Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
Staff Officer Paul Hussenian, aged ninety-six, delivered a sheaf of maintenance orders to the Engineering Department. These were highly technical. Schematics had been attached, and exact coordinates entered and cross-checked. This is not a minor point. Several orders involved hatch doors. Needless to say, outer space and inner space don’t mix.
He plopped the files onto a young lieutenant’s desk. The lieutenant knew better than to question his aged superior. Hussenian didn’t make mistakes.
On the way out he paused. He felt dizzy. The lieutenant noticed. “Okay, Paul?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” The room stopped spinning. Hussenian waited. Then he turned. “There’s a knock in your overhead vent. You might check the fan.” Both men listened. Sure enough, a steady, almost imperceptible beat sounded from above.
“Roger.”
Hussenian walked out. Still light-headed, he headed for the gym. A mile run would make him feel better.
On the second lap, he stopped. Placing hands on knees, he waited. The track circled faster than he could keep up. He stepped from the track and walked to his quarters. If he was going to pass away, it would be alone. This is very Malthusian. First and foremost, one must never inconvenience others.
He turned off lights and laid down. So now he would die. It wasn’t so bad. His only concern was for Spaceship One, and his replacement. It had taken thirty years to really learn the job. So let’s see, it would be 2052 before… no, even longer. One had to finish a certificate in small engine propulsion to even get started…
The old officer woke in darkness. Where was he? Had he gone to the stars? In Moon religion, they worshipped the Unknowable. The Unknowable guided the cosmos. When one died, He placed a finger on you. Then it was off to the stars.
Minutes ticked by. If that’s where he went, it was damned dark. He switched on a light.
To his chagrin he found himself in his own room. The Unknowable hadn’t killed him after all.
Hussenian was an engineer, and judged ability on very exacting standards. When one started a project, one finished it. On time and under budget.
He found he was hungry. Then after dinner he would get an early start on tomorrow’s reports. He tied on shoes and marched out. If anyone was giving anyone the finger, at least for the time being, it was Paul Hussenian.
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