Dawn of the Rogue Pulsations

I leaned back at my desk and caressed my secretary's leg as she handed me the mail.
"Read this one to me, mon cherie," I said, handing one back to her. She sat down on the chair next to me and crossed her legs.
"To whom it must concern," she said, in her soft and sultry voice. "Pay close attention to what I say.
It happened about two years ago when during an assignment, the Hubble Space Telescope was oriented to the Constellation Fornax in order to capture ultra deep field observations. To capture images, in other words, at a depth or distance out into space that to date, had never been probed. Images of outermost regions never before seen by man. The images were astounding. But, even more astounding, an occurrence that went unnoticed until the announcement that came only last week from NASA that the Hubble had somehow become infected. That was the word they used. Infected."
"Shall I go on, sir?" my secretary asked.
"Yes," I replied. "I find it somehow endearing."
"A reporter asked,
"What does that mean?" The NASA spokesman shuffled his papers and said,
"An infection is basically an invasion and multiplication of microorganisms." He then stepped away from the mike and would take no further questions. I recalled several years back when I was working for NASA, having a conversation with a colleague at a bar. I remembered he said quite drunkenly,
"What if, out there, there was a non-physical intelligent civilization that existed only as some kind of radioactive pulse? And they notice the pulses we are sending out into the universe, and hijack them and ride them back to earth?"
"You tell me," I replied, being one Russian vodka behind him.
"So, they make it into our receivers," he said," "The satellites, skylab, the Hubble. From there, they are home free and beaming on down to earth."

The detective stuck his toothpick behind his ear.
"So, that's your statement?"
"Yes," I replied. "Don't you see? They are in our tvs now. Our radios. Our cars. Our computers. Our cell phones. They are listening to us all the time. They are tapping our brains. They are putting GPS devices in our shoes. They know our every move. They are controlling us."
"Sargeant," the detective said over his shoulder, "Lock him up."
So, I write to you from my cell now, and I will tie it onto the leg of a rat. Maybe it will find you."
"Its signed, 'Sincerely yours, John Whelby'," my secretary said. I couldn't help but laugh, of course.
"Will there be anything else, Mr. Fornax?" she said, dropping the letter down to her lap.
"Yes, I'd like to check your pulse now."
"I'd like to check your pulse too, Mr. Fornax." Our pulsing became one self-exciting circuit on the couch by the window until at last we screamed at the same time,
"Stupid earthlings!"