Summary:  Mulder and Scully receive a mysterious tip to investigate a man
speaking in tongues.  More sufferers appear as they debate - alien abduction
or religious trance?  An expert associate and an unexpected ally help them
track down the real reasons behind the victims' unusual affliction.  

Classification: X.  Keywords:  Lone Gunmen, Pendrell, Frohike

Rated PG for occasional language.  No MSR, a little angst, no UST, more of a
Rift-feeling at times.  Chock-full-o' Mulderisms/Scullyisms. No 3rd or 4th
season spoilers.

Usual Disclaimers - Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Agent Pendrell and the Lone
Gunmen belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting.  No
infringement is intended, yadda yadda yadda.  I don't own'em, I don't profit
from'em, I just like'em.  T. Dylan Frohike is my character, along with any
minor/unrecognizable players.

Author's notes follow.  Comments to ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu, the Fictalk
forum (if a member) or ATXC.


Cryptoglossia  1/3
By Colleen Bailey

*********
Morristown, NJ
6:41am 
Sunday, May 19, 1996

Hattie's Donut Dee-Lights was quietly busy this hour of the morning.  The
counter staff darted from one tray to another, deftly flipping donuts of all
shapes, sizes and flavors into boxes for the area churches that served
Hattie's pastries during their post-service fellowships.  A few customers
occupied the booths by the windows, sipping their coffee and enjoying their
breakfast at a more leisurely pace.  

Two Morris County deputies sat on stools at the counter, next to the
register.  One helped herself to a second cream-filled Bavarian while the
other contented himself with a bran muffin.  He looked at his partner with
wistful lust in his eyes.

"It's not fair, Bev - where do you put it all?"

She smiled and licked a bit of cream from her fingers.  "It's all in the
metabolism, Mark.  I'm just lucky, I guess."  Their radios crackled to life.

"Unit 31, check on the welfare of a white male, mid-forties, gray business
suit, 5'10", last seen on County Highway CB heading westbound at or near
mile marker 36, stumbling into traffic."

"Unit 31, we copy," Bev responded as she rose to her feet.  "Hey Hattie,
wrap another one of those up for the road, will ya?"  She laid a five-dollar
bill on the counter and accepted the pastry from the pink-uniformed woman as
she made her way to the door.  Mark took a last gulp of coffee, gazed
longingly at the rows of baked goods, then followed her out, flipping his
mirrored sunglasses out of his breast pocket one-handed.

*********
The field-lined highway was sparsely traveled; only a few early church-goers
drove by, horns blaring in a mournful Doppler effect as they passed the
disheveled, balding man who staggered along the shoulder, mumbling
incoherently to himself.  A squad car passed him slowly, then pulled onto
the shoulder and stopped.  The two deputies got out and walked back towards
him, cautiously.  

"Good morning, sir, are you OK?  Did you have car trouble?"  He ignored
them, rolling his sunburned face from side to side, waving his arms slowly
at waist level.  Bev moved closer, one hand resting on her gun.  "Sir?"  

"Ka na bo du ruk su pa mal ga oot no ra jo?  De te ro bo e ken ju ma da ki
wal da no?  Su pa?"  He tried to walk through her, eyes on the ground.  She
backed up and let him pass, but walked alongside him, looking concerned.

"Sir?  Do you speak English?  Can we help you?"

Noticing her for the first time, he stopped, swaying slightly.  With a
grunt, he peered at her, then over at her partner.  "Soh pin?  Fa do sim yo
ma wa du ee lo tek?  hum an di, loo shun da yaz ra na?"  He resumed his
erratic walk down the gravely shoulder.

The two exchanged glances as Mark moved in to intercept.  "Sir?  Se habla
Engles?  Parley voo fransay?  Vee govareetsye pa ruski?"  The man only
babbled in return.

Bev tried again.  "Sir, you look like you need some help.  Can we help you?"
She laid a hand on his shoulder.  He jerked back and stared at her with
panicked eyes, then turned and started running towards the fields, away from
the road, shouting, "Ash no ku?  Oo la ra ti gat?  De da no pass a fu gu ja
tha bo da yaz ti...."

"Hey!"  Startled, it took them a moment to follow.  By the time they reached
the tall grass, he was out of sight, but they were able to follow him by the
sound of his voice.  "Sir, stop!  Wait up!  Stop where you are!"

"A hee!  Zhee vo ee ma so!  Ge be ni vi o kam sa mo jo!  A pee so han ka a
ma so ba lo pad tha ra lo vi ya nik!"  The tall green stalks surrounded
them, thrashing against their raised arms as they ran, blocking out even the
bright morning sun.  Suddenly, they broke through into an open space in the
field.  The grass was crushed and muddy, matted down in a rough circle,
though the stalks standing at the edge of the clearing showed no sign of
damage.  The man was standing in the center of this circle, arms lifted,
head thrown back.  He shouted, rotating where he stood.  "Ya mo sti da ra
log, spu na ri thea bat voy a za rin ka!  Hu be an fo!"  He was screaming at
the sky, shaking his dirty fists as the deputies looked around in dazed
incomprehension, hands on their guns but not moving towards him.  "Soo ba
do!  Zhe mo vat!  Kee a ka dom pu da ra!"  His bare feet were black with mud
and red with blood as he stood at the center of the exposed circle, shouting
his incomprehensible words to the cloudless heavens above.

CUE OPENING CREDITS

*********
J.  Edgar Hoover Building
7:32 am
Monday, May 20, 1996

"Morning, Scully."  Mulder entered the basement office to find her already
there, gazing intently at the screen of her computer, leaning back in her
chair with one hand cupping her elbow, the other her chin.

"Mulder, come take a look at this."

He paused in hanging up his suit coat to peer over her shoulder.  "Someone
sending you Fabio pinups again?"  It looked like a standard e-mail message.
There were a few lines of text, and nothing else.

"It was sent by the server itself, and exactly at midnight last night."  She
pointed to the screen, where the time-stamp on the message showed as
00:00.00.  "And, according to this," she leaned forward to type a few
commands, "These were the only people logged in at that time last night."

"Could one of them have sent it?"  He backed around his desk and sat down,
tilting back to rest his crossed ankles on the corner least-cluttered with
papers.  He checked his phone for voice mail - none - while remaining
focused on his partner.

"No, I checked.  None of them have that kind of access to the system:  a few
agents working late, a few security guards, the janitorial supervisor, and
look at this..."  She reached over to hand a printout of the e-mail to him,
which he accepted and skimmed over.

"'James Marshall Provost, Morristown Memorial Hospital, look into it.'" he
read aloud.  "Does this mean anything to you?"

"No, I was hoping it might to you, though.  I called the hospital, and there
is a J. Marshall Provost in-house, he was admitted Sunday morning
under...mysterious circumstances."  She hesitated.

"Oooh, my favorite."  He grinned at her, laying the printout aside and
folding his hands in his lap.

"Mr.  Provost was found wandering along the shoulder of County Highway CB
early Sunday morning."  She glanced at her handwritten notes from the phone
conversation.  "He was disoriented and suffering minor cuts and bruises, but
no major physical trauma.  The main reason they are keeping him for
observation is that he is suffering from what the intern claims is glossolalia."

Mulder stared blankly at her.  "And he's afraid to tell his wife?"

She gave him a withering glare, then went on.  "Glossolalia is commonly
referred to as speaking in tongues.  Basically, he's babbling without
producing any recognizable words or phrases.  He is effectively mute, even
though it sounds like he's speaking in some foreign language."

"So is there any medical reason he's doing this?"

"That's what's got me puzzled, Mulder.  This is so broad - it could be any
of a number of things, pharmacological, physical head trauma, electric
shock, even..."  she stopped, shifting her gaze to the floor beside her chair.

"What else, Scully?"  He leaned forward.

"Speaking in tongues is a common practice in many religious sects.  It is
considered a possession of sorts, the Holy Spirit entering the body and
causing a person to speak with the voice of angels."  She finished with a
small flourish of her hand, not looking at him.

His reply held a hint of humor in it.  "And you believe that?"

She pursed her lips and glared at him briefly, annoyed by his persistent
skepticism for all things religious.  "I believe that some people can
self-induce a hypnotic state, a trance of sorts, and have a transforming
experience.  That the possibility exists that one can short-circuit one's
own brain, resulting in glossolalia, and possibly a range of other physical
symptoms.  And...."  She frowned, eyes unfocused, then bent down and
disappeared below the desk for a moment.

"What are you doing, Scully?"  He sat up in his chair, trying to see.

She came up with her purse in hand.  Digging through, she came up with her
day-timer.  Flipping rapidly to the previous week, she pointed to the page.
"Sunday was Pentecost."

He looked at her blankly.  "And this means?"

She smiled faintly.  "Pentecost is the celebration of a famous biblical
event, when a gathering of early Christians were suddenly struck by the Holy
Spirit and began speaking in tongues.  Technically," she admitted, "that was
xenoglossia, where they all spoke different languages, yet everyone could
understand each other as if it were one language.  Pentecostal Christianity
is based in large part upon the miracle of speaking in tongues as a way to
communicate directly with God.  It could be that Mr. Provost was simply
caught up in the religious symbolism of the day, and...."

"And so he's just some religious nut, and what's the mystery."  He sat back,
waiting.  Her sharp response wasn't long coming.

"Mulder, we're being prompted by an unknown person to investigate this!"
She leaned towards the PC, one elbow-propped hand resting lightly on her
cheek, pondering.  "I can't understand why anyone would want this particular
case looked at.  There are thousands of people who experience glossolalia in
this country alone.  When you include self-induced cases with pathological
cases, some estimates put the world-wide number at five million or greater."

 "And I still can't get a date on a Saturday night."

She gave him a be-serious look.  "Why single out one man, and ask *us* of
all people to look into it?"

"Maybe that's the mystery they want uncovered."  He smiled and stood up,
reaching for his coat.  "I guess there's only one way to find out."

*********
Morristown Memorial Hospital 
10:17am

The hospital was a sprawling two-story building set in a well-landscaped
park, surrounded by small businesses and a wealthy suburban neighborhood.
The two agents blended smoothly with the well-dressed professionals
populating the sidewalk as they strolled from the parking ramp to the main
entrance.

"Well, those deputies didn't have much to say," Scully commented as they
passed an elaborate flower bed and reached the curb by the emergency room.

"No, but they made a mean cup of coffee."  He grimaced and laid a hand on
his stomach.  "I guess they wanted to give us something to remember them
by."  They paused on the sidewalk outside the emergency room, allowing an
ambulance to speed up to the doors, then crossed the driveway and headed
around to the front of the building.  "After we interview this patient, I
want to go check out the location they gave us where they picked him up.  We
should check the scene for burn marks, radioactivity, time-distortion...."

"With what, my Swiss Army knife?"  Scully asked sarcastically.

"Well, office scuttle-butt tells me you can start a fire just by rubbing two
dry clichés together...."  He grinned at her expression.  "C'mon, Scully,
I've got a kit in the trunk.  Do you think I'd investigate an alien
abduction unprepared?"  He genteelly waved her toward at the main entrance's
revolving door.  Setting her jaw sternly, Scully preceded him into the
reception area.

*********
The interior was modern and bright, with a hospital's usual mix of bustling
industry and quiet waiting.  After an interminable elevator ride and a few
wrong turns, Mulder and Scully announced themselves at the nurses' station
and were directed to Mr. Provost's room.

The bed was empty.  A well-dressed middle-aged woman was sitting beside a
balding man in pajamas and dressing gown whose feet were heavily bandaged.
The woman was reading a copy of the Weekly World News, and the man was
staring at a talk show on the television bolted to the wall before the bed,
muttering.  They both looked up as the two agents entered the room.

"Mr. and Mrs. Provost?"  Scully began, using her calmest professional voice.

"Po a ka du sha ba si an jo sli go?"  The man blurted, looking angry.  The
woman patted his hands and nodded, rising to her feet.  

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, this is my partner Fox Mulder, we're with
the FBI.  We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Va sko ni cha ro da li fo ka, no su wi lo sa zo so bu ri....!"  Mr.
Provost stared at Scully during his outburst, speaking directly to her.
Scully looked down, embarrassed for him, but Mulder gazed thoughtfully at
the man.

"Of course."  Mrs.  Provost glanced back at her husband, whose attention had
returned to the TV.  She whispered to the agents, "Let's go out in the hall,
shall we?"  Scully walked beside her to the door.  Mulder took a mini tape
recorder out of his pocket, hit "record" as he placed it on the table beside
Mr.  Provost.  He was rising to leave when he noticed Mr. Provost's sunburn.
He leaned in closer and stepped to one side for a better view.  The sunburn
covered only half his face; the dividing line traced a curved line across
his forehead, down his nose and chin, leaving him with a vaguely lopsided look. 

Stepping back, his eye was caught by the tabloid Mrs.  Provost had been
reading. With a second glance at the patient, he rolled it up and slid it
under his coat.  Ignoring him, the patient continued to babble under his
breath while watching the talk show.  Mulder reached for the door.

Outside, Mrs.  Provost closed the door behind them, then turned to face them
and crossed her arms, looking hesitant.

"Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?"  Scully began.

"It was around 7:00 p.m. Friday.  He went out for a drive, and that was the
last I saw him until the hospital called me yesterday."

"But, Mrs. Provost, your husband was checked in Sunday morning.  He was gone
for two nights, and you didn't report it?"  Scully asked, somewhat incredulous.

"No, I didn't....  Marsh sometimes goes on these little jaunts..."  She
looked at the floor, wringing her hands nervously.  "I really wasn't
concerned until the hospital called me.  Is he is some sort of trouble?"

"No, we're just looking for some clue as to what might have caused his -
unusual condition."  Scully glanced at Mulder.  "Do you know where he was
going?"

"No, he just....went out," she explained to Mulder, who smiled
sympathetically.  

"Has your husband had any similar episodes in the past, Mrs. Provost?  Any
extended unexplained absences, unusual changes in mood or behavior?"  Scully
glanced at him, but kept her peace.  The hospital paging system sounded a
tone through the PA in the background.

"He....he does have a tendency to wander off on the weekends.  He..."  This
was obviously difficult for her; her color was up, and she was grinding her
fingers together as if she could strangle whatever was bothering her.  "My
husband, he has a....a problem with alcohol, and he knows how much I hate to
see him drinking.  He's never gone too long; usually he's back for work
Monday."  She looked worried, casting a glance back at the closed hospital
door.  "Do you think this is permanent?"

"Mrs. Provost, what do *you* think is causing your husband's language
problems?"  Scully interjected, before Mulder could start in with his list
of 'abduction' symptoms.

She raised her chin defiantly.  "Well, everyone thinks I'm crazy, but," and
she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially to Scully, "I think he was
abducted by aliens."

Scully pressed her lips together and allowed her gaze to fall on Mulder.
His smug expression did not reassure her.

*********
Scully thanked the doctor and handed Mr. Provost's chart back, along with
one of her business cards, as Mulder re-joined her in the hallway, returning
the tape recorder to his breast pocket.  As they walked down the hall,
Scully reviewed the information she had picked up from the doctor.  "Mr.
Provost is a non-insulin-dependent diabetic.  Apparently he has not been
sticking to his diet, and was suffering from diabetic coma at the time he
was admitted."

"Is that all?" 

"Well, his CAT scan shows unusual activity in Broca's Area, the part of the
brain believed to handle language transactions.  The bloodwork came back
negative for drugs or alcohol.  I thought that perhaps, given his record of
behavior, he was just off on another bender, but apparently he wasn't
drinking this weekend."

Mulder glanced over at her slyly.  "What's the matter, Scully, afraid I
might be right this time?"

She ignored him and continued.  "The physical exam showed no unusual
physical evidence - no incisions, no injection marks, no burns...."

"Did they x-ray him for implants?"

She suppressed a wry smile, glancing sideways at him as she flipped her
notes closed.  "None of the doctors actually laughed out loud, but they made
it clear that x-rays were not standard treatment for a psychiatric
diagnosis.  The CAT scan showed no unusual objects in his head.  If you want
to embarrass yourself by asking if he has any metal implants in his body,
you can help yourself."

He continued as if she hadn't said anything.  "Did you see his sunburn?"

"Yes, it was noted on the report.  It's actually a common occurrence among
chronic alcoholics - they fall asleep outdoors, are too inebriated to
realize they're in the sun, and end up with a distinctive sunburn pattern."

"Well, it's also a common occurrence among people who encounter alien
space-craft.  Or didn't you see Close Encounters?"  He grinned at her
baleful glance.  "And you said it yourself, he wasn't drinking this weekend.
Besides, his wife corroborates the abduction explanation."

She shook her head slightly.  "Mulder, did you see what his wife was
reading?  You could tell her that Elvis abducted her husband, and she'd
probably agree."

"Ah, but her reading material is where I get some of my best leads."  He
pulled the paper from beneath his coat.  Scully saw it, rolling her eyes as
she stopped in the hallway.

"You don't actually think that there's anything useful to this case in
there...."  She paused as he opened it and held it out to her.

"Page 3, section 1, paragraph 5, Scully, read it and weep."  She took it
from him, scanned it briefly, and began to read aloud.

"Researchers are fascinated by the crop circles found recently in fields
along the Atlantic seaboard...."  She broke off, staring down at the
newsprint.  "This says that a crop circle was found in Morristown, New
Jersey, Saturd...  Mulder, that was only two days ago."  She looked
wonderingly up at Mulder.  

He grinned in response.  "Feel like a nice drive in the country, Scully?"

*********
County Highway CB
11:26 a.m.

There was a light drizzle falling as they pulled off the shoulder at mile
marker 35.  Scully took an umbrella from the back seat, but Mulder chose to
rely on his trenchcoat to protect him, since his hands were full managing
the suitcase of equipment he pulled from the trunk.  The hand-held Geiger
counter remained at a steady tick as they walked along the shoulder,
indicating normal background radiation.  Scully walked slowly, both hands
holding her umbrella.  It was mid-day, and aside from the occasional
*whoosh* of a passing car, the area was quiet.

Mulder consulted his notes again.  "OK, according to my MUFON contact, the
crop circle is about 100 feet from the road, there's an access near
here...we should be able to see it soon."  He moved closer to the tall
grass, searching for a passage.  Scully drifted beyond him, lost in thought.
County CB, mile marker 35....She dug her notebook from her pocket and
quickly flipped back several pages.  "Mulder, according to the deputies'
report, this is also where they found Mr. Provost.  And, they followed him
to 'a clearing in the field'." 

His reply was deadpan.  "Gee, you don't think there's a connection, do you?"
She shot him a warning look, and he grinned and went back to scrutinizing
the edge of the field.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw, far down the
road, what might be a driveway.  She straightened up and started walking
faster, but Mulder's voice recalled her.

"Here it is, Scully!"  

She turned towards him and inspected with some dismay the trail of broken
foliage he had discovered.  He smiled, holding back an armful of the tall
stalks, and tilted his head in the direction of the field.  "Ladies first?"

*********
The rough circle of beaten-down grass and mud was not particularly
inspiring.  Soggy cigarette butts and crushed soft-drink cups littered the
ground.  Mulder's face fell as he surveyed the damage. "Something tells me
this is no crop circle, Scully."

She couldn't smile, seeing the disappointment in his eyes.  "No, but Mr.
Provost seemed to make a beeline for it, so we might as well look around.
Maybe there's related evidence to be found."  He nodded, sheepishly.

Dropping the suitcase onto a safe-looking patch of grass, he fumbled it open
to grab a camera by the strap.  "That looks like a burn patch down there.
I'll check it out."  They started walking in opposite directions around the
edge of the clearing.

Scully reached the far side before Mulder did.  Noticing another break in
the grass, she approached to discover a narrow lane at the far end of the
circle.  Heavy tires had gouged deep tracks in the soft ground, and made for
rough going, but she persevered.  After following the wide trail for a few
minutes, she emerged at the edge of a two-lane highway.  She peered down the
road to her left, and saw the shimmering outline of their fleet car.  This
was County CB, the same road Mr. Provost had been found on.  This access
must be the driveway she had thought she'd seen.

She glanced around, and found a large rectangle of plywood affixed to
several metal posts, lying on the ground.  Setting the umbrella to one side,
she was able to lift it far enough to see that the hidden side was painted,
but she couldn't make out any details.  She dropped the board, exasperated,
as Mulder trotted up behind her.  "Well, there's nothing obviously
unusual..." He stopped when he saw what she had discovered.

"Mulder, help me with this."  Between the two of them, they were able to
flip the heavy sign over, standing back as a few thick spatters of mud flew
from the force of its landing.  She walked around it to see what the words said.

"Rev. Timmon's *TENT REVIVAL*"  it declared in tall, graphic letters.
"WITNESS the Miracles of the Holy Spirit!  HEAR the Voice of Blessed Angels!
SEE the Healing Hands of our Beloved Reverend! RECEIVE the Sacred Word of
the Holy Scriptures!"

Mulder was suddenly at her side, looking down at the vivid lettering.
"Well, I guess the aliens have bad taste in entertainment," he declared
mildly, snapping off a few photographs from the camera.

She stared at him.  "You're not seriously considering sticking to alien
abduction as an explanation for Mr. Provost's condition?"

"I took samples from the burned patch for analysis.  Just because any
evidence has been trampled by thrill-seekers...."

"Thrill-seekers?  Mulder, this was a tent revival!  These people seek out
exactly the kind of experience Provost is having.  There's your connection.
Nothing else."  She stalked away from him, towards the car.  After a long
moment, Mulder followed.

*********
Scully was silent, scuffing her shoes in the mowed grass alongside the road.
Her partner glanced at her warily.  "Scully, what's bothering you?"

She wrinkled her lips and frowned.  "I'm fine, Mulder.  I just...."

He stopped and faced her, looking concerned.  "You just what?"

She stopped as well, frustrated.  "What are we doing out here, Mulder?  Why
are we letting ourselves be jerked around by these mysterious forces in the
Bureau?  I mean, look at this case - no-one's been murdered, no-one's
missing, there's no hard evidence for abduction, it's just a...an
aberration, a medical oddity that may have no *obvious* explanation, but
certainly doesn't need two Federal agents to investigate it."  She sighed,
and shook her hair back over her shoulders.  "Why are we wasting time like
this?  When there are so many mysteries to solve, so many other, more
deserving leads to pursue?"

Mulder had rested the suitcase on the ground beside him.  Now he stuffed his
hands into his pockets and gazed out over the green field to their right.
"Look at the other mysterious leads we've followed.  Look how close we've
come, Scully.  Until we find the truth about what happened to you, where my
sister is, we have to keep looking.  If it means spending a few days hunting
down a dead-end, then I'm willing to take that time."  

He put a hand on her shoulder.  "Look, if you think this is truly a wild
goose chase, then go back to DC.  I can do this myself.  I *am* glad you
were there for the hospital visit, you know how indispensable your medical
knowledge is to me."  She rewarded him with a forced smile, but would not
meet his eyes.  He released her.  "I know my intuition can be frustratingly
obtuse at times, but I really think there's something going on here, and I'd
like your help in figuring it out."  

She shook her head, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing in the air.
"If we had even one more case, to establish a pattern, show that this is not
an isolated incident...."

These last words were interrupted by the electronic chiming of her cellular
phone.  With an apologetic glance, she half-turned from him, digging the
device from her pocket and pressing the "receive" button.  "Scully," she
answered flatly.

Whatever the caller had to say, it changed her mood quickly.  "Yes...No,
that's....Yes, we'll be right there.  Thank you, Dr. Evans."  She hung up
and returned the phone to her pocket, staring at the ground without seeing
it.  Mulder cocked his head inquiringly.  "That was the hospital."  She
gazed up at him in amazement. "They've just admitted another patient.  Same
symptoms as Mr. Provost."

He smiled mysteriously.  "Looks like you got your wish, Scully."  He lifted
the suitcase and gestured invitingly with it.  They both turned to hurry
back to the car.

*********
Morristown Memorial Hospital 
12:48 p.m.

"Dr. Scully?"

The two agents turned to face the white-coated figure who had called out.
Scribbling briefly on a chart before handing it to the nurse with whom she
was conferring, the older woman walked quickly towards them, tucking her pen
back into her pocket and reaching out to shake their hands.

"Dr. Scully, I'm Dr. Evans, we spoke earlier."

Scully grasped her hand firmly, then half-turned towards her partner.  "Dr.
Evans, this is my partner, Agent Mulder.  We understand you have a patient
you want us to see?"

Her smile weakened as she released Mulder's hand.  "Yes, he's down here."
She turned, and the three of them proceeded down the hall.  "Mr. Provost is
also my patient, you'll remember, and I must confess, I thought we'd find an
organic cause for his disorder, but with Mr. Bombadil showing up like this...."

Mulder turned his head towards Scully and mouthed "Bombadil?" behind Dr.
Evans' back.  She frowned briefly at him, and returned her attention to the
doctor's monologue.

"....well, I just don't know what to think.  He's actually an orderly here
at the hospital, Tom Bombadil.  He's been an excellent employee for three
years, then suddenly he didn't show up for work Sunday.  We were worried,
but we never expected anything like this..."  She stopped at the entrance to
a room.  "I hope you understand our position.  This is a small, suburban
hospital, we're not used to this sort of thing.  Mr. Bombadil was highly
agitated and became violent shortly after being admitted.  He's been
sedated, and I don't know how much information you'll be able to get from
him.  Please, try not to upset him further?"  She pushed the door open.

*********
"Bai dai ay, bai dai bee, bai dai sai, bai dai doh, bai dai foo..."

He was younger than Mr. Provost, and smaller.  The restraints on his wrists
were heavy and ugly, and contrasted with his slender long-fingered hands
hanging limply within the leather cuffs. Dr. Evans' voice cut through his
soft, droning voice.  "It took three orderlies to get a needle into him.  We
still don't know what set him off."

Scully spoke over her shoulder without taking her eyes from the patient.
"Could I see his chart, please?"  Mulder was setting the tape recorder up
next to the bed.

"Of course, I'll be right back."  Her footsteps clicked away down the hall
as Scully leaned over the patient, pulling his eyelids back and checking his
pupil response.

"Well, he's doped up enough," was her only comment as she dropped a hand to
his wrist.  "Pulse is slow and steady.  Whatever set him off before, I doubt
he'll be a problem to anyone now."

"Boh doh gay, boh doh hee, boh doh yai, boh doh joh, boh doh koo...."

Mr. Bombadil swiveled his head unsteadily towards her, smiling weakly with
slack lips and unfocused eyes.  His eyes were filled with tears, and Scully
gazed down at him with sympathy and sadness on her face.

Mulder stood close beside her.  "I suppose there's no chance we can
interrogate him."

She spread her lips thinly in a parody of a smile.  "Sure, Mulder, help
yourself.  Careful he doesn't drool on you."  Dr. Evans returned with his
chart, and the two conferred while Mulder made a quick visual inspection of
Mr. Bombadil's ears and neck.  He rested his hands on his hips and
considered the restrained man for a few moments, lost in thought as Scully
and Dr. Evans discussed onset, symptoms, medications, and prognoses.

They looked up as the door swung open.  A nurse came in, stopping in the
entrance as she saw the room was occupied.  "Oh, I'm sorry, Doctor..."  She
started to back out of the doorway.

Dr. Evans smiled.  "It's all right, Maude, don't let us interfere with your
rounds."  She returned to her conversation with Scully, who glanced once at
Mulder before focusing on the doctor's words.

Maude hesitated, then came into the room.  "Actually, I'm just here to see
how Tom is.  I didn't hear from him this weekend, and  I worried."  She
tried to leave again; Mulder stopped her with a gesture.

"You're a friend of his?"

She smiled shyly.  "Tom and I have been...sort of dating for a few months.
We had a date for Saturday, and he didn't show up.  I left a few messages on
his phone, and then he didn't show up for work yesterday..." she flushed,
and her eyes grew dark and liquid.  "I didn't know what to think.  So when I
heard he was here, I was actually relieved, to know he hadn't ditched me.
But now," and she glanced nervously at the restraints and his slack
expression, "I don't know what to think.  He's really a very sweet guy,
y'know?"  She gazed at Mulder longingly.  "Will he be OK?"

"I'm afraid we don't know for sure.  Tell me, Maude, has anything like this
happened before?"  She was shaking her head 'no' before he even finished.
"Is there anything...unusual about Tom that might help us figure out what
happened to him?"

She frowned at the floor, thinking.  "No, he's a really nice, normal guy.
It's so weird that we're even dating, I usually get the real losers," and
she smiled self-deprecatingly.  "He's got a good job, he's nice to me, takes
me out, he's a good Christian..."  

Mulder's ears practically perked at that.  "What denomination?"

She looked up at him.  "He's Pentecostal.  Now, I know what people say about
mixed marriages," and she smiled again, "but I'm Baptist, and really,
they're not that different.  I don't think it will be a problem, even if we
have kids," and she blushed.

Mulder asked a few more questions, but he wasn't really listening for her
answers.  Thanking her for her help, he made some reassuring noises and
walked her the few steps to the door before turning back to consider Tom
Bombadil again.

"Boo doo lay, boo doo mee, boo doo nai, boo doo oh, boo doo poo..."  

Mulder turned suddenly.  "Dr. Evans, was he vocalizing like this when you
brought him in?"

"What do you mean?"  Dr. Evans was in the middle of signing an authorization
form for Scully to take a blood sample back to the Sci Crime Lab from each
of her patients, and obviously wasn't used to being interrupted in the
middle of a consultation.  Mulder waved behind him, towards the bed.

"Like this.  He's repeating himself with minor variations.  This isn't
anything like language, this is just repetitive, almost rhythmic."

The doctor paused, listening carefully.  She frowned.

"Bay day kay, bay day ree, bay day sai, bay day toh, bay day yoo..."  He was
oblivious of the attention being paid his strange ramblings, and rolled his
head slowly from side to side.

"No...no, when he came in he was speaking very rapidly.  I almost thought it
was Spanish, but the ER nurse, Ramirez, said no, it wasn't."  She moved
closer to the bed.  "It might be from the Chlorapromine..."

"Chlorapromine?  You gave him an antipsychotic?"

She pursed her lips.  "*Mister* Mulder, I am a doctor.  He was disoriented
and incoherent, and presented a danger to my staff.  Of course I medicated
him.  The sedation effect is from the diazepam.  Given the nature of his
outburst and delusions...."

Mulder waved his hand back and forth, palm down and fingers spread. "Wait,
how do you know he was delusional?  You said he wasn't speaking any
recognizable language."  He glanced briefly at Scully, who was trying not to
get involved, but from the looks of her sided with her medical colleague.

The doctor paused as if to count to ten, then continued in a steady voice.
"Mr. Bombadil seemed to think that today was Sunday.  Just before he got
violent, he grabbed a wall calendar and kept pointing at yesterday's date.
We assured him that today was Monday, and he got more and more upset until
he finally threw the calendar *and* a fit in my ER."  She turned to Scully.
"This was after I called you, Dr. Scully, we were trying to do an intake
without much success.  We did determine that he could understand spoken
English, so we were proceeding with yes-no questions when everything went
crazy."

Mulder pursued the thread.  "Did you check with Mr. Provost, to see if he
could understand spoken English?"

She nodded, frowning.  "And, surprisingly, he thought it was Sunday, too.  I
tell you, the more we learn about these two, the more it seems they're
having a very similar experience.  Whatever may be causing it," she mused,
gazing out the window.  The two agents exchanged significant glances.  

A hospital page came over the intercom for a Dr. Chisman, and the man in the
bed fell silent.  Unnoticed by the others, he blinked rapidly, licked his
lips, and began again.

"Ay zee, bai yoh, ku way, dee vai, foh tu, gay see, hai roh...."  At the
other end of the room, Scully thanked Dr. Evans for her time.  Mulder
retrieved his tape recorder and the two agents filed out, leaving her
standing at the foot of the bed, gazing thoughtfully down at her unusual
patient.

*********
J. Edgar Hoover Building
4:38 p.m.

Mulder was digging in his voluminous filing system when Scully returned from
dropping her samples off at the Sci Crime Lab.  He looked up briefly as she
laid her briefcase on the desk, but went back to his hunt while talking over
his shoulder.

"Remember the Twilight Zone?  Not the classic, but the remakes they did in
the 80's.  There was an episode with this guy who gradually lost his
language, each day more and more words were switched with other unrelated
words, until finally he was completely unable to understand anyone, nor
could they understand him."

Scully rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger as she checked her e-mail
briefly.  "That was English, Mulder, this is a random stream of phonemes.  I
took your tape up to Research; no-one was able to identify any obvious
correlates to other languages..."

"Other *known* languages, Scully."

She eyeballed him from beneath her hand, still resting on her forehead.
"What are you suggesting, that they're speaking Martian?"

He started digging in a file cabinet.  "I'm saying that glossolalia is
occasionally reported by victims of alien abduction."  He pulled out a
folder, ignoring her exasperated look, and tossed it on the table, then
turned to dig out another, reciting details from memory.  "Marge Govaldia,
Barneveld, Wisconsin.  Usual profile:  strange lights in the area, family
reported no disturbance or signs of a struggle.  She came back three days
later, no memory of the abduction, physical marks corresponding to possible
probes and sampling."  He ceased in his search for a moment to point out a
line further down the page than Scully had reached.  "Subject experienced
repeated episodes of glossolalia when hospitalized."  

He turned back to the drawers as Scully continued reading the file.
"Mulder, this file says that she's a Moravian Orthodox Christian."

"And your point is?"  He seized another file triumphantly, pulling it out
for closer scrutiny.

"My point is, that's another fringe sect that practices speaking in tongues
as a regular part of their worship services.  She's probably experienced
'repeated episodes of glossolalia' her entire adult life."

He feigned blowing dust off the second file and handed it to her with a
grin.  "Barney Collins, Coopers Lake, Nevada."

She flipped the cover open and grimaced, turning her head to one side as if
repulsed by what she saw within.  "Mulder, this is another Weekly World News
headline."

He settled into his chair, sipping at his cold coffee.  "There are other
documents in there, corroborating the alien abduction theory.  And it does
fit the profile, sightings in the area, physical evidence, there was a burn
mark 15 feet wide in the back yard, and he was reported to engage in bizarre
linguistic behavior, babbling, nonsensical speech, could be...."

She closed the file and sighed.  "Mulder, he lives on a farm, they could
have been burning trash.  The lights could be crop dusting....any of the
signs you are indicating have other, more reasonable causes.  Just because
they tend to appear in one set pattern doesn't mean that they were caused by
aliens.  We've been over this before...."

"...and we still don't agree.  But can't you at least admit the possibility?
I mean, Mr. Bombadil seemed to experience time loss, he thought it was a day
earlier than it really was.  Mr. Provost had that odd sunburn...."  

She was digging in her center desk drawer and wouldn't meet his eyes.  He
pulled a heavy book off one of lower shelves and opened it to a bookmarked
page.  "Acts 2:1-4.  'When the day of Pentecost came, all the believers were
gathered together in one place.  Suddenly, there was a noise from the sky,
which sounded like a strong wind blowing, and it filled the whole house
where they were sitting.'  Now, does that sound like an early description of
an alien visitation, or is it just me?"

"It's just you."  She frowned down at her hands, still searching while
reciting a passage from memory.  "First Corinthians, 14:2.  'The one who
speaks in strange tongues does not speak to others but to God, because no
one understands him.  He is speaking secret truths by the power of the
Spirit.'  Even the Devil can quote scripture, Mulder."

Mulder pushed his coffee cup away.  "OK, Scully, you tell me how he could
produce complex, repetitive speech with no known correlates to his native
language."  He pointed at their growing paperwork for the case.  "There was
no head trauma, no evidence of drugs or alcohol, just a perfectly normal
bank administrator who woke up in a cornfield speaking in tongues."

"Mulder, why can't *you* admit the possibility that there is no connection?
Why do you cling to abduction theories when the evidence points with equal
force to a more down-to-earth solution?  It's simple, Mulder, he had a lapse
in his diabetic regimen, experienced a psychotic episode symptomatic of
diabetic coma, and experienced an episode of glossolalia."

"So how does that explain Bombadil?"

"That nurse said he was Pentecostal; I'd say he attended that tent revival.
Maybe there's a connection there.  I may not have all the answers now,
Mulder, but it's just a matter of time.  This case begins and ends with
science, and it will be solved."  She shook two aspirin from the bottle she
had found and headed for the bathroom.  "I'll be right back."

He glanced at his watch.  "Good, we've got an appointment in half an hour."  

She paused in the doorway.  "With whom?"

 "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," he deadpanned.  Her
parting look was not encouraging.

*********
The Lone Gunmen
Publishers of "The Magic Bullet" Newsletter
Washington, DC
5:25 p.m.

"Don't these guys have lives?"  Scully asked, following Mulder up the dark
staircase.  "They're always here."

"I think the real question is, do we?"  He smiled over his shoulder, then
opened the door for her.

Langly's black King Crimson T-shirt provided an unsettling contrast to
Frohike's fringed suede vest as he stood behind the older man, both peering
at the latest page layout through the magnifying lens.  They looked up as
the agents entered the gloomy confines of the Lone Gunmen's publishing
headquarters.

"So, what magnificent weirdness do you have for us today, Mulder?"  Byers
inquired as he walked toward them from the far corner of the dark, cluttered
room.  "Classified government documents to plunder?  Satanic voices from a
statue of the Virgin Mary?  Solved the mystery of Easter Island?"

"Or do you just want another set of Orioles tickets?"  Frohike grinned at
Scully, who crossed her arms and looked away.

Mulder pulled the tiny tape recorder from his trenchcoat pocket.  "I want
you to do some research for me."  Hitting play, he placed the machine on the
table before them.

"Go yai ba din, fra ko si no par ma mee ka shu.  A kim boh dor shun da o way
lin di ka!  Mu ta toh sa tho ga vi...."  The voice played to a rapt audience
for a moment, then Mulder leaned in and turned it off.

Byers frowned.  "I don't recognize the language....some African dialect?"

Langly added, nodding towards the tape player, "where did you get this, Mulder?"

Mulder smiled.  "From an abduction victim in New Jersey last weekend."
Scully rolled her eyes, but said nothing.  "Victim two is on side B.  I want
you to analyze it, tell me what language, if any, it is, if the two samples
match, and if you can make any sense out of what they're saying."  He threw
down a few pieces of paper next to the tape player.  "This is a partial
transcript of the first side I had the typing pool whip out."

Under her breath, Scully muttered, "Those girls must hate us."  

"I want you to find out what's special about this speech.  I want patterns,
repeated words, anything you can give me."

Langly looked at Byers, who said haltingly, "It may mean bringing in an
outside consultant..."  They both turned slowly to face Frohike.  He glared
at one, then the other, then snorted and left the room.

Mulder looked questioningly at the two remaining conspirators.  "What was
that all about?"

Byers stroked his beard without replying.  Langly adjusted his glasses, and
said, "We've got it covered, Mulder.  We'll call you when we have a better
picture."

*********
71st and Western Ave.
Newark, NJ
7:32 p.m.

The intercom buzzer broke through the discussion like water through a dam.
The room fell silent as the man at the head of the table accepted the phone
from his secretary's hand.

"Gorzkoff."  The voice on the other end was agitated.  "Calm down, Morty.
No, we don't know who tipped them off.  When we find out, we call out the
dogs and eliminate him.  In the meantime, we have to contain the collateral
damage."  Another outburst.  "Don't teach your grandma to suck eggs, Morty.
We're working on it.  So far, they're leaving a narrow trail to follow, it
should be no problem."  Click. 

He handed the receiver back to the decorative blonde, then banished her with
a wave of his meaty paw.  And the discussion resumed.

*********
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
8:46 a.m.
Tuesday, May 21, 1996

"Sorry I'm late."  Mulder swished the wax-paper bag enticingly in front of
his partner, breaking her concentration on the medical file she was
engrossed in.  "I brought breakfast."

She reached for her coffee cup.  "You're only forgiven if there's a bearclaw
in there."

He feigned panic, rummaging one hand in the bag.  His mouth pulled into an
exaggerated pout, he paused, then triumphantly pulled the pastry from the
bag, laying it on the napkin she held out.  "Looks like my lucky day."

"Morristown Memorial Hospital called, they've released Mr. Provost."  She
bit into the bearclaw, leaning forward to spill the crumbs on her lap, not
her blouse.

"What, his wife decided she liked him better this way?"

She washed the mouthful down with coffee before responding.  "Actually, he
had a spontaneous remission during the night.  I got the call around 7 a.m.
from Dr. Evans.  His language skills are completely recovered, he's
non-delusional, no DSM criteria, they released him into his wife's care."

Mulder looked concerned, his cinnamon roll forgotten in mid-air.  "They just
let him go?  Before we could question him?"

She gazed sideways at him, surprised.  "What could they detain him for?
There are no charges against him.  He was back to normal, and they released
him.  And before you ask, no, he wouldn't agree to a post-discharge
interview."  She bit again into her pastry.

He was on his feet, pacing.  "Well, what about Mr. Bombadil?"

She sighed and wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her thumb.
"He's still sedated.  They're considering further psychiatric evaluation
before he's allowed to go no-meds, but they are reducing the dosage
gradually until they can bring him out enough to find out just how crazy he
really is.  My guess is, it will be at least another day before we can get
any useful information from him."

He wasn't satisfied.  "Have you gotten the results back from the Sci Crime lab?"

She checked her watch pointedly.  "Mulder, most of those guys have been on
duty less than an hour.  These things take time, the results won't be
available until lunchtime, at least. Are you in some hurry?"

He flopped into his chair, remembered his pastry, and took a big bite,
chasing it with a gulp of coffee.  "I just...have a hunch, that's all.  I
don't want this one to get away from us."

Her reply was cut off by his cellular phone.  "Mulder."  A pause.  "Sure.
That's great, we'll be there."  He hung up, replaced the device to his
pocket.  "That was our buddies, they want us to meet them at ten.  They say
they have some important news."

*********

END Cryptoglossia 1/3
Colleen C. Bailey  ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu
"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands
explained."  -  Mark Twain


From ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu Wed Nov 27 15:43:50 1996
Cryptoglossia 2/3

*********
The Lone Gunmen
Publishers of "The Magic Bullet" Newsletter
Washington, DC
9:57 a.m.

The room was trashed.  Chairs and tables were overturned, books and
magazines had been swept from their shelves and strewn across the floor.
Crumpled sheets of newsprint and broken glass were everywhere.

"They never invite me to their parties."  Mulder picked his way carefully
across the floor.

Scully, by the door, tried the light switch, using a swab of tissue.
Nothing happened.  "The power's out, too."  Always prepared, she pulled a
flashlight from her pocket and scanned the room before stepping in.  Pipes
lining the ceiling gleamed faintly in the weak beam; the low ceiling and
support columns made her glad she was not claustrophobic.

Mulder was already out of sight in the next room with his own flashlight
when a footstep on the stairs alerted Scully.  She stepped back into the
shadows behind the door and drew her gun, holding it at the ready.
Suddenly, a machine whirred behind her.  A half-dozen TV screens,
miraculously unbroken, suddenly flickered with colored test patterns.  A
light bulb popped and burned out, the blue-white flash startling her.
Across the room, a PC with a broken monitor also hummed to life.  The power
was back on.

A moment later, the door creaked wider, and a hand gripping a pistol
appeared, followed into the room by the dark outline of the intruder.  In
the gloom, it was hard to distinguish any features, but he was medium height
with a stocky build.  Wire-framed glasses glinted in the weak beam of light
from the monitors as he turned his head, scanning the devastation.  Stepping
carefully over a fallen box, the shadow in shadows stealthily advanced
around the far side of the room. His dark, double-breasted jacket hung open
loosely, flapping silently as he walked.  Footsteps crunched lightly through
the scattered papers.  He pulled his sleeve down over his right hand and
reached for the opposite wall.  A bank of bright overhead lights Scully
didn't know existed came on, momentarily blinding her as she announced herself.

"Federal Agent, drop your weapon!"

As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake.  The unexpected glare had
thrown her timing off, giving the man time to drop into a tight crouch
beneath the corner of the heavy table, bringing his gun to bear on Scully's
voice.

"FBI, drop it!"

"Like hell I will!"  It was a woman's voice, Scully noted with some
surprise.  She was solid rather than stocky, with very short hair and broad
shoulders.  Wide eyes stared over the edge of the table, but her hands were
steady on the gleaming weapon in her grasp.

Mulder ran in, his own gun drawn.  "Scully, what...."  His arms came down to
cover the woman as Scully reached carefully for her ID.

 "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
you're trespassing on a crime scene.  Drop your weapon."  She flipped the
badge open, holding it out with one hand while keeping their odd visitor in
her sights.

"Yeah, fifty bucks and a snapshot, I can make you CIA as well, what's that
prove?"  She spared a quick glimpse for Mulder, then cocked her wrist up to
take her weapon out of play. Carefully, she spread her arms, standing up
slowly, making sure to keep the firearm in sight.  Mulder stepped forward
and relieved her of the revolver.  "I'm licensed to carry that.  I'm going
to reach into my back left pocket and show you my papers."  Cocking an
eyebrow at Scully, who nodded, she slowly pulled out a brown leather wallet
and handed it to her.

Scully took it from her hand and moved back out of range, opening the thin
billfold to search for ID.  The woman started to lower her arms.

"Keep them up," Mulder ordered, jerking his gun up for emphasis.  She
frowned at him, then complied, rolling her head to either side as if stiff
from the awkward position.  "Now tell us what you're doing here."

"I think I could ask you the same thing.  FBI?  Trashing the offices of a
subversive anti-government publication?"  She smirked.  "I thought G-men
were supposed to be more subtle than that."

"Everything checks out, Mulder, she's a licensed private investigator, and
bonded to carry that."  Scully handed the wallet back, commenting wryly to
her, "And from the looks of it, you've got legitimate business here."  She
turned to her partner.  "Why don't you hand *Ms. Frohike* her gun back," she
suggested, emphasizing the name.

Mulder's eyebrows lifted slightly as he holstered his weapon with one hand.
With the other he offered her gun back, handle first.  "Frohike?  You're
related?"

She had dropped her arms as soon as his gun was pointed away from her.
Breathing out sharply through her teeth, she ran a hand through her cropped
hair, pausing to rub the back of her neck before taking the weapon from his
hand and tucking it away in her shoulder holster, not meeting his eyes.
"The name's about all we have in common anymore," she admitted.  Then she
cocked her head at Scully.  "What brings the FBI to this bastion of
non-conformity?"  

Scully sheathed her own weapon.  "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, this is my
partner, Agent Mulder..."

"YOU'RE Spooky Mulder?"  Her eyes traveled down his body and up again,
returning to his face as she quirked her lips in a lopsided grin.  "Sorry, I
was led to expect some fanatical fire-breather with swirling hypno-eyes."

Scully suppressed a smile, glancing up at Mulder from the corner of her eye.
His face was expressionless as he took up where Scully left off.  "Well, Ms.
Frohike, despite the shoddy production values of our badges we really *are*
with the FBI.  We're here looking for a few friends, one of whom you share a
name with."

Frohike snorted and crossed her arms.

Scully tried.  "So, Ms. Frohike, if you're not on close terms with *Mr.*
Frohike, what brings you here?"

Frohike blinked at her, then looked away.  "It's a business matter.  Your
business, I think."  She glanced at Mulder significantly.

He snapped his fingers and pointed at her, realizing.  "You're the outside
consultant?"

She smiled smugly.  "Next step, rocket science."

"Well, maybe you'd have an idea who would want to destroy this office."

She looked around shrewdly.  "No-one did, Agent Mulder, they weren't bent on
destruction.  They were looking for something."  She began tip-toeing around
the room, peering at the toppled furniture and scattered papers.  "If they
wanted to wreck the place, they'd just bash the typeface with a hammer, glue
up the printing press gears, break every piece of glass they could find and
get out.  But..."  and she bent down to lift a toppled shelf, peering
underneath, "...they did want it to look like vandalism."  She sighed,
letting the bent metal fall back to the floor with a clang.  "All things
considered, I'm surprised it doesn't happen to them more often."

She began to walk gingerly around the room.  "No, whoever did this spent
quite a bit of time here.  See this piece of paper?"  She crouched and
pointed to the floor.  "Someone stood here for a long time, probably reading
these papers," and she gestured at the haphazard pile of printouts on the
desk next to her.  "There are heavy footmarks on the paper, and it's been
twisted back and forth several times; whoever stood here swiveled around,"
and she demonstrated, "this way, to look at..."  

She straightened, and made for Mulder's side of the room.  "Step aside," she
said, gesturing vaguely.  Looking at Scully, who shrugged, he did, and she
looked over that side of the room, pausing in front of the ruined PC.  "See,
someone stood here as well.  Different shoe print.  Probably looking through
these disks.  So, there were at least two of them, and they conferred over
what they were looking at.  Which means they weren't too concerned about
being overheard."  She stood frozen, an absent expression on her face,
chewing her lower lip.

Mulder leaned in to whisper to his partner, "Elementary, my dear Scully."

Frohike continued with a jerk of her head.  "They wouldn't leave any prints,
might be hair and fiber but I doubt we'd learn anything...."  She resumed
pacing the room.  

"You obviously know the routine.  Have you ever considered a career with the
FBI?"  Mulder asked dryly.

She harumphed sarcastically.  "I worked Army Intelligence for 3 years, I'm
through taking orders."  She swept her fierce gaze around the demolished
room again, then looked to the two agents.  "Well, there's not much to learn
from this scene.  Shall we go?"

Scully asked, "Aren't you going to wait, in case our mutual friends show up?"

She smiled gently at the diminutive agent.  "They know what's happened, they
know we're here.  That's probably why the perps cut the power, they wanted
to thwart our surveillance.  Like we've never heard of batteries."  She
swiveled on her right foot, looking at several different points in the upper
corners of the room.  Scully looked too; there seemed to be nothing there.
Then Frohike stopped and fixed Mulder with a gaze.  "Did they know *you*
were coming?"

"They called this morning to say they had information for me."

"And they haven't contacted you since?"  He shook his head.  "Then this
happened recently."  She checked her watch.  "Let's get some lunch, I know a
great Chinese place around the corner."  She strode out without looking to
see if they were behind her.  

Mulder looked at his partner.  "So what do you think, daughter or sister?"
Scully arched an eyebrow, tilted her head and swept out.  Mulder smiled, and
followed.

*********
Manny's Place
Washington, DC
10:57 a.m.

"I hope their lo mein is better than their coffee," Mulder commented.  

They were in an ancient diner - vinyl gold-flecked seats and a juke-box at
every booth.  Frohike looked at him askance.  "If we can maintain
surveillance with the power down, *they* can too.  I didn't want to leak our
location until after we have a chance to sweep the building for bugs."

Mulder smiled at Scully.  "Still think *I'm* paranoid?

She half-glared at him, asking Frohike, "We?"

She stirred sugar into her coffee as she answered.  "I helped design the
original surveillance and security systems for the office after the last
building burned down.  Under, of course, mysterious circumstances."

"Your favorite," Scully murmured to Mulder.

"How come they've never mentioned you before?"  Mulder leaned toward her,
elbows on the cracked linoleum table.

She leaned back and fiddled with the empty sugar packet, not meeting his
eyes.  "Frohike and I aren't on the best of terms.  I'm on the west coast
now.  I maintain an office and address here, but paranoia pays better in
California.  Besides, this is Washington DC, where all the paranoiacs are in
Congress and all the best spooks are federal employees."  She winked at
Scully, who started to smile, then saw Mulder's look and stopped.  "So, I
was in town to take care of some other business, and the boys called me to
consult on that tape and transcript, which, I understand, is some of *your*
business.  I was there today to meet with the two of you."

Scully glanced at Mulder, then at her.  "So, what have you found?"

"Aside from the fact that the tape and transcript are the only things I saw
that were obviously missing from the office back there?"  Pausing while they
absorbed that information, Frohike leaned back into the booth, stretching
one foot out to dangle in the aisle.  "Don't panic, I copied the tape.  CYA,
I always say."  She smiled, as if reminded of something else, then returned
her attention to the two agents. 

"Well, the language on the tape is not Navajo....what?" she asked guardedly,
seeing the expressions on their faces. She sat up straight, looking quickly
from one to the other.  "I also do contractual translations.  I'm fluent in
five languages, including Navajo.  I thought that's what you wanted to
know."  She snorted and tossed her chin at them.  "You certainly don't need
a home surveillance package."

The two agents exchanged looks.  "What else have found out about the
language on those tapes, Ms. Frohike?"  Mulder asked sharply.

"Don't call me that.  I find," she paused significantly, catching each of
their eyes in turn, "that I want more information about where the tape came
from, who the subjects are, and what the circumstances were, before I say
word one."  She waited expectantly.

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances.  Scully made as if to speak, but a
shrill electronic ringing interrupted her.  All three of them patted at
their pockets, pulling out their cellular phones.  It was Mulder's call.

 "Mulder."  He paused, glancing at Scully.  "Yeah, we were there, are you
guys OK?"  Another pause, while Frohike looked worried and Scully pursed her
lips.  "Hang on a minute."  With a vaguely annoyed look, he offered the
phone to Frohike.  "It's Byers, he wants to talk to *you*."  He sat back and
crossed his arms as Frohike spoke into the device.

"Is he OK."  It was more statement than question, but she sighed and closed
her eyes at his answer.  "Yeah, I'm fine.  I met up with them on the scene.
It was pretty bad, but recoverable."  She tapped absently at the table top,
listening.  "Yeah, I thought so, too.  No, I backed it up.  Really?"  She
chuckled.  "I'll be sure to tell them that.  You too.  And hey..."  She
paused, then grinned wickedly.  "Tell him he was right about Scully."  She
disconnected and handed the phone back to Mulder, ignoring Scully's look. 

"They went to ground during the vandalism, that's why they're not here to
meet us."  She chuckled again.  "Langly's still not back; he was three
states away before he stopped long enough to call in.  The video shows that
nothing was missing but the tape and transcript; no real details on who
engineered the break-in, but they're working on the pictures to see if they
can find a match from the crime databases.  And no," she smiled humorlessly,
"don't ask how they have access to those."  She resettled herself in the
booth, smoothing her hair back unnecessarily and adjusting her glasses.  "We
were talking about what's on that tape," she prompted.

Scully looked uncomfortable.  "We have...conflicting theories about the
cause of the disorder, but the *facts* are that the subject on the first
tape is a white male, 44 years of age, no previous incidents, who was found
wandering a country road.  He was brought to the hospital, where it was
discovered that he was speaking no known language, even though most
witnesses agreed that his speech sounded like some kind of language."

Frohike muttered, almost under her breath, "Glossolalia." 

Scully looked thoughtfully at her.  "What's your background, Ms. Frohike?"

She scowled.  "Please, just Frohike.  I was recruited into the Army from
MIT.  I'd been working on a PhD in neurolinguistics, neural networks, that
sort of thing, but ran out of funding.  I ended up working in Military
Cryptography for three years.  When my tour was over, I started my own
agency, but I've always been interested in language, so I keep up with the
journals and major research."

Mulder pushed his coffee-cup back and forth between his hands. "Suddenly I
feel very inadequate."

Frohike smiled toothily at him.  "Cryptography is a hot topic these days,
Agent Mulder, even your own director, Louis J. Freeh, spoke to Congress last
July to urge tighter controls on the commercialization of robust encryption
products, to prevent their use by criminals and terrorists.  AT&T has a
phone scrambler ready to be marketed.  It costs less than $100, yet would
render wire-tapping completely useless."

"Now you sound like a CNN analyst."

She and Scully glared at him, simultaneously.  "What about the second
victim?"  Frohike sipped her coffee as he answered.

"The second tape is a white male, 29 years of age, no previous incidents,
who manifested no physical symptoms other than the aforementioned speech
disorder, and a violent outburst shortly after being admitted to the
hospital.  He lives alone, and no one can account for his whereabouts from
Friday afternoon until he showed up at the hospital Monday.  We also
determined that both patients can understand English, they simply can't
produce it.  The hospital staff questioned them both with yes/no questions
and," Mulder paused, "it turns out they both experienced time loss - they
thought it was Sunday, when in fact it was Monday."

Frohike frowned into her cup.  "Any expert opinions?"

Mulder glanced at Scully, who picked up the thread smoothly.  "They were
both seen by the resident speech pathologist, who could make no conclusive
diagnosis.  However," she shifted in her seat, "after a few days of bed rest
and treatment for diabetic coma, the first man recovered his speech and
professes no knowledge of any lapse in speech proficiency. Unfortunately, he
wouldn't agree to a post-discharge interview, so we weren't able to
ascertain any other important details. And the second, he's still under
sedation because of his outburst."

Frohike raised an eyebrow at that.  "So, you're investigating this as an
acute trauma disorder, rather than a paranormal incident?"

Scully hesitated.  "Mulder has, ah, other opinions."  She looked to her partner.

Frohike pointed to him.  "Let me guess - alien abduction."  

He smiled winningly at her.  "Johnny, tell her what she's won."

She returned her attention to Scully.  "But you obviously prefer a more
mundane approach."

"I do, but there's not much evidence for a physical cause.  They showed no
head trauma, and both sets of bloodwork came back negative for drugs or
alcohol.  They have no history of mental illness.  The first man's wife says
there were no unusual emotional incidents recently which might trigger an
episode like this."  She glanced guiltily at Mulder.  "The second man may
have attended a Pentecostal revival Friday or Saturday evening, and the
first man was found in the same area where the revival took place, so it's
possible that he also attended.  Witnesses at such tent revivals often
report people speaking in tongues as a result of self-induced religious
trance, but such incidents are almost exclusively short-lived mass-hysteria
phenomena.  While attendees do speak in tongues, it's unheard of for them to
maintain their trance beyond the end of the revival."

Frohike brooded for a few moments.  "So we're looking at two people with the
same symptoms for the same duration, who were probably in the same place at
the same time.  That suggests pharmacology to me."  She spoke directly to
Scully.  "Did you find any evidence of unusual drugs in their systems?"

"Nothing yet, but we're running the labwork now, I should be able to answer
that question later this afternoon."

*********
J. Edgar Hoover Building
1:26 p.m.
 
He was bent over a slurry of papers with a red pen in hand, absently
munching on a vending-machine sandwich when the door opened.  "So, Agent
Pendrell, what do you have for me?"  Scully strode into the lab
purposefully, and he started, brushing imaginary crumbs off his tie and
swallowing quickly before turning around.

"Well, after you dropped those blood samples off last night, I ran them
through the standard array of tests - nothing.  Then I remembered what you
said about the language involvement, and I recalled an item from our last
in-service.  So, I made an educated guess, did a little research, and ..."
He stood and pulled a large manila envelope from the top of his desk, opened
it.  "Chromatographic analysis shows that there's a substance in each of the
two samples you brought me related to a drug called Acetylpropamine-6."  He
held the films to the light for her.

She squinted up at them, puzzled.  "That name, it sounds familiar."

"It's street name is Skizz, short for schizophrenia."  Pendrell dropped
lightly into the chair before his PC and turned to the keyboard, Scully
right behind him.  He tapped at the keys rapidly for a few moments, then
pointed at the screen.  "The latest designer drug from our friends on the
Left Coast, first identified November 1994, declared a Schedule-1 controlled
substance by the FDA, March 1995."  

She nodded, intent on the flickering display.  "Symptoms?"

"Euphoria, hallucinations, loss of inhibitions, and," she stepped back as he
swiveled his chair around to smile up at her, "reports of severe linguistic
involvement, either aphasia or dysphasia.  They called it Skizz because the
dysphasia occasionally resembles the word-salad spoken by schizophrenics."
He a waved a computer printout at her.  "Small amounts of Acetylbutamine-9
were discovered during several LA drug busts that targeted Acetylpropamine-6."

He sat back in his chair, looking smug as she frowned down at the hard copy.
"So, I cracked a few ml's of each of your samples, peeled off the upper
layers, extracted the substance with the molecular weight closest to a
complex amine group, and voila -"  He reached up and tapped the paper in her
hand with his pen.  "Acetylbutamine-9."

He pulled a photocopy from the file on his right.  "One of the dealers
bargained for a reduced sentence, and explained the production to some of
our techs.  Apparently Acetylbutamine-9 is one of the by-products of the
distillation process that yields Skizz.  Similar language involvement, it's
just not as much fun."

"And therefore, not as profitable," she agreed, still focused on the
computer report.  "So that's the tie-in with the people in Morristown."

"Yes and no."  She looked down at him expectantly, and he grinned as he
turned again to the PC, typing maniacally.  "I ran another check - Skizz is
strictly a West-Coast drug.  It's expensive, exclusive, and we've never made
a bust east of Vegas.  So what's an obscure byproduct of a well-boundaried
drug doing here?"  He swiveled back to her with a challenging look.

She held his gaze steadily, arms crossed as she leaned against the far
counter, a smile playing on her lips.  "Oh, I'm sure you have an answer to
that, too."

He coughed and broke eye contact, but continued doggedly.  "I took the
write-up you did on the signs these two patients were exhibiting, and ran it
through the medical database.  I found a total of thirteen hits in this
calendar year, with a statistical cluster of nine cases, all within the past
month, all involving language problems, and," he paused significantly as he
handed her another sheet, "all within 100 miles of Morristown, New Jersey."

She scanned it quickly, her hair falling down around her shoulders as she
leaned slightly over the paper.  "These patients have all been discharged."

"Yeah, I noticed that, so I took the liberty of calling those hospitals and
finding out if they retained any bloodwork that we might be able to get a
sample from."  He tapped the notepad by his phone.  "Newtown General is the
only one that kept anything, but they had three patients.  They're sending a
courier with the material, we should have it by mid-day, tomorrow, and I'll
have the analysis first thing next morning.  If I find either
Acetylbutamine-9 or Acetylpropamine-6, we'll know there's a connection to
the case."  He smiled triumphantly.

"Pendrell, you've been a big help here."  She patted his shoulder
distractedly.  "Keep a solid paper trail, and call me when you have the
results."  She scooped up the rest of the papers he offered her and headed
for the door.  "I owe you..." she called over her shoulder as she left the room.

"Can't wait to collect," he murmured, watching her walk past his window.

*********
2:25 p.m.

Back in the basement, Mulder was still compiling files when Scully returned.
"So what did Mr. Wizard have to say about the blood samples?"  He appeared
deeply involved in his paperwork, but she paused before replying, puzzled at
the odd tone in his voice.

"Mulder, I think you can give up on those now."  She brandished the
printouts at him, concealing a smile as she sat at her desk and began laying
them out in neat piles.  

He wiped his hands on his pants, stretching up and back with a grimace.  He
wandered over to where she was sitting, leaning over her shoulder to look at
her papers.  "Whaddya got?"

She handed him one of the sheets.  "Acetylbutamine-9.  Trace amounts were
found in both Mr. Provost and Mr. Bombadil.  It's a byproduct of a more
powerful street drug, Skizz," and she bared her teeth distastefully as she
over-pronounced it.  "It first appeared on the West Coast in November of
1994.  Both are known psychoactives producing severe linguistic impairment."

"Well, the analysis on the burn mark in the crop circle came up normal, so
unless aliens are doping suburbanites with psychoactives - which I wouldn't
put past them under different circumstances," and he shot a smile at
Scully's disapproving glare, "I think we can safely presume a more
terrestrial cause for our loquacious friends in Morristown."  Scully
continued to frown.  "Hey, Scully, you got your mundane connection.  You
should be happy about it."

She shook her head dismissively.  "I just can't figure out why citizens
would be showing up with the expensive by-product of an illegal drug in
their bloodstream."  

"Maybe they're just too dumb to find the good stuff on their own," he jibed,
then relented under her withering glare. He wrinkled his forehead.  "Wait,
what was that name again?"

"Acetylbutamine-9, why?"  He was digging furiously in a filing cabinet
again, and she moved to stand behind him, curious.

He pulled out a file folder and glanced down at the sheet.  "Related to the
psychoactive, Acetylpropamine-6?"

Scully frowned.  "Yes, but..."  Mulder just pointed to the page and started
to read from the summary.

"'Meth-butamine...' a substance related to both, Scully, if I remember my
organic chemistry, '...is supposed to induce a hypnotic state of such
intensity that it allows people to perform feats previously attributed only
to Tibetan monks and Asian-Indian yogis:  firewalking, slowing or stopping
their heartbeats, staying underwater for hours without breathing apparatus.'
You know, spooky stuff."  

He grinned and tapped the spine of the folder against his palm.  "This is a
classified document from 1989. The experiment was discontinued in 1991;
apparently the claims of superhuman performance were exaggerated, although
the subjects did behave as if in a trance-like state, almost hypnotized.  It
was declassified last year, about 3 months before Skizz appeared on the
market. Someone must have continued the work on their own.  You said it
yourself, Scully, glossolalia manifests most commonly in a religious trance,
and that's what this stuff does."

Scully pressed on in that direction.  "The drug could be acting on the
brain's language structures, producing glossolalia.... One theory explains
the metered vocalization characteristic of the diagnosis as symptomatic of a
rhythmical discharge of subcortical structures operating during a trance state."

Mulder smiled down at her.  "I'll bet you say that to all the guys."

She gazed up at him, unamused.  "Mulder, if, someone *is* continuing with
these experiments, then they're using innocent civilians for...."  She
paused.  "For what?" On that new train of thought, she lapsed into silence.  

Mulder continued, undeterred.  "My question, is, why would they break into
the Lone Gunmen's office to steal that tape and transcript, Scully?  We can
obtain hundreds of transcripts, any reputable college psychology or
linguistics library will have them.  We could probably visit Oral Roberts
University and come away with more than we could read in a lifetime.  Not,"
he paused, reflecting, "that anyone would want to."

She looked up at him warily.  "So, you think there is something about this
one that makes it special?"

"There's got to be something about it that's out of the ordinary.  Maybe
this drug is the key - maybe it does something more than just make people
talk funny."  Scully's cellular phone rang, and they exchanged curious looks
as she answered it.

"Scully."  She caught Mulder's gaze sharply.  "Yes.  Yes, of course, we'll
be there as soon as we can."  She stared down at her phone in wonderment.
Mulder tipped his head to get her attention, and she frowned up at him.
"That was Dr. Evans.  They've got a third victim."

He jingled a set of fleet keys at her.  "Wanna drive?"

*********
Morristown Memorial Hospital 
4:53 p.m.

Dr. Evans was waiting for them on the floor.  The angry look in her eyes was
not encouraging.  "I hope you're planning on telling me what's going on
around here."  She glanced from one to the other, waiting.  When Scully
hesitated, looking at Mulder, she humphed.  "She's in here."

"She?" Scully inquired, following her across the hall.

"Betsy Kirkergaard, she teaches third grade in my daughter's school."  Dr.
Evans pushed the door open angrily.  The two agents followed her into the room.

The short, mousy woman in the corner of the couch stopped chewing her
fingernails with a small gasp as they entered.  In her 50's, she was wearing
a navy corduroy jumper over a white turtleneck.  She was thin, agitated, and
had been crying.

"Mrs. Kirkergaard?" Scully asked hesitantly.  

She showed no recognition of her own name.  "Are you doctors?  Can you help
me?" she pleaded.  "Please, I can't take this much longer..."  She rose and
held her hands out to them, still gripping a mangled wad of tissues.

Scully tucked her chin back in surprise, and turned to Dr. Evans.  "I
thought you said she was also experiencing glossolalia?"

The doctor pressed her lips together tightly, frowning.  "No, I said there
was another victim.  Mrs. Kirkergaard can speak just fine; the problem is
that she claims that everyone else is speaking total gibberish!"  

Mulder stepped towards her, taking her hands in his.  "Mrs. Kirkergaard, can
you understand anything we're saying?" he asked softly.

She still stared, uncomprehending.  "Oh, God, you've got to help me," and
she dissolved into tears.  Mulder looked at Scully helplessly as the teacher
wrapped her arms around him and clung, weeping, to his waist.  He hesitantly
put his arms around her as Scully and Dr. Evans moved into the hallway to
discuss the medical specifics.  Placing an awkward hand on her head, he
patted her hair lightly.  "I know you can't understand me, Mrs. Kirkergaard,
but I want you to know that we're doing everything we can."

*********
Outside in the hallway, things were less optimistic.  "Any progress with Mr.
Bombadil?" Scully asked as she skimmed this latest victim's medical chart.

Dr. Evans shook her head.  "We've cut his medication almost in half, but
he's still in that odd trance state.  We were contacted by someone from his
Sunday School, of all places, who confirmed that he attended that tent
revival.  Other than that, nothing.  Dr. Scully," and she hesitated, "What
can I tell my staff?  They know something odd is going on, and they're
scared.  Is this going to keep happening?"

Scully pursed her lips.  "We'll need a blood sample from Mrs. Kirkergaard.
We found evidence of an unusual drug in both Mr. Provost and Mr. Bombadil.
It's possible that there is some drug tampering taking place in this area,
or that there was a contamination in the water at the tent revival.  Do you
know if Mrs. Kirkergaard attended, or had any contact with the other two
victims?"  She waited as the doctor searched her memory.

"No, she couldn't have been at the revival Friday, there was a PTA meeting
that we both attended.  However, she was not at work on Monday, my daughter
said there was a substitute teacher.  I can't imagine that Mrs. Kirkergaard
has any contact with Mr. Provost or Tom, but I have no way of confirming
that."  She hesitated.  "She doesn't actually live in Morristown, she lives
in Granbo, about 15 miles southwest of here."

Mulder rejoined them in the hall, stopping just out of their hearing.

She met his eyes briefly, then turned back to the doctor.  "Could we please
have her home address?  And if you could send the blood sample directly to
our lab by courier, that would be fastest."

Dr. Evans nodded.  "I'll have it done at once."  With a quick glance at
Mulder, she turned back to her charts as he and Scully walked towards the
nearest exit.

*********
The Kirkergaard Residence
Granbo, New Jersey
6:24 p.m.

The small bungalow gleamed bright yellow in the rays of the setting sun.
Inside, Mulder was inspecting the contents of the kitchen drawers while
Scully shuffled through the tidy stacks of mail and papers on Mrs.
Kirkergaard's desk.  She paused.

"Mulder, take a look at this."  He stood and approached her, reaching out
for the crude flyer she held out for him.

 "Rev. Timmon's *TENT REVIVAL*"  it declared in tall, familiar letters.
"WITNESS the Miracles of the Holy Spirit!  HEAR the Voice of Blessed Angels!
SEE the Healing Hands of our Beloved Reverend! RECEIVE the Sacred Word of
the Holy Scriptures!"  Hand-written below were a local address and Sunday's
date:  115 N. Mills St., Sunday, May 19, 1996.

She raised an eyebrow at him as he looked up.  "Not very original, is he?"

She shook her head.  "I guess the next step is to check out this address."

*********
Mills St.
Granbo, NJ
6:57 p.m.

Parking, they stepped out into the cooling night air and stood on the
sidewalk between 107 and 119 N. Mills St.

Mulder spun on his heel towards Scully, frustrated.  "Dammit, it was a dummy
address."

She frowned.  "Why would they put a dummy address on a flier intended to
publicize their event?"

He stood next to her, fingering the advertisement.  "Maybe it's a blind.
The other revival took place out of town, maybe they just picked people up
here and bused them to the site so that they could screen the attendees,
make sure there weren't any cops or informants there."

She nodded.  "If they are carrying on secret experiments, they would be
paranoid about allowing just anyone to attend."

He grinned at her.  "You know Scully, you're starting to think like me."

She gazed up at him, amused.  "God forbid."  Then, more serious, she glanced
around.  "Well, looks like another dead end.  Back to good old investigative
foot-work."

*********
71st and Western Ave.
Newark, NJ
7:32 p.m.

The intercom buzzer broke through the quiet game of cards like steel through
butter.  He reached for the phone quickly, pinkie ring glittering in the
reflected light of the side-table lamps.

"Gorzkoff.  Ah, Morty.  Yeah, the boys just called.  The flier threw them
off."  A pause.  "Yeah, I know, they're annoying me too.  And they have
Milton worried.  I think we should consider Plan B."  The voice on the other
end was agitated.  "I know, but sometimes you have to know when to cut your
losses.  Killing federal employees is never a good idea.  Remember Fraboni?"
Another outburst.  He sighed.  "OK, I'll see what we can arrange.  Now if
you'll excuse me, I'm in a meeting."  Click. 

He placed the receiver back in its cradle, pausing with his hand still on it
as he gazed down in thought.  Then he smiled apologetically around the
table.  "Excuse me, gentlemen.  Some unfinished business."  And the game
resumed.

*********
J. Edgar Hoover Building
1:11 p.m.
Wednesday, April 22, 1996

Scully hung up the phone with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
Mulder looked over at her, worried.  "You OK, Scully?"

She grimaced and made a note on her pad.  "Do you know how many churches
there are in New Jersey, Mulder?"  He grinned sympathetically.  "And Mrs.
Kirkergaard isn't an official member of any of them, Pentecostal or
otherwise."  She closed her notepad and leaned back.  "Did you have any luck
with the local papers?"

He shook his head, wadding up the remnants of his sandwich wrappings and
tossing them into the trash can for a three-pointer.  "No, but my guess is
an operation like that tent revival is "unofficial" enough not to warrant an
article, and probably not even any advertising.  I'm still waiting for a few
phone calls, though.  And the good Reverend is apparently using a synonym,
Danny can't find anything in the databases."  He stretched in his chair.
"So, what do you think of the case so far?"

She frowned.  "Well, knowing what to look for, Pendrell was able to
positively identify Acetylbutamine-9 in Mrs. Kirkergaard's blood sample, so
we have three victims.  I don't know why her symptoms would differ, but
perhaps there's a sex differential, or she was dosed in a different fashion.
We know she was dosed at a different time; the school confirms that she was
experiencing no problems Monday, but missed work yesterday and today."  She
glanced up at her partner.

He wasn't listening; she noticed the flashing icon on his screen just before
he clicked it.

"Hey, we may be closer to an answer than we think."  She looked up at him,
but he was staring at his computer screen..  "Our new 'friend' just e-mailed
us, she thinks she's got something."

*********
Newtown General Hospital
Newtown, MD
2:12 p.m.

"Hey, Marge, how's it going today?"  The man in the blue coveralls smiled
widely at the dark-haired woman behind the counter.

She smiled back.  "Not too bad, Lou, and yourself?"  She handed him a
clipboard, not waiting for a reply; obviously this was routine.  "Got a
special delivery for you today, all the way to DC."

He whistled appreciatively as he scanned the paperwork.  "It's in back?"
She nodded, and he swung his empty cooler briskly as he strode towards the
cold room.  Once there, he scanned the shelf for the label he sought,
passing over trays of test tubes, blood bags, and three cartons of left-over
Chinese food.  He grunted when he saw that.  *You got some prime weirdos
working in this hospital* he thought briefly before spying his target.
Quickly he stuffed the small black case and its companion cold-pak into his
cooler, adding wedges of Styrofoam to stabilize the package for transportation.

Backing quickly out of the frigid room, he waved to the security guard,
smiled at Marge, and hauled his load out to the courier wagon.  The
universal biohazard symbol of three crossed crescents was clearly visible
against the red background of the label.  Carefully stowing the cooler in
back, he tugged the straps briefly to make sure they were secure, then slid
into the driver's seat.  Glancing around guiltily, he quickly lit a
cigarette and, concealing it within his hand, took off down the road.

He didn't even notice the dark sedan that followed him out of the parking lot.

END Cryptoglossia 2/3
Colleen C. Bailey  ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu
"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands
explained."  -  Mark Twain


From ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu Wed Nov 27 16:06:01 1996
Cryptoglossia 3/3

*********
Pyre Square Office Complex
Washington, DC
3:06 p.m.

The office building was nondescript and boring, standing in a forest of
similarly uninteresting architecture.  The elevator took them to the correct
floor, and they found her office easily. "Frohike Inc." was prominently
featured on the door, followed by  "T. Dylan Frohike - Bonded Protection -
Discreet Investigations - High-Tech Surveillance".  And along the bottom, in
smaller print, "Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis".

Mulder saw the Latin and murmured, "Times change, and we change with them."
Scully looked at him with an amused question in her eye, and he shrugged.
"Oxford required two semesters of Latin."  He grinned at her.  "You know,
I'm dying to know what the "T" stands for." He knocked, and pushed open the
door.

She was sitting at the desk against the far wall, engrossed in her computer
while balancing a cordless phone between shoulder and cheek.  Her head
turned sharply as the two agents entered, and her hand fell below the edge
of the desk.  When she saw who they were, she relaxed slightly and beckoned
them over.  "...look, I'll call you back later."  Her caller was obviously
agitated, and she shot a nervous look towards her visitors.  "Later," she
enunciated into the receiver, hanging up without listening to her caller's
response.  She took a deep breath, then smiled up at her visitors.

"Good morning, I'm glad you could make it over."  She slid back from the
keyboard and gestured them towards the couch.  She grabbed the tape recorder
and a stack of papers from the corner of the desk and pulled her chair
around to sit before them, handing them each a few printouts.  "You got
something from the blood samples."

Scully blinked, surprised, then pulled out her own papers.  "Yes, there's
trace amounts of Acetylbutamine-9 in both patients.  It's a psychoactive
with linguistic impairment effects.  That explains the glossolalia."

"Maybe." 

Scully frowned.  "What do you mean?"

"I analyzed the tape, and found out some very interesting things about the
words those guys were speaking."  She paused for effect.  "I think it's a code."

Scully sat back into the cushions, folding her arms, while Mulder leaned
forward, intrigued.  "I don't see it."  

"You know how pig latin works?  It's an algorithm:  take the first consonant
of each word, transfer it to the end of the word, and add the phoneme AY to
the end of the word.  Written down, it looks like this."

She scribbled on her pad, then held it up for them to see.  "WORD = ORD + W
+ AY"

"This business I run is mostly hack-work, routine tech stuff.  At heart, I'm
a code-breaker.  So, since looking at this as a known language wasn't
working, I tried encryption logic."  She tapped the paper again. "I applied
mathematical rules to the sounds on the tape.  Now, the first side of the
tape, nothing.  Gobblety-gook, just like the boys said.  The Gunmen," she
amended, when Mulder looked at her askance.  "Or, if it *is* encrypted, it's
way beyond my capabilities, which means it can't be broken, no-way, no-how."
She looked smug for a moment, then concentrated on her pile of paperwork.
"There was an odd moment on the first tape," she pulled out a transcript for
them, "where Mr. Provost's voice suddenly changed.  Look here," and she
pointed at two spots, outlining them with her red pen.  "The words suddenly
change, they're longer, with different consonant clusters.  It's more
dramatic on the tape, but I've got it cued up for Mr. Bombadil, so we can
come back to it."

"Now, side two is where it really came out.  See this," and she pointed at
Scully's page with her pen.  "It may have been the effect of the sedatives,
but he's obviously making rhythmic vocalization with a repeating pattern.
So, I transcribed it and worked out the algorithm."  She hit the Play
button, and Mr. Bombadil's voice filled the room.

"Boh doh gay, boh doh hee, boh doh yai, boh doh joh, boh doh koo...."

She stopped the playback.  "OK, a lot of this is still a big guess.  But,
he's definitely running through two sequences, vowels and consonants.  The
two first syllables are B and D followed by the same vowel, O."

She pointed at the next line on the page.  The third syllable in each case,
'gay, hee, yai, joh, koo' is G, H, I, J, and K, with each consonant followed
by a vowel sound, A, E, I, O and U.  Then, a bunch of gobblety-gook,
different from Provost, but still meaningless as far as I can tell.  His
next sequence..." and she fast-forwarded on Scan.  High-pitched garble
filled the air, then she hit Play again.

"Boo doo lay, boo doo mee, boo doo nai, boo doo oh, boo doo poo..."  

"...is the same algorithm.  The first two nonsense syllables are still B and
G, but with a different vowel, U.  Then, the third syllable follows the same
pattern as the first sequence:  L, M, N, O and P, each followed by the same
vowel sequence, A, E, I, O and U."  She stopped, almost out of breath from
her hurried explanation.  Her smile faded as the two agents merely stared at
her, waiting.  "Don't you see?"  She rewound the tape and played it again.  

"Boh doh gay, boh doh hee, boh doh yai, boh doh joh, boh doh koo...."  

Fast forward...

"Boo doo lay, boo doo mee, boo doo nai, boo doo oh, boo doo poo..."  

She was writing furiously on her pad again, and hit Pause before showing
them what she had put down.

"B + (vowel) and D + (vowel) and ((consonant + 1)+(vowel+1))" 

She looked for understanding in their eyes and found none.  "This is the
formula he's generating the words from.  The first two are constant
consonants followed by constant vowels; the third is an incrementing
consonant paired with an incrementing vowel.  Once he runs through all five
basic vowels, he increments the first constant vowel and repeats.  He's
creating these sounds based on a simple mathematical formula!"

She put down the tape player and gestured expansively.  "It's a cipher.
It's an encryption sequence!  He's running some sort of basic algorithm,
kind of like the test pattern you print out from your Laserjet when you want
to make sure it's working."

Scully frowned, trying to taking it all in.  "So what you're saying is that
these people are not just babbling, they're somehow producing speech that
conforms to some mathematical formula, which we can't understand."

Frohike's face was pleading.  "I'll grant you, it's unlikely, but it's right
here on paper.  At least we have more proof for that than we do for alien
abductions.  And if the drug is what's causing it..."

"Then what's the point?"  Scully was obviously frustrated.  "Why create a
method of producing encrypted speech if there's no-one who can translate it
back into something understandable?"

"Wait."  Mulder's quiet voice penetrated their argument cleanly.  He took a
deep breath.  "What if you're both right?  What if there's another explanation."

Scully frowned at him.  "What are you suggesting, that it's simply a
language we haven't identified?"

"In a sense.  What was it you said about Pentecost - people speaking in the
tongue of angels?  Now, I interpreted this as aliens.  Obviously," he
drawled the word out, addressing Scully's baleful look directly, "I was
mistaken...in this case.  What if this speech is what it sounds like?"

"You think these people are speaking Angel-ese."  Scully didn't appear to
like that explanation any better than the encryption theory.

"I think these people are speaking something we've never encountered before.
Somehow they're accessing their language centers directly.  What if....what
if this is a code-talker language?  Not Navajo, but an algorithm so complex
we don't have a chance of decoding it?  Frohike, you've worked in neural
networks in a computer environment - but the best neural network is the most
complex one ever encountered, that we've never been able to duplicate - the
human brain.  Not the fastest, but the best."

Frohike followed up on that thought enthusiastically.  "Most modern
encryption programs use computers - very fast, complex computers, able to
make millions of connections between different bits of data per second.
They're good, but not as good as the human brain, because they're only
inadequate models of the human brain."

"Exactly.  Now, what if these people were manipulated somehow into
becoming...living coding machines, able to transmit data verbally?"  He
paused.  "I'm saying that if you could chemically manipulate the brain into
encoding data, then producing it verbally, and if you had someone on the
other end who could take it in, decode it and produce the original message,
you'd have a highly robust encryption program accessible at the stick of a
needle."

Frohike snorted.  "Hell, you could send highly classified information on an
open phone line, or a simple radio transmission.  You could tattoo it on
your back, even."

Scully, frowning, considered what had just been proposed.  "So you're saying
that these people are simply repeating what they're hearing, only in a
language that their own brains devised, due to chemical stimulation of the
language centers of the brain."

Frohike and Mulder looked at each other.  "Yeah, that's about it," he admitted.

She sat back into the couch.  "I think I prefer alien abduction."

Frohike frowned.  "It still doesn't make sense without a translator at the
other end."

Mulder sat up straight, open-mouthed.  "Scully, the third victim!"

Frohike blinked at him, startled.  "There was another victim?"

He turned to her.  "She showed up last night.  She was talking English, but
complained because she couldn't understand anything that was spoken to her.
She couldn't understand written or spoken English, kept saying that this she
must be having some kind of delusional episode or dream because she was
understood, but couldn't understand."

Frohike reacted sharply to this.  "She's a receiver!  Of course!"  She
jumped for her coat.

Mulder stood as well, grabbing his trenchcoat.  "C'mon, Scully, we don't
have much time."

"Where are we going?"  Scully demanded, rising slowly.  Frohike was stuffing
papers and the tape recorder into her briefcase.

"The hospital."  Mulder replied, standing by the door.  "We have to talk to
that third victim again."

*********
Interstate 95
New Jersey Border
5:25 p.m.

The car ride up to Morristown was uneventful.  Frohike explained further
about the odd changes Mr. Provost had made on the tape.  "He was alone in
the room, watching a talk-show, when suddenly his words changed."  She
scanned for the correct tape segment, then turned up the volume and held the
player over the back of the front seat for them to hear.

"Bo gee ma kwa son thi vo cha doo pa run do ai koo..." 

She stopped the tape.  "Do you hear it?"

Mulder, driving, shook his head.  "No."

"Here, I'll play it again," and she rewound.

"Bo gee ma kwa son thi vo cha doo ..."

Scully broke in.  "What are we listening for, Frohike?"

"It's hard to spot if you're not familiar with linguistic theory.  Right
here, there's a shift in intonation, the phonemes have a different speed,
it's...it's just different."

"Well, what causes it?"  Scully again; Mulder was concentrating on the
off-ramp more than Frohike's theories.

"I don't know - someone got paged over the PA just then, and the sound
masked his exact words.  I couldn't detect any other sounds in the room, so
I'm pretty sure he was alone the whole time.  Could be something he saw on
the TV, or it might be random.  But Mr. Bombadil does it too..." she hit
AutoReverse and scanned for the section.

"Ay zee, bai yoh, ku way, dee vai, foh tu, gay see, hai roh...."  

"This was where it got really interesting.  Bombadil switched algorithms.
Instead of the one I mapped out for you, now he's starting at opposite ends
of the alphabet and working his way in, as well as incrementing the vowels
he completes the syllables with."

"OK, why?"  Scully was feeling vaguely carsick from staring at Frohike's
paperwork, and her question came out sharply.

"I don't know."  Frohike sounded discouraged.  "The hospital paging system
went off again, so I couldn't identify any changed factors in the room.  It
was right at the end of the tape, so maybe it was because you were leaving
the room."

They lapsed into silence, and drove for several long moments without
comment.  Frohike spoke up again.  "Look, I know how crazy this sounds.  I'm
not without my doubts.  But it's the best theory we've got so far, and I
want to see how far we can run with it."

Mulder smiled.  "Remind you of anyone, Scully?"

Frohike wouldn't be distracted.  "I think that this," and she gripped the
tape player tightly, "is the key to an airtight encoding method that no-one,
in a million years, could break.  Whatever caused these two men to start
encoding their speech has far-reaching implications.  Think about it, the
human brain is complex enough to create an algorithm so layered and
convoluted it would take another human brain with the same drug involvement
to decode.  Absolutely secure communications."

She paused, staring out the window at the scrolling countryside.  "That's
why they broke into the Lone Gunmen office, they were looking for this.
They obviously don't want anyone to know what they're trying to do."

Mulder's brows curved in a frown as he nodded.  "The government is yet again
performing unauthorized experiments on innocent civilians in an attempt to
broaden their powerbase, regardless of the legal or ethical implications."

Frohike stared at him as if he had just broken out in glossolalia himself.
"Do you ever listen to what you say, Agent Mulder?"  Scully suppressed a
smile as Mulder glared at her.

He turned back to Frohike.  "This would not be outside the realm of
possibility, given some of the cases we've worked on."

"I think you're making an unwarranted assumption."  Frohike hesitated,
gathering her thoughts.  "I think that the government already has robust
encryption available to it.  It's *decrypting* that they are having trouble
with.  Hell, they're trying to pass legislation to prevent private companies
from providing phone scramblers and computer data encryption programs.
Mainly because it makes work for law enforcement so difficult."

Scully broke in.  "And, Mulder, if it was the government, that file on
Meth-butamine would never have been declassified."

Frohike perked up, turned to her.  "Would you care to explain that
statement, Scully?"

Scully explained.

Frohike nodded, concentrating.  "Strangely, this is all making sense.  But
it's not the government behind this.  Hell, they'd use military grunts for
something like this, not civilians."

"And how do you know that?"  The question was light-hearted, but the
detective was strangely silent.  Mulder frowned and dropped it.  "OK,
Frohike, who do *you* think is doing this?"

"It could be a number of people.  Organized crime: Mafia, Yakuza, or even
the Russian underground.  Industrial espionage.  It could be a terrorist
group, either international or local militia.  It could be a rogue banker,
even, trying to protect a money laundering scheme.  The problem is, Agent
Mulder, criminal activity in this country is so fractured and insular that
we could spend years just mapping the different groups - by which time, of
course, they would look completely different."

The conversation was cut short by their arrival at the hospital, and Mulder
smoothly turned the car towards the hospital parking ramp.

*********
Morristown Hospital
6:06 p.m.

"Dr. Evans, thank you for meeting with us on such short notice."  She
noticed that the doctor was staring at Frohike.  "This is Ms. Frohike,
she's..." she paused, as if only now wondering what she was doing here with
them.

Mulder picked it up smoothly, barely glancing at his partner.  "She's
consulting with us on the case."  

Frohike smiled and shook her hand firmly.  "How do you do."

The doctor switched her gaze rapidly back to Scully as she began moving down
the hallway.  "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Kirkergaard has suffered a bit of a
breakdown, and we've had to restrain her and administer a sedative."

Mulder looked alarmed.  "Is she going to be as 'out-of-it' as Bombadil was?
We were hoping we could question her."

Dr. Evans frowned at him.  "No, she wasn't actually violent, so she's on a
mild diazepam drip.  However, I doubt you'll be able to question her,
considering the nature of her problem."

Behind her back, Frohike waved the tape player at Mulder, whose eyes lit up.
His gaze lifted to meet hers, and she winked.  "Could you show us to her
room, please?"

Outside her door, the doctor paused.  "Remember, she's in a very fragile
state right now.  You would be too, if you suddenly couldn't understand
anyone who spoke to you.  Please, try not to alarm her."

The room was dark, and quiet.  A single table lamp in the far corner
illuminated Mrs. Kirkergaard's slight figure in the bed.  She was silent,
but her eyes were open and full of tears.  Frohike sat by her bedside, brows
drawn together in concentration.  With a glance at Mulder, she played the
tape of Mr. Marshall's babbling.

"Go yai ba din, fra ko si no par ma mee ka shu.  A kim boh dor shun da o way
lin di ka!  Mu ta toh sa tho ga vi...."

Several tense minutes passed.  Nothing happened.  Frohike sighed, and sat
back.  "Well, kill one good theory."  She stopped the tape.  

Mulder paced at the foot of the bed, arms crossed.  "I think we're onto
*something*, Frohike, it's just a matter of what exactly it is, and how do
we get at it."

Dr. Evans and Scully finished the requisite examination of the patient's
chart, and Scully moved forward, interested.  "When she had her breakdown,
what exactly happened?  Do you have any idea what might have set her off?"

"Oh, I don't know..."

"Please, Doctor."  Mulder remained silent, aware that his partner was more
persuasive for a fellow medico.  Scully used her most soothing professional
voice.  "There may be a criminal investigation, and we need you to try to
remember everything you can."

Dr. Evans' face acquired a far-off look as she searched back in her memory.
"The paramedics brought her in.  I called you. You came and observed her,
she seemed fine then?"  She looked to Scully for confirmation, and she
nodded reassuringly.  "Aside from the language problems, of course.  After
you left, Ramirez was drawing blood for the tests you requested, as well as
our standard screening.  I remember being surprised at her sudden outburst -
it seemed to happen so fast, but Ramirez said there was a sudden change in
her voice.  I hadn't noticed, I guess because I had just received a page..."

"You're not wearing a pager," Frohike noted.  

Dr. Evans glanced at her wearily. "No, through the PA system.  My sitter
called."

Scully's face suddenly broke open. "The hospital paging system.  That
tone..."  Her eyes widened further as she looked at Frohike briefly.  "The
tape..."  Mulder turned his head toward her quickly, but she met his look
for only a moment.  She turned to Dr. Evans and asked, "Doctor, what's your
pager number?" 

Frohike made a small exclamation and scrabbled for the tape player's rewind
button as she caught her meaning.  Mulder dug in his pocket for his cell
phone and waited, finger poised.

"555-3333, extension 720.  What do you think....?"  But he was intent on his
dial pad.  She turned to Scully with a disbelieving look.  Scully met her
eyes briefly, then turned towards the bed, intent on the patient. 

Mulder finished dialing and turned to Frohike.  "Play the tape," he
commanded, and she nodded and complied, glancing nervously back and forth
from Mulder to the patient.

A few moments later, the shrill bell-tones of the hospital paging system
filled the room.  "Dr. Evans, call 555-1012.  Dr. Evans, call 555-1012."  No
one paid it any attention - they were focused on Mrs. Kirkergaard, who had
frozen in place the moment the tone sounded.  Her eyes were unfocused.  And
she began to speak.

"...back to the show.  My next guest is the author of the international
best-seller, 'Corpse'.  She also co-authored the thriller 'Oklahoma', which
will be released on the big screen this summer.  Will you please welcome....."

Frohike stopped the tape with a trembling hand, and Mrs. Kirkergaard's voice
petered off into silence.  

"Oh my God."  There was silence in the room for a moment as Scully thought
back.  "Mr. Provost was watching a talk-show when you taped this, Mulder."
It was not a question.  

He nodded, and they both looked at Frohike, who stared down at the tape
player in her hand as if it would bite her.  She turned her face back
towards the two agents, eyes wide.

*********
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Parking Ramp
7:56 p.m.

The ceiling light by his car was out again.  Pendrell cursed it briefly as
he fumbled with his key ring to find the door key.  He was in a foul mood;
he had continued his investigation into Acetylbutamine-9, but wasn't having
any luck finding out what effect it had on the language centers of the
brain; it was new enough that very little research had been conducted.

And, the courier from Newtown General Hospital had never shown up.  He'd
promised that analysis for Dana first thing in the morning, but now it would
have to wait a few hours, providing that the damned blood samples actually
arrived in the morning.  Of course the hospital swore that the courier had
left on time this afternoon.  Goddamn management drones.  He swore again,
more loudly, as he dropped his keys completely and bent to sweep them up.  

The muted roar of a passing delivery truck covered the sound of approaching
footsteps until it was too late.  The arm across his throat was like an iron
bar; he tried to remember what his self-defense training said to do, but he
couldn't breathe and he couldn't think.  He did manage a good kick at the
figure that grabbed his briefcase, but retaliation consisted of a nauseating
punch to the stomach, and after that it was all he could do just to breathe.

The next blow caught him in the eye, and then he was released, sinking to
the pavement when his legs wouldn't hold him.  Through a haze of stars he
watched two pairs of shoes, framed by the underside of his car, run across
the mostly-empty parking level, up the corner stairs, and into the night.
He retched helplessly, gasping for air, and felt the cold damp tarmac
against his cheek.  Scully was going to kill him.

*********
J. Edgar Hoover Building
7:44 a.m.
Thursday, April 23, 1996

Scully was heading for the stairs when she saw Pendrell waiting for an
elevator out of the corner of her eye.  He started when he saw her, and
wavered, as if uncertain about greeting her, but then she noticed his
appearance and moved towards him, concerned.

"My god, Pendrell, what happened?"  He was sporting an impressive shiner.
She lifted a hand as if to touch his cheek, and he flinched away. 

"I, ah, I got mugged getting to my car last night.  It was no big deal,
but..."  He ducked his head and stepped onto the elevator.

She followed him in as the doors closed, not caring where it was going.
"But what?"  It came out sharper than she intended; she felt a sinking
feeling in her stomach, and knew it was more than elevator butterflies.

He grimaced, then winced again as the expression twisted the tender, bruised
flesh of his cheek.  "They got my briefcase.  I was taking all the notes
from this Skizz case home with me.  I was going to check out the Internet to
see if there was any mention of Acetylbutamine-9...."  The doors opened, and
they both glanced up at the lighted number before stepping out together.  He
turned down the hall towards the lab, not meeting her eyes.  "I just, I
didn't think anything would happen..."

She understood, and rested a hand on his arm to slow him down.  "It's OK,
Pendrell, we can reconstruct the paperwork."

He hung his head and sighed.  "I know, but it's more work, and.... The
samples from Newtown didn't show up yesterday either, and I know you wanted
them this morning...I just feel like I've disappointed you."  They stood
like that for a moment, then he snapped his head up, alarmed.  "I mean, it's
unprofessional of me not to..." he stopped miserably.

She suppressed a smile.  "Agent Pendrell, I have never had anything but good
things to say about the work you do for the Bureau.  We're lucky to have
someone with your technical expertise on our team."  She turned down the
hall towards his office, allowing him to blush in private.  "Now, let's
re-run the original samples, and see if the new ones have arrived."

He fumbled his keys out of his pocket, still staring at the floor, and she
looked away, trying not to make him more nervous than he was.  Her first
hint that something was wrong was the strangled cough he made as he swung
the door open.

*********
8:22 a.m.

"Mulder, the lab's..."  He looked up as Scully pushed open the door.  She
paused in what she was about to tell him; he was on the phone, and it
sounded important.

"....everything?  OK, do you know when it happened?  And that was all that
was missing?"  He leaned over and scribbled on a sheet of paper, passing it
to Scully.  She glanced at it:  FROHIKE.  "Are you sure you're all right.
OK, we'll be in touch."  He hung up as she sat down.  "That was Frohike, the
girl nerd, not the guy," he quipped, then, seriously, "someone broke into
her office and did quite a number on it.  Her tapes, her notes, everything
related to this case is gone.  They even wiped her hard drive.  What?"  He
questioned the growing concern on her face.

"I just came from the Sci Crime Lab.  It's been broken into, all of
Pendrell's files relating to this case are missing, and *his* files have
been wiped." 

"What?  *Here*?"

She crossed her arms grimly.  "Whatever's going on here, Mulder, it's big.
They got into the building, they attacked Pendrell last night and stole his
briefcase, all his notes.  They could be after us next.  We've got to go to
Skinner with this."

He scowled.  "With what?  After this, we've got nothing left, not even our
victims."

She glanced up, surprised.  "What do you mean?"

Hands on hips, he shook his head, looking down at the desktop.  "The
hospital called before you got here.  Mrs. Kirkergaard has been released
after a full recovery.  And Tom Bombadil," he paused, gazing past her
shoulder at nothing.

She guessed.  "Something happened to him, didn't it."

He nodded, looking at her, then glancing away apologetically.  "They found
him dead in his hospital room this morning."  She squeezed her eyes closed,
absorbing the news.  "They're calling it a blood embolism, no doubt caused
during the struggle they had during his psychotic episode.  Dr. Evans
wouldn't even talk to me."  He shook his head again, bangs falling over his
eyes as he stood and strode across the room, away from her.  "Dammit,
Scully, when are we going to win?  How many times do we have to watch them
walk away?"  He drummed his fist on the file cabinet as he gazed off beyond
the wall.

She raised her hand toward his shoulder to comfort him; the phone rang
before she could make contact, and she pulled away as he turned to answer it.

"Mulder."  He sighed.  "Yeah, Pendrell, she told me the news.  I hope you're
OK..."  He smiled wryly.  "Yeah, well, I usually end up in the hospital, I
gather you're not that bad off."  His face became serious again.  "You don't
say.  No, I'm afraid I'm not surprised by *anything* in this case anymore."
He nodded. "Yeah, we will.  Thanks for letting me know."  He hung up slowly,
his hand lingering on the receiver.

She gazed questioningly at him.  "More bad news?"

He leaned back, not bothering to meet her eyes.  "The courier from Newtown
Hospital, the one with the blood samples for us to test?  He was run off the
road yesterday."  He waved his hand at her concern.  "He wasn't hurt, but
somewhere between the crash and the hospital retrieving the vehicle, the
samples disappeared."

She sat back and tucked her chin, her face blank with amazement.  "So, the
victims are either recovered or dead, any transcripts or tapes of their
glossolalia are gone, the labwork and printouts are destroyed...Mulder, this
is almost overkill.  Every piece of evidence we have has been eliminated!"
She gestured vaguely, as if unable to believe.

"Well, look on the bright side, Scully.  At least this time neither of us
were beaten up, abducted, shot at or otherwise threatened."

She looked vaguely guilty.  "Pendrell was attacked.  The Lone Gunmen and
Dylan Frohike had their offices trashed.  Three innocent people in New
Jersey had their lives severely disrupted.  Someone broke into FBI
headquarters, Mulder!  Killing us was simply not on the agenda.  If it was,
neither you nor I would be here right now."

He nodded abruptly.  "Do you think we at least scared them?  I mean, we know
what to look for now.  Would they really be so foolish as to continue their
experiments?"

She grimaced and shrugged her shoulders.  "If they did continue, would we be
foolish enough to continue investigating?"

He turned his head towards her sharply.  "Scully, how can you ask that?"

She considered him for a long moment, then smiled faintly.  "Just checking."

*********
The Lone Gunmen
Publishers of "The Magic Bullet" Newsletter
Washington, DC
11:43 a.m.

Byers was sifting through a mound of roughly-gathered papers, sorting them
into different piles for re-filing.  He paused over one in particular,
pulling it closer to the jerry-rigged shop light illuminating the space
around him.  Frohike had bothered him all morning about turning on the
overheads, but Langly refused to allow it; apparently, the use of
fluorescent bulbs to systematically desensitize office workers and render
them impotent was one conspiracy they didn't all agree on.

"Whaddya got?"  Langly peered over his shoulder, the cardboard box he was
carrying momentarily forgotten.

"I've been looking for this.  See, it's a copy of that memo from..."  He
stopped as the door creaked open.  Dylan Frohike stood in the doorway,
dressed down in jeans, a leather jacket, and a sheepish look.

Langly stepped forward, grinning widely.  "Frohike!"  He threw his arms
around her, and she returned the hug, albeit less enthusiastically.  

"Hello, Langley, it's good to see you."

Frohike entered from the side door.  "Yeah, whaddya want, Lang..."  He stared.  

Dylan smiled hesitantly.   "Hi."  Byers stroked his beard, glancing from one
to the other as she disentangled herself from Langly's embrace.  "I thought
I'd stop by, see if I could help you guys pick up some."  Her look was
neutral as she gazed at the momentarily-speechless man in the doorway.

His eyebrows rose, then fell, and an expression that was not quite a smile
spread slowly across his craggy visage.  "We've got a ton of disks that need
re-racking."  He held his hand out to her.

She strode towards him, gripped it firmly.  They both moved awkwardly as
they shook hands, as if unaccustomed to human touch.  They stood for a
moment more, as Byers cleared his throat as quietly as he could and Langly's
eyes darted back and forth between them. 

Then her eyes twinkled wickedly, and she smiled at Frohike.  "Don't tell me
you *still* don't label your disks."  She let go of his hand, and they
turned to enter the back room.

"Well, we don't want just anyone to walk in and know what's on them, do we?"
He motioned her to precede him through the door, dropping his hand as if to
pat her butt, then obviously thinking better of it.  He stared down at the
offending limb, then sighed and followed her, shaking his head resignedly.

"Frohike, every time you drop a box, you have to spend hours accessing each
floppy in order to determine its contents.  Couldn't you at least code
them?"  Her muffled tone was teasing, and Langly and Byers exchanged
relieved looks.

The lanky blond stooped to pick up his box again.  "So, d'you think it's
safe for me to ask her out, now that they're finally on good terms again?"

Byers sighed down at the unearthed memo, placing it neatly on the
appropriate stack.  "Langly, did I ever tell you *why* they got divorced?"

*********
71st and Western Ave.
Newark, NJ
1:26 p.m.

He was alone in the room, savoring the unaccustomed silence, when the
intercom buzzed.  "Yes.  Hey, Marita, how's tricks?  Oh yeah, the Egyptian
delegation, thanks for the reminder."  He glanced at the wall clock.  "I'll
be up in just a moment, don't let the meeting start without me."  He smiled
at that and rose to leave, pulling the heavy wooden door open.  Before he
could cross the threshold, the phone on his desk rang, and he returned to
answer it.

"Gorzkoff."  The voice on the other end was agitated.  "Calm down, Morty.
No, we've handled the situation.  Yes, the slate is clean, we can call off
the dogs.  Even if they could get someone to believe them, they have no
evidence.  However, Plan B is in Prep stage, and we should be restarting the
operation within two weeks." Another outburst.  "Of course not, Morty, we're
targeting a completely different audience for this sequence.  Yeah, I know,
I'm sorry about it too, but what can we do?  We can't sweat the small stuff,
not in our positions.  My resignation won't change what's happened, and your
resignation won't get the work done."  A query.  "FBI, actually.  I was
impressed, for two fringe agents they got a lot done.  Of course, they had
some help."  

He slid a business card off the desktop, and looked at the print
half-obscured by a dusty footprint covering most of the surface. "T. Dylan
Frohike" it said, with three phone numbers and an Internet address.  He
brushed at the dirt with his thumb to read the Latin motto.  "Times change,
and we change with them," he murmured softly.  He tapped the card's edge
with his forefinger, then tucked it into his jacket.  "Hmm?  Oh, nothing,
just talking to myself again.  Not anything to worry about on your level,
Morty.  I'll have someone look into it.  OK, you too."  Click. 

He dropped the receiver back into its cradle, then covered the creaking
floor in three strides to pass through the door, pulling it heavily closed
behind him.  And the silence resumed.

*********
23 miles west of Sao Paulo, Brazil
5:07 p.m.
June 3, 1996

The light rain earlier had settled the dust on the unpaved road, and the few
passing cars buzzed down the road unhindered by the region's usual red-brown
fog.  Scattered groups of people from two nearby villages walked with the
patience of long suffering towards the turn-off ahead.  A blue school bus
filled with people roared past, gears grinding as it slowed to turn in
towards the field.  The setting sun cast long shadows; in the east, a few
stars had already come out.

The break in the orderly rows of wheat had been artificially enlarged by the
simple brute force of a bulldozer.  The crude road was already churned into
mud; most cars parked on the roadside to avoid being stranded.

The large tent at the far side of the clearing was barely visible from the
main road, its vertical white and red stripes fading to gray and black in
the fading light.  The sound of rough voices rose from within; a rustic
choir of untrained voices following the words of a simple hymn being
distributed on mimeographed pages. 

Outside the tent, away from the cars already stationed near the canvas
walls, a bonfire roared, fueled by the addition of the mowed stalks that had
once occupied the space.  The swaying bodies that filled the clearing
chanted and raised their arms to the skies.

The rear wheels of a new white van, parked behind the tent, peeked out on
the left side.  The canopy was propped open, and within could be seen a
crowd of people standing and sitting before the hastily-erected platform.  

The preacher was walking along the front row where farmers and laborers
knelt; a line of people down the center aisle waited their turn.  He stopped
before each one, making the sign of the cross and laying a wafer in the
mouth of each supplicant.  His rich robe contrasted with the drab attire of
the locals.  His assistant followed with the wine goblet, tilting it
carefully to the lips of each worshipper. His eyes glittered in the glare of
lightbulbs haphazardly strung from the supporting posts.  

No one questioned the men in suits and fresh shirts standing at the back
corners of the stage.  This was rough country; anyone who appeared to have
money needed protection.  And these men had money; their suits were
fashionably cut, and one wore a pinkie ring that glittered in the reflection
of the standing brass candelabras to either side of the dais.  They stared
out impassively at the passionate crowds, dancing, writhing, and crying out
their devotions.  Several worshippers were already prone in the straw that
liberally covered the ground around the dais.  A young teenager near the
side was lying on his back, hands drawn up into claws by his shoulders.  His
eyes were rolled back into his skull, and strange sounds uttered forth from
his frothed lips.

"Fan bu thi ruk su pa ken ju ma da mal ga oot no ra jo de te ro ka na bo du
bo e ki wal da no..."

A man in a business suit and slicked-back hair stepped out from behind the
curtain at the back.  Stopping at the side of several of the prostrate
attendees, he shook his head each time and moved on to the next.

He reached the side of the stage.  Leaning down by the boy's side, he
lowered the tiny black device he was carrying in the palm of his hand and
pressed a button, watching the victim as a high-pitched tone filled the air.

The teenager's convulsions stiffened and he strained against the ground,
digging his heels in and grinding his teeth.  Bleeding from his nose and
lip, he panted for breath, then, eyes squeezed shut, he began vocalizing again.

"Son thi doo kwa ma do ai koo pa cha run vo bo gee ..." 

The suited man smiled, and lifted the boy's frail body.  Supporting him
around the shoulders, he half-carried him back behind the curtain, past the
hand-lettered sign beneath the awning of the tent.  Painted in bright
colors, it echoed the words of the larger billboard erected out at the road,
by the entrance:

 "O CULTO RENOVADO do Reverendo Timmons!  TESTEMUNHA a voz de Anjos
Abencoados!  VEJA as Maos Curativas de seu Amado Reverendo!  RECEBA a
Palavra Sagrada das Escrituras Santas !"


END Cryptoglossia 3/3

*********
Author's Notes:  Acetylbutamine-9, Meth-butamine and Acetylpropamine-6 *do
not exist*!  If I remember my Organic Chemistry, I don't think they CAN
exist.  I needed spiffy names, and didn't want to use real chemical
compounds which might confuse my readers.

I hope this wasn't too, ah, cerebral for all of you.  It was a fabulous
story idea that appeared in my brain, and getting it written down was
difficult; great ideas don't always submit to verbal expression!  But I've
had my finger in linguistics since college, and Frohike is my character from
some of my Krycek stories that I wanted to get involved in other work.

I apologize if the plot is spotty at times.  This is my usual writing
problem:  I get a great idea for a scene or subject, but then wrangling it
into a complete story is sooo tough!

Any confusion from the last section (set in Brazil) can be attributed to my
virtually complete ignorance of Brazil or South America.  The translation of
the sign was graciously offered by Ana Flavia vaz de Oliveira.

I LIKE NIT-PICKS!  If you spot an inconsistency in the plot, or a dangling
participle, or a mismatched pronoun-verb, *whatever*, please let me know!
This kind of feedback will help me become a better writer.  All comments to
ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu


Colleen C. Bailey  ccbailey@facstaff.wisc.edu
"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands
explained."  -  Mark Twain