LJIdol week 26 home game - Blue Sky
“It’s always about the money.”
“The physicists all know, but they don’t can’t allow the rest of us to - otherwise they would lose their funding. The astronauts all know, too, of course. That’s why they all live in fancy constantly updated houses with rooms where the paint doesn’t want to dry. That’s why they get to be in Congress. They are well paid for their silence.”
The man who refused to give us his name, the one we nicknamed ‘Norman’ (No-Man, get it? - yeah, we aren’t really inventive), peers out from under a brand new Indian headdress, a change from the typical dark grey “Don’t Trust Anyone” baseball cap he usually wears. On his lap he is cradling a small cooler. His eyes dart between me and my partner, trying to read our stone faces. We don’t give anything away, though. We never do.
“They claim it has to do with air densities and light refraction. They work their sleight of hand with formulas and fake experiments. They want us to believe that blue is just like any other color in the spectrum, that it is all just another part of the rainbow, that the lack of blue at the edges is just what happens down the road where the dirt reaches the sky. They want us to believe in the prism, new moons that shine in the sky, and more importantly in the eye within. But they know. And I know. And now I am going to tell you so that you will know too. And then we will go on and tell everyone, two at a time. Geometric progression, using their math against them. 32 footsteps (counted them myself) to reach the entire world. And then the physicists will be overthrown. And we will be...”
He pauses here, aware that his voice has been getting louder and others might overhear. He parts the feathers just enough to run a hand through his hair, never allowing the light to reach his eyes. He bobs up and down slightly as he nervously looks around and then stares back at us again. People usually hate silence in the middle of a conversation, and so they try to fill it. We always let the silence do our work for us, and eventually it does its trick again this time, and he continues.
“George Carlin was on the right track. Alfred Hitchcock before him. But they were bought off, turned into entertainers to prevent anyone from trusting them. They tried to tell us though. They knew enough. And they left clues, in comedy routines and in Hollywood parties. “Blueberries are purple.” I followed them all. Of course I did. I doubt I am the only one. But, I was smart about it. I took my time. Kept up appearances - eating the same food as everyone else. Burgers, fries, chocolate. But I knew. And I searched. And I finally found it. I should have known by the color.
“All that blue food.”
He pauses again, licks his lips slowly with a tongue not merely tinged, but shining bright blue. My partner and I don’t react to the sight, and this seems to unnerve him a little.
“But of course you guessed I found that out. Lots of people did, I bet. But I didn’t just find out about the blue food: that it isn’t found in nature; that it contains an otherwise non-existent chemical compound. That it causes immortality. Yes, I found out about that. But not only that.
“I also found where it all went.
“It’s up there, in the sky. This is why we lost space shuttles. This is why those Space-X rockets kept exploding until they made a deal with the government. This is why there isn’t a space elevator or a hotel on the moon or any successful space tourism, or all those other promises from years ago. Not because we can’t make them happen. Because we won’t. The government can’t afford to let lay people get their hands on the blue food. NASA controls the access. The physicists control NASA. The spacewalks collect just enough to feed the chosen few. Ever wonder why all the candidates look the same every four years? Ever wonder why scientists are always old white men in every documentary, tv show, and movie? They are protecting a secret. They don’t want anyone else to know.
“But I know. I’ve seen it. My uncle owned a farm in the Midwest. He showed me the fallen blue food, knocked out of the sky by a misaligned satellite. I didn’t know its name at the time. Plemave. Like the company. A mispronunciation of the Greek for ‘blue mana’. I should’ve seen right through that.
“It’s up there. In enough quantity to feed the entire population for years. Placed up there by the aliens that brought us and left us here all those years ago. A treasure we had to obtain before we could earn our way to joining them. Before we could survive the long distances of space travel. And we could. We can. We can go home. We have the technology, and with that food we can live long enough to get there.”
He is talking more rapidly now. Words tumbling out as he wraps up his spiel.
“If everyone knows, they can’t keep us here. They would have to let us go, or the resulting riots would end with enough dead that those left would - well, then we would all have enough food up there to live forever. And then they would have no control. No one would need to buy from them. Supply and demand. It’s always about the money.”
He pauses, and looks upward, letting the light hit his eyes for the first time. They gleam a bright blue.
“It’s up there. I know it. Now you know it. But you probably don’t believe it yet.
“That’s okay. Enough talking. I’ll show you.”
Norman, gathers up his cloak and wraps it around him, sitting back in his chair. He buckles himself in with a lap belt and two shoulder harnesses, looks up at the enormous mass of helium-filled balloons above his head, and smiles. He looks back at us one last time, fingering a knife. Our steady, unmoving gaze no longer seems to concern him.
In a flash, he cuts the ropes that were tying his chair to the plaque in front of us, secures his cooler against his chest, and floats up out of view, feathers from his headdress fluttering in the wind.
The pigeons fly off of our heads and follow him.