Shotwell keeps the jacks and the rubber ball in his attache case and will not allow me to play with them. He plays with them, alone, sitting on the floor near the console hour after hour, chanting “Onesies, twosies, threesies, foursies” in a precise, well-modulated voice, not so loud as to be annoying, not so soft as to allow me to forget. I point out to Shotwell that two can derive more enjoyment from playing jacks than one, but he is not interested. I have asked repeatedly to be allowed to play by myself, but he simply shakes his head. “Why?“ I ask. “They’re mine,” he says. And when he has finished, when he has sated himself, back they go into the attache case.

It is unfair but there is nothing I can do about it. I ache to get my hands on them.

Shotwell and I watch the console. Shotwell and I live under the ground and watch the console. If certain events take place upon the console, we are to insert our keys in the appropriate locks and turn our keys. Shotwell has a key and I have a key. If we turn our keys simultaneously the bird flies—certain switches are activated and the bird flies. But the bird never flies. In one hundred thirty-three days the bird has not flown. Meanwhile Shotwell and I watch each other. We each wear a .45 and if Shotwell behaves strangely I am supposed to shoot him. If I behave strangely Shotwell is supposed to shoot me. We watch the console and think about shooting each other and think about the bird. Shotwell’s behavior with the jacks is strange. Is it strange? I do not know. Perhaps he is merely a selfish bastard, perhaps his character is flawed, perhaps his childhood was twisted. I do not know.

Each of us wears a .45 and each of us is supposed to shoot the other if the other is behaving strangely. What is “strangely”? I do not know. In addition to the .45, I have a .38 that Shotwell does not know about concealed in my attache case, and Shotwell has a .25-calibre Beretta that I do not know about strapped to his right calf. Sometimes instead of watching the console I pointedly watch Shotwell’s .45, but this is simply a ruse, simply a maneuver. In reality I am watching his hand when it dangles in the vicinity of his right calf. If he decides I am behaving strangely he will shoot me not with the .45 but with the Beretta. Similarly Shotwell pretends to watch my .45 but he is really watching my hand resting idly atop my attache case, my hand resting idly atop my attache case, my hand. My hand resting idly atop my attache case.

In the beginning I took care to behave normally. So did Shotwell. Our behavior was painfully normal. Norms of politeness, consideration, speech, and personal habits were scrupulously observed. But then it became apparent that an error had been made, that our relief was not going to appear. Owing to an oversight. Owing to an oversight we have been here for one hundred thirty-three days. When it became clear that an error had been made, that we were not to be relieved, the norms were relaxed. Definitions of normality were redrawn in the agreement of January 1st, called by us “The Agreement.” Uniform regulations were relaxed, mealtimes no longer rigorously scheduled. We eat when we are hungry and sleep when we are tired. Considerations of rank and precedence were temporarily set aside—a handsome concession on the part of Shotwell, who is a captain, whereas I am a first lieutenant. One of us watches the console at all times rather than two of us watching the console at all times, except when we are both on our feet. One of us watches the console at all times and if the console becomes agitated then that one wakes the other and we turn our keys in the locks simultaneously and the bird flies. Our system involves a delay of perhaps twelve seconds but I do not care because I am not well, and Shotwell does not care because he is not himself. After the agreement was signed Shotwell produced the jacks and the rubber ball from his attache case, and I began to write a series of descriptions of forms occurring in nature, such as a shell, a leaf, a stone, an animal. On the walls.

Shotwell plays jacks and I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls. Aching to get my hands on them, the jacks.

Shotwell is enrolled in a U.S.A.F.I. course leading to a Master’s degree in business administration from the University of Wisconsin (although we are not in Wisconsin; we are in Utah, Montana, or Idaho). When we went down it was in either Utah, Montana, or Idaho, I don’t remember. We have been here for one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. The pale-green reinforced concrete walls sweat and the air-conditioning zips on and off erratically and Shot-well reads “Introduction to Marketing,” by Lassiter and Munk, making notes with a blue ball-point pen. Shotwell is not himself but I do not know it. He presents a calm aspect and reads “Introduction to Marketing” and makes his exemplary notes with a blue ball-point pen, meanwhile controlling the .38 in my attache case with one-third of his attention. I am not well.

We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. Although now we are not sure what is oversight, what is plan. Perhaps the plan is for us to stay here permanently, or if not permanently at least for a year, for three hundred sixty-five days. Or if not for a year for some number of days known to them and not known to us, such as two hundred days. Or perhaps they are observing our behavior in some way—sensors of some kind. Perhaps our behavior determines the number of days. It may be that they are pleased with us, with our behavior, not in every detail but in sum. Perhaps the whole thing is very successful, perhaps the whole thing is an experiment and the experiment is very successful. I do not know. Or perhaps the only way they can persuade sun-loving creatures into their pale-green sweating reinforced concrete rooms under the ground is to say that the system is twelve hours on, twelve hours off. And then lock us below for some number of days known to them and not known to us. Perhaps, perhaps. We eat well, although the frozen enchiladas are damp when defrosted and the frozen devil’s food cake is sour and untasty. We sleep uneasily and acrimoniously. I hear Shotwell shouting in his sleep— objecting, denouncing, cursing sometimes, weeping sometimes, in his sleep. When Shotwell sleeps I try to pick the lock on his attache case, so as to get at the jacks. Thus far I have been unsuccessful. Nor has Shotwell been successful in picking the lock on my attache case so as to get at the .38. I have seen the marks on the shiny surface. I laughed, in the latrine, pale-green walls sweating and the air-conditioning whispering, in the latrine. I ache to get my hands on them. The jacks.

I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls, scratching them on the tile surface with a diamond. The diamond is a two-and-one-half-carat solitaire I had in my attache case when we went down. It was for Lucy. The south wall of the room containing the console is already covered. I have described a shell, a leaf, a stone, animals, a baseball bat. I am aware that the baseball bat is not a natural form. Yet I described it. “The baseball bat,” I said, “is typically made of wood. It is typically one metre in length or a little longer, fat at one end, tapering to afford a comfortable grip at the other. The end with the handhold typically offers “a slight rim, or lip, at the nether extremity, to prevent slippage.” My description of the baseball bat ran to forty-five hundred words, all scratched with a diamond on the south wall. Does Shotwell read what I have written? I do not know. I am aware that Shot-well regards my writing-behavior as a little strange. Yet it is no stranger than his jacks-behavior, or than the day he appeared in black bathing trunks with the .25-calibre Beretta strapped to his right calf and stood over the console, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the locks. He could not do it, I had already tried, standing over the console with my two arms outstretched—the distance is too great. I was moved to comment but did not comment. Comment would have provoked counter-comment, comment would have led God knows where. They had in their infinite patience, in their infinite foresight, in their infinite wisdom already imagined a man standing over the console with his two arms outstretched, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the locks. Perhaps.

Shotwell is not himself. He has made certain overtures. The burden of his message is not clear. It has something to do with the keys, with the locks. Shotwell is strange. He appears to be less affected by our situation than I. He goes about his business stolidly, watching, the console, studying “Introduction to Marketing,” bouncing his rubber ball on the floor in a steady, rhythmical, conscientious manner. He appears to be less affected by our situation than I. He is stolid. He says nothing. But he has made certain overtures, certain overtures have been made. I am not sure that I understand them. They have something to do with the keys, with the locks. Shotwell has something in mind. Stolidly he shucks the shiny silver paper from the frozen enchiladas, stolidly he stuffs them into the electric oven. But he has something in mind. But there must be a quid pro quo. I insist on a quid pro quo. I have something in mind.

I am not well. I do not know our target. They do not tell us for which city the bird is targeted. I do not know. That is planning. That is not my responsibility. My responsibility is to watch the console and when certain events take place upon the console, to turn my key in the lock. Shotwell bounces the rubber ball on the floor in a steady, stolid, rhythmical manner. I am aching to get my hands on the ball, on the jacks. We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. I write on the walls. Shotwell chants “Onesies, twosies, threesies, foursies” in a precise, well-modulated voice. Now he cups the jacks and the rubber ball in his hands and rattles them suggestively. I do not know for which city the bird is targeted. Shotwell is not himself.

Sometimes I cannot sleep. Sometimes Shotwell cannot sleep. Sometimes when Shotwell cradles me in his arms and rocks me to sleep, singing Brahms’ “Gwen it bend, gut’ Nacht,” or when I cradle Shotwell in my arms and rock him to sleep, singing, I understand what it is Shotwell wishes me to do. At such moments we are very close. But only if he will give me the jacks. That is fair. There is something he wants me to do with my key while he does something with his key. But only if he will give me my turn. That is fair. I am not well. ♦