Space Aliens Taught My Dog to Knit!

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Delmer Dawkins leaned across the circular bar table, pinning his copy of the National Revealer beneath one jacketed elbow while he gestured wide with his other hand only inches in front of his companion’s saturnine face. “It’s bigger than we thought,” he said in a whisper that echoed off the glass wall beside them. Beyond, the city of Seattle glistened in the late evening sunlight. “It’s not just NASA. We’re pretty sure SETI, the Air Force, and the Catholic Church are in on it, too.”

“Is that so?” Leo Stevenson leaned back a few inches, but Delmer followed him, his tie nearly dipping into the glass of mineral water he’d forgotten in his excitement.

“Yes, it’s so. But they’re not as big as us. We’ve got our own people in high places. Very high places.”

Leo smiled. “Where, the Moon?”

Delmer narrowed his eyes. Was Leo making fun of him? Or was he just putting on a front for the rest of the bar patrons? That was the trouble with conspiracies; even your friends could be in on them, and you never knew for sure. But Leo was above suspicion. Not because he was too honest to have secrets, but because he was too greedy. Leo was a Hollywood producer; if he knew anything about a clandestine space program, he would have made a movie about it years ago.

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