If They Knew Would They Tell Us?

Greg sat at his memento-covered desk sipping orange juice to settle his gastric upheavals, while working out equations for N.A.S.A.’s Paganini launch scheduled for later this summer. His gut rumbled as the Taco Bell burrito entered his upper intestine. Being alone in the command center, he didn’t mind relieving himself or talking to himself aloud. He leaned back in his ergonomic chair and let loose a long, hot belch. His wife Jennifer’s picture seemed to say ‘I told you so’. His twin boys played on the opposite walls. He could enjoy their gaiety if only the burning would stop.

“One of these days you’re gonna – uuh – learn to leave the spicy food alone.”

Earlier, when hurrying to work in the midst of an after-hours caravan of club goers needing to grease their stomachs, he decided to make a run for the border as well. Now, he was running for the bathroom.

He returned from the lavatory and rummaged through his coworkers’ desks for a Kleenex for his flushed face. After a futile search, he settled for the back of his hand and flung the sweat from his fingers.

“Where’s Hank when you need him?”

Lloyd, the new and mysterious floor supervisor with a British accent, whom Greg referred to, earned the nickname ‘Hank’ from carrying around two handkerchiefs. He carried a black one to remove the spittle that formed at the corners of his mouth when he spoke and a white one to wipe whatever his hypochondriac tendencies led him to.

The screen in front of the center showed a streaming panoramic view of the Martian landscape, and cast a deep eerie rouge over everything. Greg’s desk, a light oasis in the dark cubical honeycomb, was close to the front wall, so there was no way he could miss the motion on the huge television. He stood up and knocked over his beverage, which he absent-mindedly sloshed on the floor, afraid to take his eyes off the screen, for fear that what he saw might disappear.

“Where the hell is Hank indeed?”

On the monitor, interrupting the horizon, a shadowy thing, resembling a hooded and robed man, with a slow shuffling gait. Martian gust swirled dust cued by the thing’s footfalls. It plodded its way onward as if grappling with a gale wind. Greg initiated recording just as the thing reached mid-screen. Then it stopped.

“Oh my God. It sees it, it sees the rover. Come on come closer!”

The shape of the thing broadened, transformed, and shifted to face the rover. Greg held his breath to stalk a creature a million miles away. Then slowly, the thing slimmed its profile and continued on its way ambling across the red rock strewn Martian plains. Greg snatched up the phone and punched Lloyd’s number before he realized the phone was dead. He whipped out his cell phone and as usual, there was no reception in the center. He checked the phone’s on his co-workers’ desks – nothing.

“– The hell’s going on?”

He grabbed his coat off his chair and jetted to the door knowing he’d get a signal outside, when the lights flickered. He smacked his forehead. The surge, he knew, would reset all the access keypads in the building and would take until the I.T. team came in the morning to put them online again. He thought he’d try anyway. He jogged down the hall as best he could, his heavy set frame juddering with every step. It was only at these times he regret gaining the sympathy weight during his wife’s pregnancy and swore to start his workout regimen next week. Greg turned the corner and saw that the card-swipe blinked with all eights. He was locked in. He slapped his thighs in exasperation, then made his way back to the command center. When he reached its door, he remembered the cargo lift that might run on a separate power source. He was jogging again, this time through the other half of the mile long complex. When he reached the cargo lift he was huffing and his shirt was soaked with perspiration along the buttons. It was a darker shade of red where the sweat shown through. His face was pink and hot and the burrito threatened to make a return. The cargo lift was out of commission.

It was an even longer walk to the control center, disheartened by the fact he had made the largest scientific discovery in the history of mankind, and it would have to wait till slumbering techies had their first cup of Joe. He passed the project managers’ offices and saw some of them left their desk lamps on for their chrysanthemums he’d bought them. When he trudged into the command center his heart nearly stopped at the sight of Lloyd sitting at his desk.

“Han – Lloyd, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you - the phones went dead – then the lights – but the monitor!” Greg hurried down the aisle.

Lloyd sat hunched forward and gaped legged with his arms over the inside of his thighs. His black suit shrank his slim frame even more and gave a grave, sharp look to his pock marked face. He sat up straight in his seat when Greg approached and combed his fingers through his sleek blonde hair. It was then that Greg noticed the small pistol and the white handkerchief across his lap, but was too excited to question it.

“Have a seat Gregory.”

“Greg Sir, just Greg.”

“Whatever, sit.” Greg took the chair next to his desk. “What did you see tonight Gregory?” Greg ignored the overt disregard for his name preference, and continued spewing information. “Uh-huh, I see. Gregory hold this to your forehead please.” Lloyd extended the white handkerchief.

“Huh, what for?”

“Just – do it, please?”

Greg studied Lloyd’s face carefully, his deep blue eyes held a steely and reserved determination. Greg tentatively pulled the handkerchief from his hand.

“Oh, I get it! This is some sort of office prank! You guys got me! Ok, like this?” Greg put the handkerchief to his forehead like a sweatband just below his hairline.

“Tighter, I have to do this but I don’t want to get dirty.”

In an attempt to be funny, Greg tightened the handkerchief so that the skin around his eyes drew slanted like he was Asian.

“Dirty? What are you talking about?

Lloyd cocked the hammer of the pistol leveled the gun and fired. Greg’s head jerked and a red ring spread from the hole in the white cloth as one of his eyes rolled up behind his eyelids. Then his body slid out the chair. No sooner than Greg’s body crumpled onto the floor did six men in dark suits file into the room. One man toted a body bag and the others scurried about meticulously cleaning off Greg’s cubicle and gathering equipment. With the sound of gripping zipper teeth, Greg’s body disappeared into the lumpy sack. Lloyd slowly moved off into the red-tinted shadows, cleaning his mouth nonchalantly with his black handkerchief.

The End