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"Big Block of Cheese Day," Will says flatly.
"That's right," C.J. agrees. "Go to."
"But seriously, aren't there more important things for me to do today than meet with..."
"Bob Engler," C.J. supplies helpfully.
"To talk about..."
"The government conspiracy to cover up information related to UFOs and little green men."
Will throws up his hands. "Why do I have to talk to this lunatic?"
"He used to be Sam's pet crackpot," C.J. says. "Guess you inherited him. Now go forth, young William. I've got a meeting with Alistair Johansson from the Society for Creative Anachronisms." And with an ironic salute, she's off.
Will stares down at the assignment in his hand in dismay. "Are you sure this isn't another practical joke?" he asks the empty air plaintively.
There's no help for it. If this is all a big practical joke enacted for his benefit, he may as well take it like a man and walk straight into the punch line. He heads off to the conference room to meet Bob Engler.
A lanky, thickly bespectacled, dour sort of man is waiting right at the doorway. "Mr. Engler, I presume?" Will says bravely. "My name is Will Bailey, I'm the Deputy Communications Officer here at the White House."
He holds out his hand. Bob ignores it.
"I was hoping to speak with Sam Seaborn," Bob says stiffly. "This is a matter of extreme importance. Mr. Seaborn and I have an...understanding."
I'm sure you do, Will thinks. "Sam doesn't work at the White House anymore, I'm afraid," he says politely. "But I'd be very happy to help you with anything--"
"They got to him, didn't they," Bob says knowingly. "I should have expected as much." He shakes his head in regret. "Darn shame."
"Er," Will says. "I think he opened a legal practice down in L.A., actually."
Bob just looks at him. This has to be a joke.
"Really, Bob, I'm sure Mr. Bailey is perfectly able to assist you." The woman's voice is low and melodious, somehow managing to convey both perfect gentility and irritated impatience at once.
Will pokes his head into the conference room, startled. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize--"
Bob sighs as though under great duress and steps aside to allow Will into the room, following to shut the door behind them. "This...creature," he says, in tones of immense distaste, "calls herself Inara Serra."
With a rueful smile at Bob's expense, Inara Serra stands gracefully and steps forward, taking Will's hand. She's the most beautiful woman he's ever encountered.
Well, okay, objectively speaking, that's not true. After all, he lived in California for years. He's met lots of very beautiful people. Inara's face is certainly lovely enough, framed by a cascade of dark ringlets. Her dark, gleaming eyes are lined with kohl, her sculpted lips a dusky red. She's wearing an elegant, draped dress bordering on the exotic, all yellow and violet silk, hugging her curves in all the right places. So, yes, a very attractive woman, without a doubt. But more than that, something in her carriage, in the way she holds her head up, the sway of her hips as she moves -- it's almost regal, somehow, Will thinks, pleased to have found the right word to describe her.
What on earth is a woman like this doing with that...dweeb?
"Bailey," he stutters out. "Uh, Will Bailey. Is my name. But you heard me say that already, didn't you? Yes. Yes you did. Uh, anyway, it's really great to meet you, Ms. Serra."
She just smiles, clearly accustomed to the effect she has on men. "Please, just Inara."
"Right," Will says. "Certainly. Inara. Um, how can I be of service?"
"It's Mr. Engler," Inara says, gesturing. "He stumbled upon me in Nevada, of all places, and insisted I accompany him. He'd like to...lodge a complaint, I believe?"
"I most certainly would," Bob blusters. "Mr. Bailey, are you aware that your government -- the men and women in this very building, no less! -- is conspiring to conceal the fact that aliens, even now, walk among us?"
Will blinks. He blinks again. It still doesn't make sense. "I'm sorry?"
"He's referring to me, Mr. Bailey," Inara says with a sigh. "You see, I come from another planet. So to speak."
"I...see," Will says slowly. "And you came here..."
"In my spaceship," Inara says, completely straight-faced. She would be a formidable poker player, Will thinks irrelevantly. "From a different galaxy."
Her voice is perfectly solemn, but her eyes twinkle merrily, and Will almost sighs with relief. It is a practical joke, only he doesn't seem to be the target. He looks back at Bob, who's getting a bit pink in the face.
"You see, she admits to it!" Bob says, twitching impotently. "And yet you people--"
"I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure what the problem is here," Will says. "You're accusing Ms. Serra here of being...of extraterrestrial origin. She's not denying it. Fascinating though that all may be, I'm not clear on why you've come to the White House instead of, say, the Washington Post."
"I tried them first," Bob admits grudgingly. "They thought I was crazy."
"Did they," Will says politely.
Inara just smiles.
"Look, Mr. Engler," Will goes on, smooth as silk, "you're clearly an intelligent man. Perceptive. Shrewd, even. So I'm sure you understand that there are certain things the President and the Joint Chiefs simply are not at liberty to reveal to the public."
Bob opens his mouth mutinously, so Will hurries onward.
"And while I can certainly appreciate your impulse to go public -- to make a stand, to give the administration a bit of a black eye, so to speak -- well, you have to understand. The information that Ms. Serra here possesses -- the advances in technology alone -- well, we all thought the US was leading the space race, but as you can see, we were all horribly mistaken."
"Like I've been saying for years," Bob puts in hotly.
"Exactly. But right now, we have a vital opportunity -- as a government, as a nation -- to correct our errors. But if word of this got out" -- and here he pauses, shaking his head sadly -- "well, we wouldn't stand a chance. On the galactic scale, I mean. We'd lose it all."
Bob is nodding now, dour and contemplative. "You do have a point."
"We can't afford to lose your cooperation in this matter, Mr. Engler," Inara adds, with a particularly winning smile. Hook and bait. "You understand how these things work."
"Yes," Bob says. "I suppose I do, don't I?"
It takes a few more minutes of platitudes, but they have him. And, thankfully, Bob allows himself to be showed out the door shortly thereafter, contented with his renewed sense of self-importance.
"Thank you, Will," Inara says with a smile, once the man is well and truly gone. "That was well-handled. Though Mr. Engler may appear to...lack credibility, shall we say, I'm grateful you managed to put all this nonsense to rest before he found a wider audience."
"It's no problem at all, Inara," Will says, feeling absurdly proud of himself. "Most of these nutjobs just want to be able to say they've spoken with a senior White House staffer, that's all. They aren't actually looking to make a stir."
"Nevertheless, I appreciate your efforts," Inara says smoothly. She smiles, and Will smiles back, transfixed.
And then he has a thought.
"Wait," he says. "I know Bob's just a nutcase, but...what do you want?"
For an instant, the pleasant mask drops away. There's a sadness in her eyes, a too-raw pain, that makes him want to look away. "Peace," she says quietly. "Just...to be left in peace, just for a little while. Just this once."
Will clears his throat. "Inara..."
"But since it seems we can't have that even here, I'll be letting Mal know it's about time to be off again," she says briskly, that lovely façade firmly back in place.
"Mal?"
"Malcolm Reynolds," she elaborates. "The captain of my spaceship." Her dark eyes gleam. "It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Bailey. I believe I can find my way out."
Practical joke, Will reminds himself, watching her retreating figure mutely. It has to be.
But no one's laughing, and he wonders.