Too Small For Tall Read online

  Or, I realize, like someone who ate more CampGirl cookies again.

  Only one way to find out.

  I hand Tall the mike. “Put this in your right ear,” I tell him.

  And he does. Without a single word. No arguing, no blustering, no threatening anyone with grave bodily harm. Yep, definitely wrong.

  As soon as his hand comes away from his face, I grab both cheeks and hold him steady. “Tall,” I shout in his face. “Snap out of it, dude!”

  At this point I’m almost used to the transformation that happens next, though it’s still all kinds of creepy. He slumps a little, surprising the couch so much it parts and dumps him on the floor on his butt again, his eyes clearing and that vacant expression fading, instant zombie in reverse, then straightens and looks around before glaring my way. Number Seven, which is just fine by me. “How—?” he starts.

  “—did you get here, and why didn’t you bring any Cheetos like I asked?” I cut him off. “I’m guessing you either took the bus or had Ned or the Grays do the teleport thing. And you ate more CampGirl cookies, didn’t you?”

  Tall hangs his head. I can’t always read his expressions or his body language, but this one’s pretty easy. “I know, I know,” he mutters after the silence stretches on over me. “I meant to avoid them, I did—but it was late at night and we’d been on a case and I hadn’t had time to eat and then the cookies started calling to me.”

  “Whoa.” I squint at him. “They’re calling to you now? How’d they get your number, I thought it was unlisted? What language are they speaking? Is it one you understand, because I hate getting phone calls from people when I don’t know what they’re saying—unless they’re relatives, in which case I hate it when I can understand them. Maybe there’s some way to teach my entire extended family to speak Lower Estonian or something? We could tell them it makes barbeque taste better, that’d be all it takes, and then when they call and yammer at me at least I can just admire their fricatives and not worry about even trying to follow along.” I force myself to focus—thoughts of my family always do that to me. Brrr. “But back to these other voices. What’re they saying to you? And does any of it involve other instructions about other people, committing random acts of violence, or baby seals?” I actually threw that last one in there—I’ve found that a picture of anything small and cute like a baby seal helps break up the monotony and relieve any dark ooginess. But somehow Tall doesn’t look like he wants any cheering up. Unless it also involves getting him someone or something to rip apart with his bare hands. And I am definitely not volunteering for that job, no sir!

  It actually takes him a minute to gain enough control over himself to speak, or maybe that’s just how much time he needs to winch his jaws apart enough for sound to escape. Fortunately I’m used to this from him. Sometimes I like to check messages while he’s working on spitting those words out, but that usually just makes matters worse. “They don’t actually talk,” he grinds out, “but it feels like they do. Like they’re sitting there saying, ‘eat me, eat me.’” He hangs his head again. “And I do. I just can’t help it.”

  I nod. If there’s one thing I’ve seen a lot of in my life, it’s chemical dependency. That and cheesy low-budget cable movies. And bad hair. And people who think their entire outfits should be all one color, which really only works if you’re Johnny Sunshine or maybe Zorro the Gay Blade. But I’ve had way too many cousins go through addictions to booze, weed, Twinkies, and other controlled substances not to recognize the signs.

  “You’re hooked, bud,” I inform Tall, sitting on the floor across from him. The couch decides it’s being dissed and slinks off to sulk in the corner. “You’re addicted to those cookies. That ain’t good.”

  “I’m not the only one,” he protests, “it’s the whole office! There’re ChocoMints and PB Sandwiches and Island Delights everywhere you look!”

  That image makes my gut lurch, and not because that’s a lot of cookies laying about and I haven’t had lunch yet. “The whole office? All the MiBs? Come on, don’t you have a few gluten-free health food types around somewhere?”

  “We do,” he agrees. “Agent Smith is gluten-free, and so are a few of the others. But the Lemon Stripe cookies are gluten-free, and they ordered a whole case of those.” A quick smile flits across his face, then vanishes like it doesn’t want to get caught there. “My niece had so many sales she not only got the badge but also the T-shirt, the hat, the duffle bag, the scarf and gloves, the poster, the MP3 player, the camp chair, the razor scooter, the wading pool, and the luggage set.” He shakes his head. “She was only a hundred boxes short of the pool table.”

  “Wow, CampGirl décor everywhere, huh?” I shudder at the thought—that’s a lot of decorative flames. Then, going back to the problem at hand and what Tall was saying before he got distracted by the list o’ loot, I scratch the top of my bill. “So everybody at work’s been eating CampGirl cookies. And now the entire office’s . . . nice?”

  He thinks about that, frowning. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he says eventually. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but usually there’s people shouting and yelling and throwing things at each other and at the walls—it’s a high-pressure job. But lately, it’s been . . . quiet. Friendly. Hell, I’m not even sure we’ve had an accidental shooting in weeks!”

  “So these cookies are making all you MiBs nice and compliant.” I think about that, and it gives me the willies. “I wonder if it’s messing with anybody else, or just you guys?”

  Tall levers himself to his feet. “I definitely need to find out.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” I stand as well, which is a wonder since I don’t exactly have a crane or some kind of pneumatic lift on hand. Hey, my bill’s heavy, okay? “Just do me a favor—don’t eat any more cookies! I mean it!”

  “I’ll try.” For once he doesn’t look smug or condescending or even arrogant. “Later, man. And I’ll remember the Cheetos next time.”

  “Cool.” For some reason, one of the only things I can’t get out here? Cheetos, the proper turn-your-fingers-orange kind. I can get almost any other kind of chip, including ones that no one on Earth’s ever seen, and a few that’d probably violate several local laws, a handful of church laws, and even a few natural laws if they got anywhere near the planet. But I just can’t get Cheetos.

  I wave Tall out, then sink into the chair in front of my computer desk. Hm, should I have maybe told him that I could now see and hear everything he does? Nah, why spoil the fun? Besides, this way he won’t act all self-conscious like those people you can’t even wave a camera near without them suddenly vamping and being “witty.” He’ll look and act completely natural.

  And DuckBob the Tele-presence is on the case!

  Chapter Ten

  One heck of a commute

  It takes Tall an entire afternoon to get back to Planet Earth. I had no idea—the only time I’ve made the trip was on the way out when we first got tasked with the whole “save the galaxy” thing, and we didn’t exactly take the direct route. So I’m fascinated as I watch him hitch a ride on a pleasure yacht (“We’re doing a tour of the supernovas, in descending order of magnitude, of course,” the owner tells him. “We’d be happy to drop you off along the way, and in the meantime you can watch the show with us. Do you like puppies?” It isn’t clear from the way he said it whether he’s asking if Tall likes pets or whether he’s hungry—or possibly both—so the big guy wisely demurs. I would’ve, too, but I would’ve been damn curious afterward).

  The yacht drops him off at Red’s, the intergalactic truck stop diner we visited on our way up, and I amuse myself watching Tall go inside and flirt with Delia, who’d been our waitress. I’d thought he was sweet on her from the way he kept staring, open-mouthed, every time she stopped by to top off our coffee, and the way he’s acting now, all super-nice and ultra-polite like a little boy trying to impress his teacher, confirms it. So Tall’s type is short, rounded and round-faced, and cheerful, huh? Good to know.

&nb
sp; After a quick lunch—which I envy him, because even though Red’s does deliver, and believe me I take advantage of that fact all the time, the food’s never quite as good as when you get it piping-hot from the oven or off the grill—he hops the bus and takes that back home. When we’d all been on the bus, it had been a messy, bumpy, dangerous ride, owing to the fact that we’d been attacked along the way. Of course, crashing a car into it to sneak on board had probably started us off on the wrong foot anyway. This time, there isn’t any trouble, and it’s obvious Tall’s done this a bunch of times before—he even has what looks like a rail card, only it’s made of a green glow and projects from something I’d thought was an ink spot on the inside of his right wrist—and after showing that at the door the conductor lets him on. He picks a seat next to what looks a lot like a giant tangerine with a green-and-purple emo haircut flopping down over its face and a pair of overalls that seem to be made out of green lace, folds his arms over his chest, and puts his head down. I’m pretty sure he’s closing his eyes at this point. I can tell Tall’s a veteran of the New York subway system, because he immediately falls asleep and doesn’t wake to any of the jostling around him, or any of the random sounds or, I assume, smells. In fact, he sleeps right up until the conductor announces that they’re nearing Stop Number Twenty-two, Alpha Centauri. I vaguely remember Mary saying that the bus didn’t stop at our solar system, so apparently this is the closest it gets. Tall straightens when he hears the announcement, and a second later he’s hauling himself to his feet and heading toward the nearest door.

  I wondered how he’s planning to get from Alpha Centauri, four-point-two light years away (I Google it while he’s in transit, though I do get distracted by some of the other things I find along the way—GalacticTube is a dangerous time-sink!), back to Earth. But Tall’s a thorough guy, so I figure he’s already got that part covered.

  Sure enough, he gets out at the Alpha Centauri station—which looks a lot like a standard New York subway station if the stop itself was on acid, rolling around and shifting colors and patterns and curling in and around on itself like an inchworm exercising—and walks over to a small row of parking spaces.

  And there, in one of them, is a black Ford POS sedan. With tinted windows. I’d say it was a sight for sore eyes except I have less than fond memories of that car, or one an awful lot like it.

  That clearly doesn’t bother Tall, but then he wasn’t the one who got scooped out of his nice, boring, normal life and dragged into one of these exact same cars. No, he was one of the two doing the manhandling. Now he pulls a key fob from his pocket, walks around the car to make sure it’s okay, unlocks the driver’s side door, climbs in, starts her up—she does roar nicely, I’ll give her that—and backs out of the space. Then he swings around, orients her with the stars or something else I don’t know anything about and can’t be bothered to learn, and hits the gas.

  I will say this, that sedan may look boring and crappy and like something your grandfather would drive to the drugstore to stock up on Ensure, Depends, Twizzlers, Corn-nuts, and wine coolers, but man, she can move! The stars blur past, and it’s only another hour before good old Sol comes into view. Tall slows down then, and it takes him another forty minutes to maneuver past Mercury and Venus to Earth.

  Ah, Earth. I haven’t been back in months, obviously, and that hits me full-force now as I watch Tall hovering behind the Moon, apparently waiting for the right spot. The planet looks amazing, with its swirl of clouds and its deep blue oceans against that green. I find myself homesick, and have to glance away for a second.

  I guess I picked exactly the wrong time for that, because the next thing I know Tall’s hit the gas again and he’s barreling into the Earth’s upper atmosphere. He cuts through that like a hot knife through butter, and I can see the car’s hood starting to turn bright orange around the edges as the friction takes over. Fortunately that controlled fall only lasts maybe ten minutes before he hits the brakes again and our mad descent slows to a crawl.

  Tall doesn’t hesitate. He taps a button on the car’s center console, which I hadn’t really noticed before, and it displays a map of Manhattan, with both our destination and our current locations clearly marked. I’m happy to see we’re pretty close already, and that’s definitely Manhattan laid out below us, growing bigger by the second.

  The front dash has all kinds of buttons and things, and now Tall leans across and flips a toggle switch, which makes the car shudder and whine for about ten seconds. Then the noise is gone, it’s all perfectly quiet again—

  —and I realize I can’t see the car’s hood through the windshield anymore.

  It’s not just a Ford POS, it’s an invisible, flying Ford POS!

  Tall deftly maneuvers the car as it enters Manhattan airspace, cutting around news copters and traffic copters and the occasional police helicopter or private one. As he guides the car toward someplace in particular, I wonder if the MiB headquarters is supposed be eyes-only and need-to-know and all that crap, in which case I’m probably not cleared to even know it exists, much less where. Then I wonder if I should tell Tall about the whole tele-presence thing now. But I decide against it.

  For one thing, I don’t want to startle him so much he loses control of the car.

  For another, after saving the universe I really deserve a little respect—and a higher security clearance (it would be hard to get lower) to match.

  And finally, I’ll admit it—I’m just plain curious.

  So I keep my massive bill shut and my eyes open as Tall finally reaches a particular building in midtown Manhattan, just a few blocks from Madison Park. He doesn’t bother bringing the invisi-car all the way down to street level, though. Instead he circles around one more time—and parks on the roof. A roof I realize looks like a grade school blacktop, complete with painted-on marks for the court. There’re two other POSs sitting there, both visible and looking perfectly normal if not for the fact that they’re twenty stories aboveground, and Tall parks his beside one of them, shuts off the engine—which makes the car visible again and I can practically hear the car’s battery sighing in relief and maybe crying a little—and pulls himself out. Then he spends several minutes checking things over, making sure the car hadn’t hit a galactic pothole or something. Finally, after what seems like forever, he nods, locks up, walks across the roof to an elevator door housed in a little shack at the end, and pushes the DOWN button.

  I’m all a-tingle. Seriously. Part of it’s the vicarious thrill of it all—I’m like the ultimate voyeur, at least as far as watching a boring, slightly uptight, somewhat do-gooder-ish dude like Tall on his morning commute. Part of it’s seeing Earth again, and not just Earth but Manhattan, which was my home for many a year. And part of it’s the fact that I’m about to see MiB Headquarters! Me! And not only can they not stop me, they won’t even know I’m here!

  I don’t think I’ve been this turned on by electrical doodads since a high school girlfriend showed me her “special, silvery little friend.”

  This is awesome!

  Chapter Eleven

  Duck’s-eye view

  Oh. My. God.

  I want to put a pencil through my eye. No, a drill. Switched on.

  Somebody save me.

  This is horrible. It may well be the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and that includes the time my cousin Vernon tried to win a bet by eating an entire Pizza Hut buffet all by himself—and the unsurprising aftermath. I couldn’t touch barbeque pizza for years afterward.

  But this is worse.

  I don’t see how Tall can stand it. He’s got to be superhuman—or partially comatose. Still, I’m shuddering on his behalf. I mean, I expected it to be bad, but this?

  It’s sheer torture.

  And yet, I just can’t look away.

  “Agent Thomas,” someone says, and I shiver and drag my eyes toward the speaker just to escape the horror that surrounds them. It’s a guy, big and bulky but kinda doughy, with a pudgy face and s
mall features that look like they were just plopped on, or maybe thrown against his flesh like darts, or raisins in oatmeal. I remember him—he was the guy with Tall when they first grabbed me right out of my company’s downstairs lobby. I always called him Potato Head. I’m guessing that’s not his real name, though.

  “Agent Howard,” Tall replies, confirming my guess. “Any problems?”

  Howard sighs, which makes his jowls shake. It’s like watching a bulldog trying to do that “sexy girl tossing back her hair in a rain shower” thing. Scary, and I’m glad to only be watching—I can’t get hit by the spatter. “Yeah, you could say that.” His voice is still all deep and raspy, like a permanent smoker or just a big rock that’s somehow learned how to talk. “We got a whole boatload of Polarians—literally, came on the galactic ferry—running around, and we’ve been trying to corral ’em. They didn’t fill out their paperwork correctly, claim they never got the standard instructions, so now none of ’em have proper tourist visas and they’re snapping pics of anything and everything and keep walking off with people’s dogs and jewelry and hairpieces and a few of ’em’ve let themselves get spotted just ’cause they think it’s funny—it’s a zoo.”

  This time it’s Tall doing the sighing. At least he doesn’t shake his head when he does, otherwise I might get vertigo. “You set up a transmission void around the area?” he asks, and I’m impressed to see that Potato Head/Howard’s face registers the same “huh?” I’m feeling. It’s not just me! “It’ll keep them from sending any pictures out,” Tall explains, “and at the same time it’ll stop anybody here from Tweeting about them or uploading photos or whatever. Everyone’ll just think a cell tower went down or got overloaded, happens all the time.”

  “I’m on it.” Before he’s even finished speaking PH is up and out his chair, which looks wrung out from trying to contain him in the first place, and waddling off down the hall—hey, I happen to be an expert at waddling, thanks to my massive, webbed feet, and I can tell you, this is definitely a waddle. I put it right up there between the pregnant-lady waddle and the bowlegged sailor waddle for speed and grace, meaning he looks like he’s a walking land mass in perpetual tectonic shift, or a living volcano trying to do the sidestep and failing miserably.