A big black Mercedes, vanity plates "U I OWN," pulls up to the cardboard security booth at the United States Air Force Wm. Norton Research Center, American flag a-flying. The guard waves Langley and Max through, and they drive on to the lot. Max follows Langley up a flight of stairs, discussing the "plan" loud enough for the entire Air Force to overhear -- Langley will meet with General Chambers, "the military consultant I have used on many Cal Langley productions" (Hollywood and our Armed Forces: working together to brainwash the world), find out where this super-duper-extra-top-secret spaceship is located, and get permission to examine it (insert anal probe joke here), because he strives for reality and accuracy in all things. Especially on his new project, Saturn Skies. Sure, that's bound to work smoothly. Max and Cal both sport head-to-toe Hollywood black; the latter is wearing a thoroughly ridiculous crumply black leather porkpie hat, which should get him beaten up very shortly. Suddenly the expert, Max advises Langley to play it cool, to act like it doesn't really matter if he gets to see the ship. Langley, with good reason, bristles, tells Max to lay off the direction, and asks Max how many Academy Awards he's won, while making it painfully obvious that he knows the answer. Cal, ya see, has won four.
Double doors fly open, and there's General Chambers, resplendent in military finery. He growls and calls Langley an "old dog." Langley races to Chambers, grabs his face with both hands, and plants a kiss on his lips, which, combined with the fey hat and designer glasses (black-framed, this time, to complete the look), marks him for certain death on Air Force property. Chambers cuts Cal's advance off at the pass, with a bemused "you Hollywood boys," and wonders who Max is. He's just some intern, answers Cal, and tells Max -- who gets all huffy (already too big for his expensive new Tinseltown britches) -- to wait outside while he goes to conduct his business.