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My piece outlined some valid, hard-hitting points that the media refused to discuss, and I received a number of letters expressing support for my expose.

But one letter stood out. “Interesting piece” it read in part “You’re on the right track, but you’re not thinking big enough. If you want the real truth about the moon, meet me for lunch tomorrow at the Green Hill café. Signed, Kent Drake, Retired Military Scientist”

With some trepidation, I showed up at the café the next afternoon. A man with a black top-hat and dark glasses nodded at me as I walked in. “Mr. Drake?” I asked cautiously. He nodded again, and I sat down.

He stared at me coldly for a few seconds, stirring his drink, which appeared to be a gin and tonic. I fidgeted awkwardly, averting my eyes from his glare, and then he spoke. “What does the moon mean to you?” he said, finally taking a sip from his drink.

“I… it…” I paused “I guess it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s… it’s just there. An inanimate object”

He cackled, a low noise that sounded more like a hiss than a laugh. “Oh, it’s ‘just there’, now is it?” he shook his head, and leaned in close “Listen close: there is no moon” He sat back in his chair and repeated himself, this time slowly and deliberately “There is no moon”