Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
Ten thousand years ago, Malthusians left earth for the dark side of the Moon. It was always a favorite resort. Why not live there full-time? So they did.
But now they’re back. It wasn’t at all their choice. Malthusia found it easy enough to hide from the Apollo missions, and their crude sensors. Today, fifty years later, Earthlings had advanced. They planned one lunar expedition after another, and would soon discover the Malthusians. Then it would be Game On.
What a mess, Captain Rollhaugen thought. He reviewed and signed a letter from Command Central. As the first battleship to arrive, he was buried in paperwork. Malthusia had long cured heart disease, obesity, inflammation of the bowels. Even most accidents were a thing of the past. But endless and redundant reports, charts, forms, memos? Oh no, we can’t get rid of that.
Rollhaugen signed another and dropped it into his Out basket.
The next one troubled him. He pushed a button. “Mr. Kern, could you come to my office?” Through a porthole he watched Earth, brightly bathed in sunlight. The place was a veritable paradise. Earthlings, he thought. Why couldn’t they be happy?
Lt. Commander Kern entered with his usual smug confidence. Tall and angular, with slick black hair, he wore his silver jumpsuit without a crease or wrinkle. Kern always looked at you as though you were slightly less capable than himself, and you both knew it. Most irritating. Rollhaugen would have found a way to send him back to the Moon, but he was an excellent Communications Officer. One could rely on him to do the right thing. Usually.
“Whatta ya got, Captain?”
“Kenneth.” He held up a sheet. “I don’t like to interfere. But do you think this is a good report to send to Command?”
Kern showed his usual disdain. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, for one thing. It says the crew is suffering from boredom.”
“They are.”
“I know that. But if staff reads this, what do you think will happen? Let me tell you what will happen. They’ll want details. And no matter what we say they won’t leave well enough alone. They’ll form committees with up-and-comers looking to make their mark. They’ll send questionnaires and issue assessments. They’ll recommend book clubs and cooking classes and pickleball tournaments. Do I look like I have time for all that?”
“I like pickleball.”
“That’s not the point.” He handed over the report. “Just redo this with the usual all good, no bad routine. Send it off and be done with it. Have you seen Ensign Tate?”
Kern smirked. “I’m sure she’s close by.”
What did he mean by that? Kern turned and, carrying the memo as though it might stain his fingers, walked out. Rollhaugen hit the button. “Ensign Tate to the Captain’s Office. Please.”
Five minutes later his subordinate appeared. She had none of the aplomb of his previous visitor. Modest and thoughtful, she wore her uniform a size too big.
The captain found her very attractive. To counter this he assumed an all-business attitude. “Ensign Tate, what are crew members doing to keep busy?”
Both instantly blushed. As with many hiding their feelings, conversation tended to suggest the very thing to be hidden. “I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’m really quite innocent.”
“I’m sure you are, Ms. Tate. I meant for recreation.”
“Nothing inappropriate. I mean, not that I’ve seen, or… or…” She let her voice trail off.
The captain fidgeted. Ensign Tate looked away. If they could have, they would have jumped into evacuation tubes and jettisoned into space.
“How about this,” the captain said. “What do they talk about?”
“I believe they watch a lot of TV.”
“TV?”
“American TV.”
The captain frowned. “What’s wrong with our own shows?”
“Oh, nothing at all. That’s what I watch. There’s a wonderful documentary on the early exploration of Saturn, when Malthusia…”
“Of course.” The captain cut her off. “But it’s not like, say, The Housewives of Orange County.”
“Assuredly not.”
Both knew what the crew preferred. And it wasn’t space documentaries. “The important thing is morale,” the captain intoned.
“Yes.”
“American shows don’t reflect Malthusian values.”
“No.”
“Lust. Vice. An obsession with the body.”
Ensign Tate swallowed. Hard. “Most unwholesome.”
“Keep your eye on things, Ms. Tate.” He shuffled papers. “And report back to me later.” To her relief, the captain dismissed her. She all but ran out the door.
Rollhaugen waited a moment. Then got out his own video disk. He tuned to an educational show on PBS, The History of Quilts. But it wasn’t long before he switched to cable, Below Deck Mediterranean.
Soon he was chuckling. He didn’t feel guilty. After all, there are all kinds of education.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com