Inside a cramped cockpit sat two aliens. What they looked like is still the subject of national security. The pilot we’ll call Don. The navigator was Horace. They muttered to themselves in short bursts and made minimal hand gestures. The control panel in front of Horace suddenly lit up, blinking blue. He pushed back in his chair and tapped Don on the shoulder. Don shrugged him off and continued to steer the craft. Horace tapped him again.
“What?”
“The fuse blew in the navigation computer.”
“What does that mean?”
“We lost the coordinates from command.”
“Are you sure?” asked Don.
“What does blinking blue mean to you?”
“Error. Okay, do you remember where we were going?”
“Of course, I’m the navigator,” said Horace.
Well, then reset it and let’s go.
“Alright, taking care of it,” said Horace. He turned back to his console. He typed in ‘Roswell’. The computer responded with a choice.
‘Roswell, Georgia – Roswell, New Mexico – Please choose.’
“That’s annoying.”
He considered asking Don but didn’t want to appear incompetent. So, he used the best logic he had.
“It’s usually the first one,” he muttered.
“What was that?” asked Don.
“Nothing,” he selected Roswell, Georgia.
The city lights came from over the horizon as they flew in. It looked nothing like the pictures they’d been given.
Don turned to Horace. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“Yes, watch the sky. You hit a flock of birds.”
Don turned back just as they passed a freeway sign. Roswell.
Don shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I guess we’re here.”
Don flew the ship around, looking for the military base. It was nowhere to be found. There was supposed to be an installation. Where Spencer and Jack’s remains were being kept. All he saw was houses.
“I’m not seeing the base.”
“Are your eyes open?” asked Horace.
“Yes, you asshole. We’re in the wrong place.”
“Command said, Roswell. We’re in Roswell.”
“I’m making you ask for directions to the base.”
“What?” asked Horace, indignant.
They landed in a quiet space of long grass surrounded by trees. The scorched grass beneath the engines formed a surprisingly decorative pattern. When they landed, Don got out the disguise.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Horace.
“I really don’t want to do this,” insisted Horace.
“Tough, we need to rescue Spencer.”
“And Jack?”
“And Jack.”
Horace sighed and put on his disguise. He wiggled the hockey jersey over his head and then put on the goalie mask.
“You sure this thing works?”
“As sure as you’re sure we’re in Roswell.”
“Hm.”
“Now go, get directions to the base.”
Horace left the ship, vanquished.
