Fox Moldy sat at his desk, his feet propped up on the lower left desk drawer. He flicked a spitwad at the poster of Elvis Presley – in his prime, of course – hitting the premiere icon just below his left eye. “Two hundred and thirty-four,” he whispered softly, and readied yet another missile.

Moldy had selected this poster for the wall of his office as it stood in his mind as testimony to the covert governmental conspiracy to hide from the American people just exactly what happened to this Pop-Icon. Was he really dead, as the media, with disinformation fed to it by secret agencies within the Pentagon, has led the populace to believe? Or is he actually living in seclusion in some mountain hideaway, prisoner of these same clandestine agencies seeking to discredit his dedicated following, alone and never again to behold his adoring fans from the stages of the world?

The King also symbolizes the force behind Moldy’s avid and driven pursuit of all leads in the search for his sister, abducted when she was seven, he believes, by Ed McMoon and henchpersons of the widely popular Searching For Stars competition. His sister had been caught up in the serial presentations of the addictive media programming behind this competition, and Moldy could see her mind deteriorating before his very eyes well before her actual abduction. Then one day, she was gone, and Moldy was sure she had been lured into the insane world of performance envy by this McMoon and his dastardly crew. Blocked from his memory for years,

Moldy was able to access latent memory traces of that frightful night, suffused with sinister overtones of alien abduction, through professional hypnosis and lost-imagery-retrieval-therapy, a newly developed technique using lasers, elevator music, and computer-enhanced memory upgrades. Moldy was convinced that the two seemingly disparate obsessions, which had become central themes of his life, were in fact two facets of the same issue. He raised his arm, and in one adroit flicking motion, propelled another moist missile at the poster, striking The King just below his left ear – “Two hundred and thirty-five.”

Dana Scholar knocked twice, and pushed the door open – it was unlocked, and swung silently into the room. Moldy was sitting at his desk, and looked up as Scholar stood in the doorway of the dimly lit and crowded basement office. She caught sight of the spitwad out of the corner of her eye, just as it completed its downward arc, hitting what she thought was the left eye of Mr. Presley. It stuck to the poster for a brief moment, and then dropped to the floor onto the growing pile there. “Umm! Disgusting,” said Scholar, wrinkling her nose. She raised an eyebrow, and with the faintest of smiles playing on the corners of her lips, said, “Moldy, you need to get a life!” She stepped into the tiny office, and dusting off a chair with dusty UFO magazines piled on it, gingerly sat down.

“What are you doing, Moldy?” she continued. “You know that Supervisor Skinny’s got us on this XY case. I tried to get you on your cell phone, but you didn’t answer. What have you been doing?” she asked, her eyebrows arched. “I’ve been working on it, Scholar. It’s just that it’s murky and unclear. The two components of the XY case I believe have a common link, and were at some time in the past, identical. The fact that one part of the formerly identical components is now modified, or as you might say, deformed, doesn’t obviate the fact that at one time they were the same.”

Moldy hadn’t moved from his position during all this, but had continued to prepare tiny projectiles stacking them neatly on the edge of the desk as he spoke. “Moldy, what are you talking about?” asked Scholar, a touch of mild scorn in her voice. “What you just said doesn’t make any sense. Of course, they were once identical, but that is irrelevant at this juncture, as one component is now deformed. It is missing a part, and is the weaker for it. To take it backward in time to a point that possibly may have happened, isn’t consistent with science as we know it! Surely you can see that, Moldy.”

Scholar’s eyes flickered with excitement, and her lips pursed as she met Moldy’s every thought, and countered them with her own. Moldy nodded, his eyes, too, ablaze with excitement, though this was difficult to discern from his expressive face. “Scholar, what do you think it has to do with, if not the fact that it was once whole, made up of two identical components, and is now incomplete because of the loss of the one leg?” asked Moldy.

Scholar shook her head in disbelief, and said “The chromosomal titration, and subsequent examination by electron microscope, proves that the current state of the XY case is the only relevant reality of the entity itself. In a word, the male chromosome is weaker than the female, and less likely to survive. You of all people, should be able to see that, Moldy,” and Scholar smiled in triumph.

Moldy dropped his feet down from the desk drawer, and stood up. He walked the few steps over to the poster of The King, and rubbed it dry with a dusty paper napkin he’d picked up off the couch. “The King is holding up pretty well,” thought Moldy to himself. He turned, and facing Scholar, said, “Look, Scholar – I agree that there isn’t yet concrete and substantiating evidence that I’m right. But, don’t dismiss the possibility that I am right, just because you believe you’re right that the XX-File is the stronger of the two. I’ve never been wrong before, Scholar – I’ve made mistakes before, but never been wrong,” and Moldy smiled enigmatically. “Being wrong isn’t the issue, Moldy,” said Scholar, “or, making mistakes. Is it science? That’s what I have to know. I’m right, Moldy, and we both know it.”

Moldy smiled again, and said, “Let’s go, Scholar. Skinny wants us to check the XY case for any possible links to the XX-Files. I think I know where to go next on this,” and with that he exited the tiny office. Scholar got up and followed him out. “Moldy, wait – what are you talking about?” Moldy didn’t stop, but proceeded out to the car. Once on their way and driving along deserted highways, Scholar asked, “Moldy, you’re not thinking there’s a connection between the XY case and Alice Crycheque and the black oil, do you?” “Scholar, you’re way ahead of me,” nodded Moldy smiling, and he drove on through the driving rain.

The rain didn’t let up, and the darkened grey skies set a somber and dark tone for their drive. Scholar slept for part of the trip. Moldy reached over and shook her by the shoulder. She stirred, opened her eyes, and glanced around her. The car was stopped, and the rain was still coming down in torrents. It was dark, and Scholar could just make out the outlines of tall dark trees surrounding the car.

“Where are we, Moldy?” she whispered, her voice still coming back from sleep. Outside, Scholar could see a bright light illuminating the skies beyond the closest of trees. Moldy got out of the car, and started into the woods, and Scholar got out and followed him. “Moldy, wait! You can’t go out there. You don’t know what that light is and what’s over there!” Moldy, a gleam in his eyes, nodded, “That’s exactly why I have to go over there, Scholar.” And he slipped into the dripping darkness. Scholar followed quickly through the woods, but couldn’t see much of anything ahead of her.

The light was getting stronger, and Scholar could hear voices ahead. Suddenly, someone grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down behind an oak tree, a hand covering her mouth. Scholar struggled, until she heard Moldy’s voice in her ear, “Relax, Scholar. And don’t make a sound. We can see the whole thing from here.” Scholar nodded her head, and Moldy took his hand from her mouth. The two crouched behind a tangle of low brush next to an oak tree, and watched in fascination the scene beyond.

Seated on the tailgate of a late-model sport utility vehicle, sat the Tobacco Chewing Man, a lump visible under his lip on the left side. He was speaking in hushed tones with someone who initially was hidden in shadows. As the latter moved in and out of the darkness, it was clear this was the Impeccably Dressed One, a jaundiced and severe looking man, wearing a tailored Armani, his face angular and pinched as though he’d spent a lifetime sucking lemons, his skin a sickly pale white.

He, too, was speaking in hushed tones, though with distinctly more animation than the Tobacco Chewing Man. “Disgusting,” whispered Scholar, as the Tobacco Chewing Man spit a projectile off into the shrubbery away from the other man. “Shhh,” whispered Moldy, “I think there’s someone else here, but I can’t quite make him out.” “Why do you assume it’s a ‘him,’ Moldy? Is this some sensing associated with your alien abductions obsession?” and she chuckled silently.

Moldy couldn’t see the twinkle in her eyes, but knew it was there. “Figures,” he mumbled. Suddenly, the bright lights, which had been ambient background, began to grow, and the Tobacco Chewing Man and the Impeccably Dressed One shielded their eyes with aviator dark glasses, and turned toward the far edge of the clearing. Moldy and Scholar squinted, and shielded their eyes, as the light grew almost painfully brighter.

The third person Moldy had sensed was present, stepped into the clearing – Alice Crycheque. She was holding a glass vial, and in the bright lights, it appeared to contain some dark liquid. Neither Moldy nor Scholar could make out exactly what was in the glass container, but Moldy was sure it was the mysterious black oil, possibly the XY chromosome, the object central to the highly secretive governmental conspiracy. If Crycheque had it in her possession, things were really in a bad way.

Moldy could see that the bright lights were being generated by some immense source beyond the clearing, but neither of the two could see what that source was. Moldy said they had to get closer to hear what was going on, and find out what the light source was, and proceeded to move closer. Scholar whispered that it was too dangerous, and besides, they were trespassing on private property, but Moldy was already out of earshot. Scholar shook her head, and started around the low bush, but in the dark tripped over the tangled roots, and stumbled headlong into the bush.

Moldy, meanwhile had circled the clearing, and as he approached the far side, a silent rumbling shook the ground, and a massive circular craft of some kind lifted from beyond the trees, and hovered momentarily above the woods, bathing everything in brilliant ethereal light, before retreating quickly to the far horizon. Everything was thrown instantly into pitch darkness, and Moldy briefly had to hold onto a nearby tree because of his disorientation. The three in the clearing now entered the sport utility vehicle, and Crycheque drove off through the underbrush as though the hounds of hell were upon her. Moldy made his way back in the darkness around to where Scholar was still struggling to extricate herself from her entanglement with the shrub.

“Did you see it, Scholar?” asked Moldy with excitement. “See what, Moldy. I was caught in that damned bush, and didn’t see a thing.” She was obviously irritated in being slowed down by something as embarrassing as being snagged by a bush. “Will that be a part of your report to Skinny, Scholar?” asked Moldy, still excited, but not missing the opportunity for a bit of sarcastic rebuttal with his colleague. “Moldy, be serious! I should have been with you as backup, instead of here keeping company with a bush!” “Yeah, well, as it turned out I didn’t need any help. But, really, did you see it? Did you see the source of the light?” Moldy could hardly stand it, and he pressed Scholar with the question. “Moldy, I didn’t see a thing, I told you. But you tell me, what was it?” and Scholar wiped the rain out of her eyes, and pushed a curl of hair back behind her ear. Moldy looked at Scholar, and paused – he smiled enigmatically, and said, “Never mind, Scholar. Maybe next time.”

Moldy and Scholar entered Supervisor Skinny’s office, and at his urging sat down. Skinny looked at the two, soaking wet and bedraggled, hair matted with pieces of leaves and twigs, and in a general state of dishevelment.

“What happened to you two?” asked Skinny, irritation showing in his tone. “I send you out to check on the XY case, and you come back looking like this?” “We were following Alice Crycheque, and it led to a very unusual meeting, Sir,” offered Scholar softly. “Moldy knew the two other men, the Tobacco Chewing Man, and the Impeccably Dressed One,” she added. On hearing the latter two mentioned, Skinny remained unfazed, but Moldy knew that he had had a reaction – he had this sense. “You know these two, don’t you Skinny?” accused Moldy, his voice rising. “Tell me how you know them, and why you didn’t tell us before about them!” said Moldy angrily. “You knew this was a set-up all along. How long have you known?”

Moldy looked at Skinny, his eyes smoldering. Skinny rose slowly from his chair, his lips pursed, tight across his teeth. “You don’t want to know what I know, Moldy!” Skinny said slowly. “This is bigger than Crycheque, or the Tobacco Chewing Man, or his colleague. It’s so big, Moldy, it scares me. I can’t tell you what I know, and you don’t want to know. Just leave it be! As a friend, I tell you, leave it be!” Skinny glared from behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his jaw set, firm in what he had just conveyed to his underlings.

Scholar looked across the desk at Skinny, and said, “Sir, you sent us out on a potential XX-File, and you didn’t give us all the information at your command. What are we supposed to think? How were we supposed to do our job with gaps in our data base?” Scholar held Skinny’s gaze, and raised her eyebrows to emphasize her question. “Look, Scholar, Moldy – the XY case is closed. It’s not an XX File, let’s leave it at that. It goes no farther than this office – it stops with me,” this said in resignation, with a tinge of sadness.

Back in Moldy’s office, the two agents sat in silence. “Moldy,” said Scholar quietly, “What do you think we should do now?” “I don’t know, Scholar. I don’t like the idea, but I think Skinny is in on this, which means that someone higher up wants this thing buried.” Moldy looked up at the poster of The King, and fingered his now dry spitwads. He flicked one, and it made a light thudding sound as it struck the poster, and dropped to the floor. “Hmmm,” thought Moldy to himself, “not very satisfying. Needs to be moist,” and he brushed the neat pile off the desk onto the floor. Scholar watched Moldy, and wrinkling her brow, said, “I don’t think Skinny is involved in the way you think, Moldy. I think the Impeccably Dressed One represents a level of contacts that we haven’t the foggiest notion about. I think this is way over our heads, and we’re lucky to be out of it alive and in one piece.”