Retirement Day

by Catfish Russ

conclusion

Murray knew exactly how missiles were launched, with the two keys and the daily command codes. But he did not know how the Viewings affected anyone else, because he had never had a conversation with anyone else on his watch and they did not know him either. He knew their voices were masked over the comm system on the rare occasions when he’d needed to talk to someone about something.

And he never, ever discussed work with Arlene or the kids. Stace pressed him a while when she went through her liberal phase. But he was firmly quiet about his work. His important job, the incredible niche he fit into, in the scheme of things, the wonderful and awe-inspiring role he played, and honor he would bear quietly for the rest of his life.

His story was all a deceit. A fabrication he reluctantly agreed to, until his first chamber entry. Boy, did he remember that. He went home that night to his little apartment, and sat and stared and wondered.

Back at the Fire Control Center he checked scores. The Bengals had lost again. What a horrible thing to be, a Bengals fan. Bengals torture their fans with almost-wins and seasons almost over .500.

He thumbed through his Field and Stream but just could not concentrate. Murray opened his lunch and found a brown paper bag. Inside was a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and a giant plum. In the lunch pail was left a bag of corn chips and a thermos filled with coffee. Murray looked at his sandwich, tuna fish on whole wheat and mayo; he took a bite, wrapped it back up and threw it back in the lunch pail.

Electricity raced through him tonight. He fidgeted. Pumped his calves up and down while he sat. Changed positions. It was later now than he realized. The night flew by, this last one. He waited for his last big round, at 5:00 a.m.

Just like his father, if Murray sat still too long, he would eventually sleep. He almost missed his last patrol. An alarm woke him at 4:45 a.m. He responded with the truth when a message asked him to explain why the last shift was missed. He typed in: I fell asleep.

Murray opened a locked desk drawer and pushed a button recessed and hidden under the top of the desk. Another drawer opened, and there was an electronic key to the launch chamber. It was a little brown box. That is all. All he needed to do was hold it up to the chamber door in a specific square over the handle.

He picked it up, hit the comm button and said: “Guards, I am making entry.”

A computer generated voice reported back: Roger that.

His steps echoed across the empty launch tube gantry. Light came on over the door to the chamber automatically. There above the handle was a square outline, the exact size of the box. He put the box in the square, the door slid open and he entered. There. Hanging on coat hanger was a heavy-duty barn jacket. He slipped it on, and entered the chamber.

The chamber itself had been filled in and a floor installed at the gantry level. It was empty except for four glass cases in the center of the room, arranged like a “plus” sign. Three feet long, one and a half feet wide, four feet from the floor, each was filled with a non-corrosive nitrogen atmosphere.

Murray walked over, put his flashlight away and brushed off a little dust on the first case. He peered in and saw the little man, his large, inverted pear-shaped head, and stared for a moment into little almond eyes, half-closed, glistening back a reflection of a lamp on the wall.

Murray peered at all four and saw the same faces, the same four-fingered hands, and the same small feet in a miniature jump suit. An elegant repose, so still, almost like each one was in prayer. They all lay on their backs, all of them had their eyes closed, and one of them had eyes partially open.

A frost formed on the outer skins of the casings and sometimes a full Viewing meant a little cleaning was needed. A small broom hung in the chamber for just that reason. A short amount of examination and you could easily see that they did not look alike.

Number one had large eyes and a severely angled-back forehead. Number two had long elegant fingers — some called him the Piano Player — and he had a slightly different greyish olive complexion. Number four looked like a perfect composite of the species, everything perfectly proportioned. The Handsome One.

Who was this? A little man? A traveler? A scientist? A pioneer? An evangelist? Wearing a flight suit? Regular clothing? Who knew what he did for a living? How old was he when he came here? Did anyone miss him?

The Second one had a slight frown. He was called the Boss. And here in these other containers, were his companions. Were diminutive grandchildren on a world somewhere staring up at their skies and wishing they would come back?

Were these our progenitors? Time travelers? Genetic mutants? Vacationers? Lost business executives? Were they from here, Earth? Are we the dominant species on the planet? Or is this an ancestor?

Four still bodies, once living; so powerful is the fact of their existence that they have to be hidden. Away from the truth. Away from questions. Questions that once asked might be answered, and that is what scared those in power. Not the questions, but the answers.

Hidden, not destroyed, mind you. Their existence itself was too profound to have the bodies destroyed and forgotten. But the idea of a transcendent race flying overhead, outside of the purview of state authority was antithetical to authority itself. Once someone knew you were not the boss, they go try and find the real boss. We cannot let that happen. No sir. Murray understood that viscerally.

The four travelers had been given nicknames, which appeared over the years in the log records. One was Eeeny Meenie Miney and Moe. Another was the Four Miniature Horsemen. In the mid-seventies, Miney (number three) disappeared. The station personnel were informed it was temporary, and sure enough, one day he reappeared in a grey flight suit.

They were far from home. Then again, this might be their home. But it seemed to Murray they were explorers, and like Hernando Desoto who traveled from the Mediterranean and died in the mud in the Mississippi River, these beings ended their travels effectively in an equally unexpected and inglorious place: a sheep ranch in New Mexico.

And despite their high technology, it was completely possible that someone back home would not know that they were here, in this mausoleum of sorts, being kept as a sacred and terrible state secret.

There was a feeling of reverence about these beings. And it was undeniable. They were alone out here, and they would never return home. Somehow, despite the incredible fact of their existence, that was sad.

Forty-five minutes had passed since Murray entered the chamber. They give you an hour, and Murray took every second.

Maybe not tonight, though. The sadness of the fallen travelers, the sadness of his retirement all weighed upon him and gurgled out as quiet tears. He sniffed and blew his nose and wiped his face. He hung the broom back up. He looked at each one, hard, one last time.

He picked up his flashlight and turned to place the square lock on the door that would open the chamber for the last time, for Murray anyway. He did not look back. When the door opened, he walked through and stopped and stared ahead until it closed behind him for the last time.

Murray pushed Floor One, but the elevator went to the floor marked DB. He felt a deep fast drop, the bottom falling out of this elevator, and it went on and on. There were a million switches and buttons and rheostats and potentiometers all over the silos that had long since been disconnected, or were simply connected to systems that had long since been deactivated.

More often than not, the old machines were still in place simply because a newer technology had already been soldered on top of them. So he never knew that DB meant Deep Basement. He never suspected that retirement here had an unexpected twist. Not his retirement. He had performed this lonely solemn duty without whispering a note in his sleep about it.

The motion downwards sobered him and dried his tears. What the heck is going on, he thought.

Certainly a predictable life in a safe suburb couldn’t be two much to ask. No one knew more than Murray that order was the single most important underpinning of civilization. The deep inner core of any government, certainly a powerful one like ours, would know how important it is for people to have rules, and a belief in the ultimate strength or rightness of the government.

No one could know that we were little more than a mote in God’s eye and that there were beings visiting us that had god-like powers.

No one could see these bodies. They still provided us with answers. And they still hid the biggest secret of all, the one he kept: that we were not the biggest dog in the pack. Not by far.

The elevator finally came to a sudden stop.

Outside the elevator door, two men awaited Murray.

Upstairs, in Operations, a young technical sergeant was standing with his right arm raised, taking an oath to secrecy. In a few moments, he would take his first trip inside the chamber. He would see the visitors. He would keep a secret, a very, very solemn and important secret.