by aliens." It was like trying to pronounce a phrase in a foreign language in which he had no ability.
". . . wanted to discuss the presidential debates with you."
Burton Galilee's enormous eyes bulged with no less surprise than if Banion had told him, "I've been abducted by aliens."
He stared at Banion. "You came to talk to me about the debates!"
"Yes. I really value your input."
"Jack, after you called, I told a client who wants to pay us a great deal of money to help him build a pipeline across a country we recently bombed that I would have to reschedule his appointment. I did that because you sounded like you were ready to shit in your britches. Now what's the matter!"
Banion nodded, closed his eyes the way he had the first time he went off the high diving board at summer camp, and said, "Burt, where do you stand on the question of intelligent life in the universe?"
Burton Galilee spent the remains of the day trying unsuccessfully to focus on how to sweet-talk a maniac Middle Eastern dictator about an oil and gas pipeline, when all he could do was wonder why Banion had fed him a cock-and-bull story about aliens at Burning Bush. Aliens, at Burning Bush. Burt Galilee knew all about being an alien at Burning Bush. He'd still be one there, along with those rich Jewish car dealers, if the media hadn't made a stink out of the president playing golf at a restricted club. Was that why he came to him - some sort of psychological transference?
What the hell was he up to? What was really on his mind? But he wouldn't budge. He'd just sat there insisting that was it. For once, Burt Galilee had been at a loss for advice. All he could do was tell him he'd done the right thing in coming to him. True enough - you couldn't take a story like that to just anyone in Washington. Maybe Jack had just taken too many of those sleeping pills, the ones that had made the secretary of state collapse headfirst on the table during the GATT talks in Brazil, then wake up and ask the French foreign minister to go wash his car.
"Sunday, with John Oliver Banion, an exploration of. . ."
Nathan Scrubbs watched on the TV in his office. He had to come in this weekend morning to supervise a triple they were staging in Ohio. (The computer, monitoring nationwide polls, had found a slippage in UFO belief in central Ohio.) The computer correlated that with an upcoming vote on the appropriations bill for the controversial new B-3 bomber - the ranking member on the committee represented central Ohio - and promptly ordered up two abductions and a cattle mutilation. The targets had cred ratings of four and five, an inspector at a poultry-packing plant and a night watchman, fairly respectable by MJ-12 abduction standards. Clearly, the computer wanted those poll numbers back up in time for the vote.
Scrubbs's baggers were grumpier than usual. MJ-12 did not pay time and a half for weekend abductions. Mike had had to cancel a fishing trip. As for Scrubbs, he would rather have been at home, drinking Bloody Marys and scratching his delicates while watching Banion go public about aliens on nationwide TV
"Good morning. Our guest today is R. Talbott Wanker, assistant secretary of state. Mr. Wanker, you've been closely monitoring developments in the Russian situation. What in your opinion . . ."
Russia? Goddamnit, this was the third Sunday after they'd abducted him and still no mention of UFO's? Nothing, not even in his syndicated column, though it had crossed his mind that Banion's vituperative attack on "heartless" managed care might have had something to do with his experience in the emergency room.
Okay, pal, you want to play hard to get?
Scrubbs typed in a staccato of passwords and clearance codes on his laptop. MJ-12's mainframe computer had been programmed weeks ago to tap into Banion's home and office, turning his telephones into listening devices and his computers into tattletales. He called up Banion's schedule for the coming week.
Hmmmm .. .
Let's give
". . . wanted to discuss the presidential debates with you."
Burton Galilee's enormous eyes bulged with no less surprise than if Banion had told him, "I've been abducted by aliens."
He stared at Banion. "You came to talk to me about the debates!"
"Yes. I really value your input."
"Jack, after you called, I told a client who wants to pay us a great deal of money to help him build a pipeline across a country we recently bombed that I would have to reschedule his appointment. I did that because you sounded like you were ready to shit in your britches. Now what's the matter!"
Banion nodded, closed his eyes the way he had the first time he went off the high diving board at summer camp, and said, "Burt, where do you stand on the question of intelligent life in the universe?"
Burton Galilee spent the remains of the day trying unsuccessfully to focus on how to sweet-talk a maniac Middle Eastern dictator about an oil and gas pipeline, when all he could do was wonder why Banion had fed him a cock-and-bull story about aliens at Burning Bush. Aliens, at Burning Bush. Burt Galilee knew all about being an alien at Burning Bush. He'd still be one there, along with those rich Jewish car dealers, if the media hadn't made a stink out of the president playing golf at a restricted club. Was that why he came to him - some sort of psychological transference?
What the hell was he up to? What was really on his mind? But he wouldn't budge. He'd just sat there insisting that was it. For once, Burt Galilee had been at a loss for advice. All he could do was tell him he'd done the right thing in coming to him. True enough - you couldn't take a story like that to just anyone in Washington. Maybe Jack had just taken too many of those sleeping pills, the ones that had made the secretary of state collapse headfirst on the table during the GATT talks in Brazil, then wake up and ask the French foreign minister to go wash his car.
"Sunday, with John Oliver Banion, an exploration of. . ."
Nathan Scrubbs watched on the TV in his office. He had to come in this weekend morning to supervise a triple they were staging in Ohio. (The computer, monitoring nationwide polls, had found a slippage in UFO belief in central Ohio.) The computer correlated that with an upcoming vote on the appropriations bill for the controversial new B-3 bomber - the ranking member on the committee represented central Ohio - and promptly ordered up two abductions and a cattle mutilation. The targets had cred ratings of four and five, an inspector at a poultry-packing plant and a night watchman, fairly respectable by MJ-12 abduction standards. Clearly, the computer wanted those poll numbers back up in time for the vote.
Scrubbs's baggers were grumpier than usual. MJ-12 did not pay time and a half for weekend abductions. Mike had had to cancel a fishing trip. As for Scrubbs, he would rather have been at home, drinking Bloody Marys and scratching his delicates while watching Banion go public about aliens on nationwide TV
"Good morning. Our guest today is R. Talbott Wanker, assistant secretary of state. Mr. Wanker, you've been closely monitoring developments in the Russian situation. What in your opinion . . ."
Russia? Goddamnit, this was the third Sunday after they'd abducted him and still no mention of UFO's? Nothing, not even in his syndicated column, though it had crossed his mind that Banion's vituperative attack on "heartless" managed care might have had something to do with his experience in the emergency room.
Okay, pal, you want to play hard to get?
Scrubbs typed in a staccato of passwords and clearance codes on his laptop. MJ-12's mainframe computer had been programmed weeks ago to tap into Banion's home and office, turning his telephones into listening devices and his computers into tattletales. He called up Banion's schedule for the coming week.
Hmmmm .. .
Let's give
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