Even without a golden statue of me in the backyard, the house was beautiful. The landlord, however, was not so easy on the eyes. We’d called the number on the sign saying we were interested in the property, and he showed up about fifteen minutes later in a gleaming, new, top-of-the-line Ferrari. Right off the bat, he was grouchy and impatient with us.

“Can we have a look around?” Dad asked.

“Let’s not beat around the bush here.” He’d spotted our dilapidated minivan and peered at us through his amber sunglasses. His shifty eyes darted around, sizing us up like we were so many head of cattle and he was a rancher. Or a butcher.

SO, AS YOU can see, I have trust issues.

But it wouldn’t have taken a ninth sense-let alone a sixth sense-to know the guy definitely wasn’t cool. The next thing you know, his eyes fixed on Mom’s modest engagement ring.

“Three thousand,” he said, and spat some tobacco juice into the lawn.

“Dollars? A month?!” my mom asked.

“Plus a month’s rent in advance. Security deposit. And heat and electricity are not included,” he said, already turning back toward his luxury sports car.

“We’ll take it,” said Dad.

The man spun around. “Now, don’t waste my time here, buddy. I have twenty properties to manage and can’t waste time on deadbeats.”

“Are you calling us deadbeats?” asked Mom.

Pork Chop blew a bubble and stared at him menacingly.

“All right then-a cashier’s check. Six thousand dollars made payable to Ernesto Gout. And I need it today. I have a lot of other people looking at this place.”

The guy tensed up a little as Dad stepped toward him, but Dad was all smiles.

“It’s a deal, sir,” he said, putting out his hand.

The landlord grudgingly accepted the handshake, whereupon I quickly stepped up behind him and put my hand on the back of his head, causing him to go rigid like somebody had dropped an ice cube down his shirt.

Cool Alien Hunter power number 141: Telepathic Attitude Adjustments.

“So, would cash be okay?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, of course. Cash would be fine,” he said, quickly coming around.

“And how about if you bring it to us by, oh, say, noon.”

For a moment it looked like he was going to lose his lunch, but he nodded.

“And we’ll need you to call the electric and gas companies and arrange to pay that yourself, okay?”

“Yeah-yeah, sure-sure.”

“And, here, why don’t we trade cars? You take the minivan, so you can have some more room for stuff when you run our errands. And we’ll keep the Ferrari.”

“Great idea.”

“All right then. If you can just give me the keys to the house and your car, I’ll let you go to the bank and get us our money.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

It all goes to show that you can’t always believe first impressions.

Or, if you don’t like your first impression, then change it. I mean, if you’re an Alien Hunter.

AFTER MR. GOUT returned with the money, we sent him off to get some lumber and other things to help alienproof the house. His attitude was much improved-he actually seemed happy about it.

“Your abilities are getting sharper,” remarked Dad, “but you’re going to need a bit more than that for Number 5. In fact, I’ve managed to update his profile, and I created a brief dossier I want you to digest before dinner.”

“And you aren’t going out till you’ve taken a shower and done your laundry,” added Mom. “You look like a ragamuffin. And tomorrow you’re getting a haircut.”

I guess it’s a little weird that I let myself get bossed around by people that are essentially products of my imagination; but what kind of parents would they be otherwise?

“Sure, Mom,” I humored her. Meantime, I went to check out some updates and relevant List computer information that Dad had helped me locate on Number 5 and Number 21.

You don’t make it into The List’s top ten without a pretty terrifying résumé to back it up, but the more I found out about Number 5, the more it was clear this was going to be my biggest test yet.

Like the electric eels on Earth, his species had evolved in murky swamp waters where electrical powers gave a creature a distinct advantage. Only, of course, his species had evolved a little more than any eel. Not only were Number 5 and his kin able to sense and stun with electricity, but they could also manipulate the electrical impulses in their prey’s brains and actually hypnotize them into doing whatever they wanted.

According to recent reports, it wasn’t uncommon to find Number 5’s species living with a handful of attending servants, who would do everything from cleaning to cooking themselves for dinner.

In the field of electromagnetics, Number 5 was described as something of an artist-you know, like in the way Genghis Khan was an artist with battlefield tactics and ruthless leadership. Oh, sorry… maybe you missed that part of world history class.

Also, he was a dynamo of energy. Literally. Where an electric eel could generate a few kilowatts-enough to kill the population of, say, a bathtub-Number 5 could generate enough electricity to fry an entire water park full of people… and even those out in the parking lot.

As to Number 21, the space ape that had gotten the jump on me in S-Mart, I discovered his show-biz name was Dougie Starshine and that he’d been credited as the production assistant and casting director on Number 5’s last dozen shows-and that he was no weakling, either.

That alien miscreant was wanted for murder in a half dozen galaxies, and it looked like he had some pretty serious psychic warfare talents. I mean, maybe a twenty-one ranking doesn’t quite compare to a top-ten baddie, but if you’re the type of reader who likes a little perspective, consider that Joe and I had figured out that if Superman were evil and real (in fact, he is loosely based on a real alien from the Crab Nebula), he’d come in at about number thirty-seven.

Real aliens seldom have weaknesses as obvious as kryptonite.

DAD AND I went out back and did some jujitsu training-and savate, tae kwon do, taekkyon, aikido, judo, and glima for good measure-and held a brief tactical planning session afterward.

He’d decided that when you boiled it right down, all that Number 21 had done to me was seize the advantage by using the element of surprise.

If there is a kryptonite for me, then there you have it: because my powers are directly linked to my imagination, I have to be thinking clearly in order to make the best use of them.

By hitting me with that concussion-inducing shockwave, Number 21 had been able to keep me disoriented and unable, for instance, to visualize any weapons-or summon my alien-butt-kicking friends.

“Hey, Mom,” I yelled. She was sitting on the back porch reading a book, The Elephant-Keeper’s Secret Kite, that I’d picked up for her. Have I mentioned that I love elephants and that it’s a little-known fact that they originated on my home planet?

“What’s for dinner?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she replied. “All we have here is a tin of caviar I found in the mailbox along with a lot of other old junk mail.”

“Caviar?” I asked. “As in fish eggs?”

“A lot of people consider it a delicacy, Daniel,” she reminded me, holding out the package. It was still in its clear plastic mailer, addressed to “Female Resident.”

I tore open the bag and read the note that came with the can:

A gift to the women of Holliswood from the KHAW news team, in gratitude for your kindness to visiting film producers. Bon appétit!

Caviar from the local news station? Well go ahead and chalk up mystery number 112 for me to solve already. And, while you’re at the board, why don’t you put me down for what is really only my second bad pun ever-although in this case I think you’ll agree it’s completely unavoidable-because there was something very fishy going on in this town.