Every seat at the enormous, ornate, mahogany conference table was occupied, as was almost every cubic foot of the observation gallery; both the seating area and the standing-room-only mezzanine.

Copious spotlights and a bevy of cameras of all sizes and a vast porcupine-like shield wall of microphones and a jostling throng of overeager, and none-too-polite, men and women, betrayed the media section.

Aides and interns and pages of all shapes, sizes, genders and ethnicities lined the walls around the perimeter of the room, holding arms-full of documents and laptops and recording devices and writing instruments and legal-pads and all other manner of corporate/legislative bric-a-brac and debris.

The room was full of the low sounds of rustling papers and hushed conversations; a throat clearing here, the straightening of a pile of paperwork there; a retractable ballpoint pen was ‘clicked’ and a careful sip of water was taken from a crystal glass.  Jackets and cuffs and ties and blouses and skirts were adjusted and arranged, adding a little fabric-y swishing noise to the milieu, and behind it all the barely perceptible drone of the air-conditioning system.

All movement and noise, save that of the air-conditioning, came to a sudden halt as the alien delegate straightened in his chair, intertwined the long fingers on both of his hands and placed them on the wooden surface of the table before him.

He smiled slightly, a politician’s professional smile, and then shifted his gaze around the table, looking at each of the world leaders in turn.

When the full visual sweep of the assemblage of distinguished august luminaries was complete, he settled back into his dark-brown leather Executive’s Chair and began the negotiations which would decide the fate of the planet, “Okay, so here’s the thing – You’re all a bunch of fuck-heads…”