“Welcome,” said the slightly pudgy man, “you must be the new guy. My name is John Smith, and before you ask, yes that is my real name”

The 'new guy' shook hands with John Smith and tried not to peer open mouthed at his surroundings. They actually weren't that overwhelming, much like John Smith himself, but Mac felt his heart racing anyway.

“I'm..”

“Mac, born Thomas Allan MacDonald, but only your parents call you Thomas. Everyone else including your fiancé calls you Mac. You had a friend in public school who you called 'Cheese',” Smith smiled, “Forgive me, I couldn't resist the urge to show off. I don't get that many opportunities.”

He turned and walked through the plain door, Mac followed him. There was an odd buzz before the door clicked shut behind him.

“You have just been scanned and approved by the most advanced security technology in the world.”

“And if I had failed?” Mac asked.

“You would be a little pile of dust,” replied Smith pointing at vacuum port set into the baseboard. “That makes clean up a lot easier.”

They walked down the hall past a gallery of photos of the great mysteries of the modern world.

Mac's head started spinning as he looked at the pictures.

'Kennedy's Assassination' showed the back side of the grassy knoll. There was no one there.

'Crop Circles' showed teenagers with rope and boards with papers in their hands.

'Big Foot' showed a big man with a crew cut holding the head of his costume under his arm.

'Loch Ness Monster' showed a huge dead reptilian creature on the shore of a lake.

“What?” Mac started to ask.

“Later, later,” Smith chuckled, “You will have plenty of time to look through the archives.”

They reached the end of the hall where Mac stopped and stared at the picture of Neil Armstrong on the moon with his arm around the shoulders of a short figure in an odd suit with a fish bowl helmet.

“It is ironic,” said Smith, “That with all those people who think the moon landing was fake, there is not one who wonders about the truth of what we found up there. They were just passing through, and wanted their picture taken with the 'quaint natives'.”

He opened another door and guided Mac through. There was no buzz this time. They must be pretty sure of themselves.

The door closed behind them, but Mac barely noticed. The room was filled with computers and large screen displays. Four people sat at the desks scanning through internet sites.

“Hey, I want you to meet the new guy,” said John Smith.

The others came and introduced themselves, Mac forgot their names as soon as they said them. They smiled knowingly and went back to work.

Mac's desk was just like the others without the potted plants and family photos. There was a keyboard and mouse, and he had three large monitors.

“Just explore for a while,” Smith said, “I will be over there when you need to talk.”

Mac decided to begin at the beginning. He pulled up the history of the organization.

The Federal Bureau of Answers was created during the Johnson administration. It was initially a response to the wild conspiracies that blossomed around the death of Kennedy. Its success in that area led to its mandate being broadened until they held answers to all the major questions of the day. During the Ford Administration the mandate to find answers was shifted to monitoring the level of common knowledge versus the level of mystery needed to live a healthy life. Instead of debunking conspiracies, they are now managed to keep questions at a healthy level without causing damage to public trust of the institutions which surround them....

Mac pushed away from his desk.

“I though the FBA was about providing answers and making life clear for people,” Mac said, not trying to keep the accusation from his voice.”

“We are, and we aren't,” sighed Smith, “The truth is that we have a lot more answers than we hand out. That is because we discovered that having all the answers wasn't healthy. When we first started this organization, the leading cause of death of our agents was suicide. They just couldn't live in a world that didn't hold any mystery. Take away crypto-zoology, take away historical conspiracy theories, take away the ordinary mystery of life and people just shrivel up inside. On the other hand, if there are too many unknowns, then people get scared and uncertain and stop taking even the small risks that are necessary for life. That is why this organization is so secret, because we need to protect people from the cold hard truth – that for the most part answers are boring. It is questions that are exciting.”

It wasn’t the smell. You get used to the smell after a while although it probably does melt some brain cells. It’s the squeaky whoosh across the page that wears on you. The black marker squeaking across line after line, page after page, day after day will drive you a little crazy. I keep saying that I’m used to it, but I’m starting to hear it my sleep and that can’t be good. I can’t let it show though. I refuse to be paranoid, but the fact is that they watch me because of the high level job that I do.

The FOIA is a curse to us. We have to release documents or people will be upset. We don’t release them all of course. Who knows the difference? The ones we do release are mostly benign or sometimes even false. But, even then they need processing. That’s what I do; process sensitive documents. All day long I mark out sensitive stuff on secret documents with my marker. Squeak, squeak, squeak.

I know all kinds of things. That why I have such a super high security clearance. I still think they watch me all the time, but I refuse to be paranoid. I know about aliens, JFK, lunar landings, World Order, mind experiments, time travel, 200 mpg cars, cold fusion, and all kinds of things. Some people think the government is too stupid to keep secrets. Some parts of it are, but some parts are pretty good at it. Part of the plan is to give people a little taste to keep them satisfied. So it’s up to me mark out the secret parts. Squeak, squeak, squeak.

My cubicle is next to Rebecca’s. She’s an attractive red headed woman about my age. She too marks out sensitive information all day long. She has not been here long. I try to tell her about the squeak, but she looks at me strangely. I think she is plant by them to watch over me, but I refuse to become paranoid. They can watch all they want. I’m a loyal American.

I was working on a document concerning the findings of a certain Antarctic exploration team of the 1930s. The chosen small stack of documents, out of the thousands on this subject that will remain hidden, are themselves almost useless. With the additional editing, they will be completely meaningless. I suddenly notice Rebecca leaning over the top of my cubical wall. I am surprised. I look up and say hi.

“I’m not sure what to do”, she started. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“This document I have,” she continued. “It’s about the government approved takeover of our planet by alien forces next year. It seems real enough. I mean, it’s official enough. It’s really subtle, but the facts are there. Shouldn’t I do something about it? I mean, don’t you think the human race should know about this? I know we’re sworn to secrecy, but this…!”

I looked at her beautiful, concerned face. I refuse to be paranoid, but there was no use denying the obvious facts. They were testing me. I got up and walked around to her cube on the pretense of looking at the document. She sat down in her chair and I grabbed her long, lovely neck from behind and snapped it with a move using methods similar to those found in Kyusho-Jitsu that I learned from reading some documents. Not that Dillman stuff, but the real thing. The method laid buried deep in some lost master’s tomb. You really can kill somebody with a single touch.

I went back to my desk and continued with my marking. I made quick work of the Antarctic explorers and began on a rather boring document on yet another Roswell request. I suppose someone will come in a little while to pick up the traitor and question me. I’m not worried. I have demonstrated my loyalty and passed their test. In the meantime I will continue with my marking. For some reason the squeaking seems louder, but I can’t let it show.

Squeak, squeak, squeak…

"FedEx zero-niner, cleared to flight level four-three-zero at your discretion; good day."

"Four-three-zero, FedEx zero-niner, good day." Having acknowledged the controller's call, Jack programmed the 777's autopilot as it headed out over the North Atlantic. As he'd predicted, there had been little reaction to the appearance of the big freighter at Glasgow; FedEx was a growing business in the UK, and the cover story about confirming the suitability of the airport for a branch office had been swallowed hook, line, and sinker. The airport authority had given him the run of the place. The payload from Edinburgh was on board, and phase one of the most important mission in the history of the Agency had been completed almost perfectly.

Almost.

There was one loose end: A local photographer had initially appeared in the flight planning office, asking way too many questions. That was an annoyance that Jack could have dealt with, but the annoyance had become a real problem when Jack caught him sneaking onto the aircraft. The solution would require no small amount of creativity.

"You have the aircraft," Jack said to the copilot. He eased out of his seat and entered the crew rest area behind the flight deck, where he'd left the troublemaker trussed up on the floor.

Jack removed the duct tape covering the man's mouth and pulled him to a sitting position.

"Hi. My name is Jack Smythe. Who are you?" he asked.

"Siegfried Lowe," said the man. He was alert, and more guarded than he wanted to let on, which only increased Jack's suspicions.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Lowe?" he asked.

"I'm a software developer for the aviation authority," Sig replied, which was the truth, just not the whole truth.

"Well, Mr. software-developer-for-the-aviation-authority Lowe, what possessed you to trespass onto my aircraft?" Jack asked.

"I wanted to see the Shrike," Sig replied. "I know it's on board. I know you're going to launch it soon."

Crap. Somewhere in the Agency, there was a very large leak. That would have been a huge problem a few months or years ago; now it was too late to matter. Nevertheless, Jack had to maintain operational security. "The what?" he deadpanned.

"Knock off the innocent act," said Sig. "I know who FedEx really is, and I have the photos to prove it. I even know the truth about the lunar landings. And, lucky for you, I'm on your side."

"Mr. Lowe," Jack said evenly, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I think you do, 'Jack,' assuming that's your real name," said Sig. "Giant freighter aircraft, flying all over the world, ferrying assemblies for a secret space program to a giant hanger in Memphis."

"FedEx?" asked Jack. "We fly packages. Millions of packages."

"You used to," said Sig. "UPS took over that business, so you could do the space program. I've run the numbers; the package business isn't nearly big enough to support FedEx, DHL, UPS, and the others. Admit it! You're fronting for the Agency! You use modified FedEx jumbo jets to launch secret manned missions during transoceanic flights. And you've concocted a massive cover story, designed to not only hide the real purpose of the original manned space program, but to cast doubt that it even existed. And all the time, Shrike and its sister ships keep flying subassemblies to Lagrangian point L2, beyond the far side of the moon. What's out there? The people have a right to know!"

"No, they don't," said Jack, as his fist connected with Sig's chin. "Not until next week."

Sig crumpled, unconscious, to the cabin floor.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The satellite feed from the plane was being monitored in the Agency's Global Operations Center, deep under a West Virginia mountain.

"Here's our file on Lowe," said the duty officer, handing a thick red folder to the Director. "He's been a thorn in our side for years. Should I call in a cleanup crew?"

The Director scanned the file for a minute without answering, then leaned back in his chair. "No, there'd be no point to that; there's only a week left, anyway." He thought for a minute longer. "Get Smythe on the secure channel; I have an idea."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Wake up, Mr. Lowe."

Sig woke, heard the jet engines, and remembered where he was.

"I trust I didn't do any lasting damage?" Jack asked.

"Nothing permanent." Sig stood up, and then stopped and stared. The door to the cargo hold was open behind Jack, and behind it was a sleek black rocket plane.

"Yes, it's the Shrike," said Jack. "We're going for a ride in an hour. There's some people the Agency wants you to meet."

"Where?" asked Sig.

"Lagrangian two," said Jack.

"Who?" asked Sig.

"Albert Einstein, for starters."

Far away from the noise and vulgarity of the inauguration festivities, F. William Johnson opened an unassuming door and passed into a considerably less unassuming back room. He had always felt that the doorway was an unsuitable match for the great deeds that had taken place in the room. On the other hand, he and his ... colleagues ... went to great lengths to keep tourists away from this room, and if a humble exterior was a necessary camouflage, then that was a price they all had to pay.

Charles Beaumont IV was the room's only other occupant, but nevertheless an impressive cloud of cigar smoke was doing battle with the air vents hidden in the exquisitely molded ceiling. Stacks of paper - files, photographs, dossiers, most labeled "Secret" or "Confidential" - were spread out on the table in front of him.

"So the hard work begins, eh Charlie?"

Beaumont's bushy eyebrows settled a little closer to his eyes, accentuating his naturally dour countenance.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

Johnson shrugged. "Admiring our handiwork across town, of course."

"I hope our little puppet appreciates everything we've done for him."

"Of course he doesn't. You have to be a conspiracy nut to even think we might exist, remember? And we all know what he thinks of me personally. The cognitive dissonance would probably kill him if he found out." Johnson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Might be worth filing that idea away, just in case!"

"Be serious, William," Beaumont snapped. "I am actually worried it might come to that."

"How so?"

"What if we are not really the grand players we think we are? What if we're actually the cards? I'm afraid that somebody is playing us."

Johnson snorted. "Impossible."

"Think so? When was the last time all the active members of our little fraternity were actually all together in the same room?"

"George has been ill for months - and Walter has been busy with the mess on Wall Street."

"Our two most powerful members go incommunicado for months on end, and you're not suspicious? Not a little concerned about the possibility that they may have met behind our backs? Not worried about what might have been discussed at such meetings?"

Johnson pondered. "I had nothing to do with that unfortunate business with George's wife, you know," he said at last. "And, yes, there was a bit of bad blood between me and Walt. But that's all in the past. We all have the same goals. We've put our petty squabbles behind us, and look at how it's paid off! Sickness and business interests really are the simplest explanation for their respective absences."

"The simplest explanation doesn't come anywhere near the reality that we have constructed. You know better than to blindly accept the easy answer."

"You're being paranoid."

"Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm not right."

"Okay, let's pretend that there is a conspiracy above our conspiracy. What does that mean for us?"

"It means we don't know who we just threw the election to. George had to have had an angle at the convention - how else to explain that nomination?"

"But the nomination went the way we wanted!"

"Yes. After we had already given it up as a lost cause. Ever wonder exactly how that happened? I know it wasn't us! Oh, we continued on as if it was - as you say, it was the result we wanted. But we don't own him. Someone else does, and my money says that it's George. However ... my hole card is an ace." Beaumont leaned forward across his papers, beckoned Johnson closer.

"The Vice President pick was all me. So you had best get to work cooking up a generous dose of cognitive dissonance."

Jim awoke one morning at 4:55 a.m. It wasn’t his usual time, he was generally smacking the snooze button repeatedly at 7:30 trying to get just another five minutes of blessed sleep. He had no idea what woke him, but something didn’t seem right. He, yawned, scratched where it itched, then headed to the bathroom when the floor lurched so badly he fell. Things settled down shortly thereafter, and he crawled over to the nearest window, and opened the blind. He discovered he was at treetop level, a bit surprising since he lived in a one story house, and the trees were 100 feet high.

He opened the window, and cautiously looked down. There were a number of ropes tied to the bottom of his house, and an assortment of large vehicles were reeling them in. He felt the house slowly descending, and it bumped when it hit the ground. He put on a robe, and wandered out to see what was going on.

There were a number of workmen outside, who were apparently fastening his house into the ground. He spotted a man that looked like the supervisor and walked up to him.

“I don’t suppose you would care to tell me what is going on?”

“No,” the man replied.

“I see. Look, my house was a hundred feet in the air. Did you use some kind of anti-gravity ray on it or something?”

The man sighed. “Look, Mr. Jenkins, we aren’t supposed to talk about this.”

“You know my name then.”

“Yes. We also know you pulled a bunch of grounding spikes from around your house yesterday.”

“Grounding spikes? I wondered what they were. I noticed them as I was digging in the flowerbeds.”

“Yes, and you darned near loosened some of the plants too.”

“Look, what is going on here? I demand to know!”

“Have you read about the CERN accelerator?”

“You mean the one they had to shut down due to a failed component?”

“Yes, that one. The machine didn’t fail though.”

“Then why did they shut it off?”

“It, um, sort of broke gravity.”

“WHAT!”

“Oh, well the force of gravity still exists. It is about the same strength as gravity on the moon. We had to shut the machine down before it completely destroyed gravity.”

“I don’t understand then. Why did my house start floating up?”

“Well, like I said, the Earth’s gravity is about as strong as the moons. And the moon is overhead right now.”

“How... what...,” Jim started.

“I know, it is rather a big thing to take in all at once. It is causing us all sort of headaches.”

“How so?”

“Well, we had to cancel the Olympics. All track and field events actually. It wouldn’t do to have a world record of 100 yards for the broad jump would it?”

“I guess not. But there would be so much you would have to cover up. How do you manage?”

“It is tough at times. Luckily everybody is spending much more time either on the Internet, or watching TV. This keeps them safely inside.”

“But wouldn’t you have to stop all sporting events too?”

“We have. We are playing reruns of the 1998 season. So far nobody has noticed. We also orchestrated the financial crisis. If you have no money, you are more likely to spend time in the house.”

“You faked the financial market meltdown?”

“Oh, we didn’t fake it. We can’t afford anybody to go to work. This effects driving too you know. We also had to fix everybody’s speedometers so they think they are traveling far faster than they really are.”

"I suppose that also explains the sudden rise in the price of gas then too. You want to curtail driving."

"Exactly," the man said, nodding rigorously.

“Isn’t this all stopgap measures though?”

“Yes, of course. The scientists at CERN are frantically trying to reverse the process. We figure if they can’t do it within a month, we are all in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh my lord!”

“Well there are some good parts to it too. Our space program for example. We can send up manned missions to about anywhere very easily right now.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course, gravity is about the same as the moon, and we already know we can launch a ship from there. We have been busy sending up the material for a really huge permanent space station. Would you like to see it?”

“Well, sure.”

“OK, come over here, and have a seat in front of this telescope.”

“OK, now what?”

“Just look through the telescope.”

“I can’t see anything.”

There was a loud S-P-R-O-I-N-N-N-G as the chair catapulted Jim into the sky.

One of the workers adjusted the telescope and looked through it. “Excellent shot sir. He should reach the launching platform to the station in about 10 minutes. He will be a little chilly, but ready for work.”

“How many more times will we have to do that?” Andy asked as he plopped down into my spare chair. I looked at him and smiled. You would think he had learned better than that by now. Smiling broadly at him I replied, “As many as it takes.” That earned me an irritated sigh.

“How many people do you think saw?”

“As many as ‘they’ wanted.” That earned another exasperated sigh from the chair.
“By now, you would think ‘they’ could get in and out without being seen.”

“I know, maybe I am just getting too old for this. I would accept retirement, but well; you know what that would mean.” I studied Andy sitting there in my guest seat as if he were suddenly an alien and said nothing.

“I know- I know I would be blacklisted.”

“You make it sound much too pleasant Andy, they put you in ’protective custody’. You would be lucky if you ever saw daylight again! There are people on death row that would have it better than you. The fear of the public finding out what we are up to is way too potent to just let us walk away.”

Andy fidgeted in his chair. He knew I would say that, just as he knew it was true. We had been charged with setting up elaborate hoaxes to keep the general public from getting too close to the truth of things.

History is riddled with accounts of visitors from outer space and flying saucers, but none of them have ever veered too close to the truth. Even then they did not seem to understand the import of these visits. No one did until that fateful night in 1947 when ‘they’ crashed landed in New Mexico.

There were two survivors who were brought to a small military base nearby. They began communicating with one of their guards, sending him mental images. He thought he had surely gone mad until he made the connection. They understood English enough to follow his side of the conversation and that was when things got weird. They asked when we thought we might be leaving.

Watching my face Andy could see where my thoughts had strayed. He looked at me and said, “Your dad had no way of knowing that’s what would happen!”

I replied, “He should have known no good would come of it and asked to be reassigned.”

Shaking his head he stated, “If he had, they just would have chosen someone else to tell their story to.”

“You are right of course. I just wish it had been someone else. I never chose this for my future.”

Andy nodded, “No one knew they could reach out so far. It was awful for you when your dad died, then to have your mind touched by ‘them’; it would have been too much for most kids your age. How long did it take you to figure out those weren’t just bad dreams?“

“How could we have known we were killing them? We were but in our evolutionary infancy at the time. Now, I spend my days making sure that their ‘hunting’ parties are not discovered.”

“Aw, you’re not alone there are hundreds of us out there! The teams in Britain have a good gimmick going there with their crop circles and there’s the group in Montana who are carving up cattle. Andy lost the frown that had worked its way onto his face during our discussion and was replaced by a slight sparkle.

“What do you think would happen if the truth ever got leaked to the media? Not just the tabloids, lord knows we have abused them enough in the past; but a respectable news group like oh, say National Geographic? Backed up with enough evidence to prove beyond a doubt what the truth really is?”

I eyed Andy carefully thinking what my next words would be. “I think the ramifications of that news would pretty much end the way we live our lives. You know they would not hesitate to kill the person who let that leak, right?”

Andy stood up and said, “Not if they can’t find me. Your not the only one ‘they’ have spoken to you know. “They” have been telling me that “they” have grown tired of sneaking around. “They” were here first, and “they” want what is theirs. It’s not like we have any use for what they need. Why should “they” have to hide? Let ‘em come take what they need, and leave. We could even open trade with them! Think about the money we could make.”

Dumbfounded I watched Andy stand up and walk out of my office for the last time. He called out over his shoulder that I should watch the evening news and was gone.

Just another day at the office, he thought grimly. I’m too old for this. He gave himself a minute, then shook it off and walked in. Let’s do this.
Sure enough, he was accosted seconds after coming in the door.“Cairns! Took you long enough, we got a big one today.”
“Catch up with you in a sec, Corbin.” He stepped past the younger agent and walked to his office to check the day files. Saucers, Bigfoot, more Kennedy…same old, same old. Nothing that Corbin or the computer couldn’t handle on it’s own.
“What’s so big, Corb?”
“Read the red one,” Corbin yelled after him. “You’re not gonna like it…”
He read the red one. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud! Another one?”
“Yeah, another one.”
“Sick. THEODORE! Get in here!”
The alien was quick to respond, shuffling in seconds after he was beckoned.
“What can I do for you, Agent Cairns?” he said in his familiar monotone, somehow seeming patronising even with the lack of inflection.
“You mind telling me why your people find it so funny to paralyse men and dance around in their wives underwear?”
“Oh dear. Again?” His dark eyes widened. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yes, it is. Get back to work, you’re no help to me. Go!”
Theodore left, and Cairns came out of his office behind him. “Where’s Jones?”
“Left early, sister’s having a baby.” Corbin again, helpfully appearing behind his mentor.
“We have Greys dancing in ladies underwear and she leaves early?”
Before Corbin could answer, somebody shouted, “Michael Jackson just admitted it! He told WWN where he’s from!”
“Sure, everyone’ll believe it this time,” Cairns said laconically. “Let it go, they all know he’s a whackjob, doesn’t matter which planet he’s from.”
“How many L’s in ‘categorically’?” somebody else asked. This time Corbin snapped before Cairn’s could.
“This is NOT English class, people! Come on! Two L’s, Linda!”
“God.” Cairns muttered.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Spend more time babysitting than I do working. What’s with Jones?”
“Her sister went into labor.”
“She giving birth to a three-headed chihuahaha? We’ve got crossdressing aliens, a frozen Bigfoot in our freezer, and the plans for Kennedy’s assassination being forwarded across the country, NOBODY LEAVES!”
“Hey, I’m only the messenger. So how did those guys take it when you commandeered their shipment?”
“They weren’t happy, but they got over it.”
“Bet that specialist felt dumb when his ape turned out to be a suit.”
“Don’t you have something to be doing?”
“Yessir.” Corbin scurried away and got back to work. Cairns got a strange look on his face when he heard Theodore snicker. Acting on a hunch, he swung at the air beside him and was rewarded with contact.
“Ow!” The air beside Cairn’s shimmered and shifted to reveal a small man clutching his skull.
“No invisible faces, Kenny! You think this is funny, Theo?”
“No sir.” The grey’s highly advanced eyesight meant he was the only one who could see Kenny in his invisible state, and Kenny loved making Theo smile. Yep, definitely too old for this. It was going to be a long day, so Cairns grabbed some coffee and hid in his office.

“We got more incoming, sir!”
“Well, analyze and file, Johnson!”
It was another normal day at the Omega agency, the true world dictators. Of course, nobody knew this, because the pitiful, weak mortals had no clue whatsoever about the immortal echelons of universal government.
“Sir, this is big!” Rogers was a new agent in the Human Luminary Division. So far, all he had done was rile up the others.
“Yes, Rogers, I’m coming.” Operation Falsification director Lane hoped something really did happen, because Rogers was a pain in his butt.
“Angelina Jolie cheated on Brad FIVE TIMES last week. With all different people!” Rogers was ecstatic.
“Rogers, can’t you find something new to report? The mortals are growing weary of this gossip.”
“Well, apparently Madonna is having an affair with Daniel Radcliffe.” Rogers knew that ruling the world was a big deal, but he didn’t think it mattered if the silly humans were told a lie.
“Don’t forget that I can read your mind, Rogers. I know everything happening in there. I’ll be watching you.”
Rogers sighed. He turned around and went back to his dreary job of amusing humans.