those boys, aren't you?"

"You bet. We'll be together till the MIB haul us away."

Tarrance laughed. "They won't never get you, Mel. You're too wily. You got anything good goin'?"

"Well now," Frohike drawled, playing the wise old man to the hilt, "I just might have something about the Cardwell Bible Study."

Tarrance blinked. "Holy cow."

"Then again," Frohike continued, "I might not."

"Spill it, Mel. You know who?"

"Sure, Tarrance. And while we're at it, why don't I let you dig through my underwear drawer, too."

The Pattersons laughed. "Is that an open invitation?" Bets leered.

Frohike snickered. "You girls are such teases. I know damn well I'm not your type."

Darcy grinned. "You're closer to it than Tarrance here."

Frohike laughed. "I think I may have just been insulted."

Tarrance joined in. "Or me. I can't tell."

"Who's the nervous-looking kid down at the end there? He looks like a fourteen-year-old in a new suit."

Bets, sitting next to the kid, slammed her hand down flat on the table in front of him. He jumped, startled, and set down his notebook. She laughed. "J. Wayne, meet Mel Frohike, Lone Gunman. Mel, this is J. Wayne Arthur. The Third."

Frohike swallowed a laugh and stood to reach out a hand. The young man shook it hesitantly. "You're with 'Powder Keg', J. Wayne?"

"Just started," the man forced the words out quickly. "It's just Wayne. My editor liked the initial for my byline."

Frohike smiled. "Nice to meet you."

Tarrance nudged Frohike. "Ask him what the J. stands for."

J. Wayne blushed and didn't say anything.

"Well?" Frohike asked, amused.

"Jay." Tarrance snorted.

Darcy glared at Tarrance. "Don't pick on the kid. I remember when you were a cubby."

"Oh, yeah, and you the grand ol' dame of necronauts at twenty-four."

"I'm still the leading authority on necronauts," Darcy retorted good-naturedly.

Frohike laughed. "You may well be the only authority on necronauts, Darce."

She grinned. "I like a small field."

Frohike was looking around the room. A trio of twenty-something guys had come in and were sitting in the back of the room. Which was otherwise empty, so he couldn't quite see the point. "Who's our moderator? I don't recognize him."

"Efram Rhinehart," Bets said. Frohike laughed under his breath. "Don't laugh, it's really his name. It's a coincidence, I'm sure. He's with Lobster."

Frohike shook his head. "Damn. Lobster. What's he doing here?"

Tarrance shrugged. Bets elaborated. "He's been here three months researching the Deep Freeze/Push angle. They snared him, and I guess they didn't tell him," she grinned, "how big an interest there was in Eldridge here."

Tarrance looked at the three guys in the back and laughed. "Maybe we should invite Starfleet in. They're probably more interested in Project Invisibility than the rest of these UFO Yahoos."

Bets snickered. "That's quite an attitude you've got there, Mr. 'Cutler-Twining Memo Revealed Hoax'."

Tarrance grunted in embarrassment. "Okay, so I got screwed on that source. But Cutler-Twining is a hoax. All those damned commas."

"Anyone who counts commas has Cave Fever," Bets declared with a smirk.

Tarrance gave her the finger. "That's what I'd expect from a chick with a 'Klass is an Ass' t-shirt."

"Children, children," Frohike said mildly. "Let's remember we're all friends here."

Rhinehart looked around the room and stood up, clearing his throat. Bets and Darcy smothered giggles and tried to look serious. Rhinehart, looking less than delighted with the turnout, risen now to six, attempted to imbue his prefatory remarks with a certain amount of dignity. The English accent helped, but not by a lot, Frohike thought.

Tarrance nudged him and handed him a slip of notebook paper that had apparently originated with J. Wayne. "Who's Class?" the paper said. Frohike swallowed a laugh. He scribbled on the back of it: "Philip Klass, UFO debunker", and slid it back. Tarrance snickered and elbowed him again. Frohike shrugged. No point in being mean to the kid.

J. Wayne read the note and gave Frohike a hesitant, brief smile. "Thanks," he mouthed. Frohike nodded.

The session itself, Lobster presence aside, was not what Frohike would have considered productive. Rhinehart and the panel kicked the ball around for a while, and the spectators did more spectating than speculating. After about an hour, it became obvious no one else had anything new, really, much to Rhinehart's visible disappointment.

The session broke up, and Frohike wandered over to meet the man. They chatted for several minutes, and exchanged cards. Frohike came away with some disturbing notions.

J. Wayne stopped him in the hallway. "I just wanted to say thanks. I'm new to all this, and, well, the UFO stuff is not my field. I was just included for the high-energy angle."

Frohike nodded. "You did pretty good. Element 117 is obscure. What's your interest really?"

"Covert ops. Specifically magnetic and microwave emissions, mostly thought control, but the general effects."

Frohike whistled. "Tough field, J. Wayne."

He blushed. "It's just Wayne."

Frohike laughed. "Not after the Pattersons get through with you."

J. Wayne looked faintly puzzled. "Are they, uh, sisters? They don't look like it, but…"

Frohike smiled. "They're partners." He watched the kid blink. "As in, domestic partners."

"Oh, okay. That makes sense, I guess. They didn't look anything alike."

"Bets had her last name legally changed, and it does confuse folks some."

J. Wayne nodded and smiled. "Got it. Who's the other guy?"

"Ed Tarrance. Don't mind him. He's been MJ-12-fixated since I met him, and I imagine long before. Look," he surprised himself by saying, "I've got some calls to make, but if you'd like to get together later, we could. Sometime this afternoon or tomorrow. I've got some microwave questions you might be able to help me with, and I can fill you in on some of our colleagues."

The kid amused him, a lot more than Tarrance did, frankly. The MJ-12 stuff was hinkey, but Tarrance was self-righteous and closed-minded.

J. Wayne looked unreasonably pleased. "Thanks, I'd like that. I barely know anyone yet."

"First conference, right?"

The younger man was chagrined. "It shows?"

Frohike laughed. "Don't worry about it. You're doing fine." They traded cards. J. Wayne's was the standard generic "investigator" version, his name and contact information hand-written, Frohike noticed. Powder Keg was a sweatshop for novices, really. It figured they'd sent the poor kid to Indiana. He slapped him lightly on the back. "I'll talk to you later, J. Wayne."

**

Langly and Byers had come through.

"It seems he cheats on his wife," Byers said, trying not to laugh.

Frohike was disappointed. "Is that all?"

Langly's voice, snickering: "Ask him who the dude cheats with."

"Or what," Byers said, and then couldn't stop laughing.

Frohike waited a moment. "You boys wanna clue me in?" he asked patiently. "Or did the hippie make brownies again."

Byers made an attempt to sound serious. "He, uh, has a long-time ladyfriend, and, uh, he's…"

Frohike sighed. "Langly? Want to give it a try?"

"Your dude's into role-playing, man. Costumes. He likes her to dress up."

"Weird, but not what I'd call great blackmail material."

Byers cleared his throat. "She told her sister he likes to have her dress up as, well, farm animals. Cows, goats, sheep. Buffalo."

Langly laughed some more. "'Goat Ropers Need Love Too', man. He's got an udder thing, looks like. Total perv."

Byers chuckled and Frohike heard him say, "You're just biased against cow love, Ri."

Frohike shook his head and ignored it. "I'm not asking how you know what she told her sister. She goes along with this stuff?"

"He bought her a condo."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

"Yes, uh—" Byers coughed a little. "Almost a hundred thousand. He did a good job concealing it, but it's a fairly direct trail from the CUFOIN books."

"Not a good enough job, apparently," Frohike observed.

"Johnny spotted it right away," Langly said fondly. "My boy's a fuckin' genius."

"Ri, shut up." Protest from Byers, cut off suspiciously abruptly.

Frohike shook his head tolerantly. "Thanks, boys. They've got a fax here, I know. Give me a few minutes and I'll get you the number. Hey, Byers, that microwave radiation thing you're working on? Do you have some questions, specific questions?"

"There are a few I haven't been able to dig up answers to yet."

"I met a kid here, J. Wayne Arthur, his name is. The Third."

Langly laughed. "Well, I'm impressed."

Frohike chortled. "He's a bright kid. He's a cub with Powder Keg, it's his field."

"Poor kid. I can fax you the questions I have, while we're sending the other information. I have them written out."

"Okay. Not sure when I'm seeing him again."

"It's not urgent, Fro. It's probably a couple months from publishing."

"Okay." He read the number for them.

"Got it," Langly said. "Johnny, where's the—oh, thanks. We're sending the Yappi stuff, too."

"Fast work. Thanks a lot."

Langly snorted. "Piece of cake. How'd the Philadelphia thing go?"

"Six Gen-X-ers in bad goatees asking Independence Day questions."

Langly snickered. "Sucks."

"Wasn't all bad. The moderator was a guy from Lobster. Efram Rhinehart."

Byers laughed. "Rhinehart?"

"Yep. Hey, Byers, can you do something else for me?"

"What do you need?"

"See what you can dig up on Deep Freeze/Push."

There was a moment of silence while they racked their memories. Then Byers said, "The Invisibility men who came back with the temporal effects?"

"Yeah. I got the impression, well… We can talk about it Monday. But there might be a story."

"Frohike, it's old news. All the Deep Freeze/Push victims are dead," Byers said, puzzled, while Langly clattered across a keyboard in the background.

"The Invisibility ones, yeah."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in.

"Holy shit," Langly said into a shocked silence.

Byers swallowed: Frohike could hear it. "Needless to say, that would definitely be a significant story… More than significant, really…"

"Just an impression. Get looking on that, and I'll fill you in later."

They were still silent, thinking about the implications.

"Rhinehart?" Byers eventually said.

"Nothing explicit. Just an impression."

"Jesus," Langly said.

"Well, I, for one, hope you're wrong," Byers said a little faintly. "I remember the footage of those men—that bulkhead—no one needs a story that badly."

"As it happens, I agree with you, Byers," Frohike replied calmly. "The go-ahead on Invisibility was obscenely irresponsible. But if it's happening again, maybe we can stop it before it gets any further."

Byers swallowed again, cleared his throat. "We'll find out what we can."

"We'll talk about it later. Thanks for the material on Ray."

Byers said, distractedly, "I'd say it's about six months from breaking. The misappropriation story. They've got another audit in three months."

"It's fine, Byers. As long as it doesn't break before the end of the day, it'll do."

Langly snickered. "As long as he doesn't get caught in a petting zoo or anything, you should be good to go."

"Langly!" Byers sounded appalled.

Frohike laughed. "Just as long as he doesn't do it before Monday."

Byers mumbled something to Langly, and then said for Frohike's ears, "He's got a birthday party today, for his daughter. She's fifteen, so I think we can rule out trips to the zoo. He'll be at home. We've included the number, and his cell."

"Thanks, boys. I'll bring you some glow-in-the-dark clipboards or something."

Langly snorted. "Can hardly wait. See you Monday, Mel."

Once the fax came through, he went to find Randall. She was hovering around the host table, looking irritated. He smiled politely. "Can you give me a few minutes, Ms. Randall?"

She dropped a pile of papers in front of a young woman. "Hold down the fort, Carla. All right, Mr. Frohike. You've got seven minutes. Start now."

He laughed and followed her back to her office. "Getting worse?"

She shook her head in exasperation. "State wants us to have them arrested. Can you imagine how that'd look?"

"Hey, I'm a journalist. I'd put the pictures above the fold, banner. Probably a snide headline."

She winced. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"Well, let's see if we can't spare you that." He handed her Byers' notes, and then the documentation.

"Cows," she said flatly, disbelievingly.

"Cows and condos."

"Son of a bitch. So you intend to, what, blackmail him with this?"

"I'd rather call it coercion."

She laughed a bit. "Can you keep me out of it?"

"You bet. I'm a crusader, right? We've been working on this story for several months, but we have a soft spot for Non-Humans. Including cows, goats, sheep…"

"Have you really been working on this for months?"

"Nah. My crack research staff dug it up twenty minutes ago. But we don't want him to know someone else could stumble across it tomorrow, do we?"

She laughed. "Well, I hope this works."

"So I can go ahead?"

She handed the papers back. "Give it a try, Mel. I can't imagine the bad press from having Vulcans dragged away in handcuffs."

He laughed and winked at her. "Consider it taken care of. Frankly, letting them in just isn't that big a deal. He'd probably fold on a lot more. You need a raise or anything?"

"Leave me out of it. Please. And I hope you're right. Come find me when you know something, okay?"

"You bet."

She headed back to the host table and the dozen other disasters she had ended up dealing with.

He closed the door behind her, and pulled out his cell. "Mark Ray, please." He grinned to himself. "Tell him it's the IRS."

Ray came on, loud and assured. "I don't know who you are, buster, but you're sure not the IRS, not on a Saturday. What the hell do you want."

"You're right, I'm not the IRS, but it's just a matter of time." He let the threat hang for a couple of seconds.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm your girlfriend's realtor."

"You—What!" the man spluttered.

"I'm here at the Indiana conference. I'm sure you know about the situation we have here, with the protestors."

"I've taken care of that," Ray said pompously. "I've given instructions to have them arrested."

"What an idea," Frohike said, with heavy irony. "You're going to cancel those instructions."

"What! Why the hell would I do that?"

"You have a pen, some paper?"

"Why?" he demanded suspiciously.

"I've got some numbers here you might be interested in," Frohike said casually, enjoying himself.

**

Frohike found Randall talking rapidly into her phone. He gave her a high-sign, and she grinned at him in relief, motioning at the phone. He found a seat and waited.

She disconnected and beamed at her staff. "Can we find some tables for Starfleet?"

A cheer went up, and they sprang into action.

She grabbed Frohike. "Come on, Mel. Let's go have ourselves a Federation summit."

**

The Klingon Language Institute and the Alliance of Non-Humans were settled in before noon, at three tables Randall had kept open for them in the hopes State would change its mind. He congratulated her on her foresight. She congratulated him on the success of his plan. "Thank your crack staff for me. They really saved us here."

He laughed. "They'll be thrilled, both of them."

"Both of them?"

"We're a small organization."

"Well, there's only the four names on your masthead, but I assumed that was just publishers."

"Publishers, writers, editors, reporters, investigators, copy. The whole deal."

"Good Lord. How'd you manage to break Mackerle?"

"Friend of a friend."

She shook her head. "Impressive." She sobered. "You're really going to sit on this story?"

He smiled winningly. "We could, if we wanted. My crack staff says it'll break in six months at the outside, anyhow. But I don't have to. I never gave him my name. Anyone could have made that call. And I never promised him I'd keep his secret. I just said it definitely would go public if he didn't change his mind."

"I suppose I shouldn't approve, but damn. A hundred thousand. When I think of what we could have done with that money…"

"It's just the edge of it, my crack staff says. His books are totally cooked." Frohike grinned. "And now, so's his goose.Thanks for putting us onto the story, by the way."

"Thank you. I hope he resigns. No, I hope he gets prosecuted. The bastard." She shook her head. "Are you busy for lunch?"

Frohike frowned and nodded. "Sorry, yeah."

"How about dinner? I'd love to have the chance to discuss cryptozoology with you."

He considered it for a moment, and decided Mulder wouldn't mind. "I've got plans with a friend, but would you like to join us?"

"I wouldn't want to crash your party."

He laughed. "He's the friend of Mackerle's."

Her eyes widened. "You're serious?"

"Sure. He's got a lot of info on cryptids. Seen a few in his day. Wanna join us?"

"Oh, I'd love to. Thank you! Come find me when you're ready to leave. I'd love to meet your friend."

"We'll get him drunk, and he'll tell you the Jersey Devil story."

"I can't wait. Thank you, really."

"Probably around eight," he said. "Is that too early?"

She glanced at her papers. "I'll make it work. It isn't every day you get to have dinner with the guys who broke the Alghoi Khorkhoi Expedition."

"You can hope not," he laughed.

She dashed off to take care of something else, and Frohike realized he was late for lunch.

**

*Next Up: A Weekend in the Heartland IV: The Effects of Alcohol on the Reptile Brain: In which we explore the sociological ramifications of lies, lust, greed, envy, indentured servitude, idiocy, arrogance, paranoia, fear, courage, schadenfreude, hunger, and drinking. A lot of drinking.*