Unmanned Flight

Our return to scientific innocence occurred in the latter half of the 1950s. While the apocalyptic threat of the bomb remained, distilled into the Cold War rivalry, we once again became dreamers. Imagination emerged from its hibernation, as bright minds could hypothesize with the confidence that, in the morning, there would still be a world for them to discover. The subatomic realm, the early ancestors of modern computers, the suspicion that there was some consistent and fundamental code for all life; these piqued curiosities in a way that the military-industrial complexities of wartime never could. At the root of it all, however, was exploration, perhaps the most base curiosity.

The crucible of this renewed excitement? A small university classroom. Books littered the old desks, the names of great men adorning their spines. On one of the blackboards, someone had written “Euclid helps dyslexics find their angel.” Two stiff suits sat flipping through volumes, so thoroughly starched that heads and hands were all that betrayed the presence of the men inside them. The instant an unknowable squeaking in the walls ceased, a third, equivalent suit entered the room.

“Gentleman. There are only several minor outstanding alterations and calculations to be performed, and then we shall be on the precipice of becoming the first men to place an unmanned probe into orbit around the moon. Each picture relayed back will be a testament to our genius, and these moments of celebration are fast becoming a reality.”

The others nodded with requisite grandeur. It was understood, among the three, that they were next in the lineage of titans of the mind. Great men of science were the pinnacle of the species, those truly responsible for the advancements that eased the lives of the dullard masses. They were ultimately worthy of the adoration so blasphemously showered upon deities, entertainers, the rich, even fucking objects. As the primitive hypermasculinity of the war faded, an era of reason was setting in, where men would be judged by the contents of their skull.

“I believe that we should arrange for portraiture immediately after the launch. The jubilation of the hero cannot be perfectly mimicked by even the greatest painter. Luckily for us, there are no pioneer/explorer types involved for housewives and girls to fawn over. Just our precious little unmanned probe, alone in space.”

“As unmanned exploration progresses, men of our class and profession will finally receive the credit so long overdue us,” one of the academics said, absentmindedly checking his antique pocket watch, once owned by Louis XIV.

There was a soft knock on the open door, and the three men turned to see a woman standing within the door frame.

“No, no, please. We cannot be bothered right now. Our masterpiece is nearly complete, and we simply cannot be interrupted. A delay now could allow the Russians to pull ahead of us, resigning us to the gutters of the banal! You must come back to clean later.”

“Oh can't you see! She's no maid. Lunch, gentleman. What shall we have today? Take your tongues from your cheeks and heads from your asses so that the girl may get back to her desk. A secretary's life is one of great strife and little acknowledgment. Here you are dear, a small token of our appreciation. Word of advice as well: perhaps a more stylish, tighter outfit could lead to a promotion.” The second man took a dollar bill, attempting to deposit it in her back pocket, only to have his hand slapped away curtly.

“Thank God your mathematics are better than your intuition. Despite the unusually conservative attire, standing before us is the whore I have been hounding the dean to provide us, so that we may relieve our natural lust and return to work immediately, minds refreshed. Odd of a whore to refuse payment beforehand though. A real firecracker it seems. Which streets do you generally walk, love? Don't believe I've seen you around my area.”

An eternal silence permeated the room. Like the virgin Earth; the confession booth of the liar; the instant connecting performance and applause; the lonesome night; the grave. All of the occasions when we realize to quit joking and gossiping for a solitary moment and shut our mouths like good little children. The men sat eagerly wondering whose hypothesis would be verified. The woman remained frozen. Why, has yet to be determined, but as we spiral uncontrollably to a horrifying conclusion, our men will pay penance yet.

Shattering the silence like a great stained pane, a fourth man strode confidently within, oblivious to the preceding scene. It is in the nature of executives to assert their worth through having the visible means to steal another man's wife, and our current specimen was no exception. His right arm hung heavy, as did his neck and his pelvic region, victims of, respectively, a four-pound Rolex, a gold chain with the thickness of a small boa, and a belt buckle sporting an authentic cow skull.

“Good afternoon gentleman. I see you have finally met-,”

“Arthur my good man! I hate to be an ingrate, but the whore you have provided is neither beautiful nor lively, the two criteria I expressly specified. Was this the highest quality our budget permitted?”

“-finally met Ms. Elizabeth Golden, Ph.D. in aeronautics at M.I.T., the woman selected to pilot the probe you gentleman have been so diligently creating, and hopefully able to take this 'whore' comment in the jestful spirit that it was undoubtedly intended.”

The eternal silence returned. As it unfolded, three children were born, one died, and a man had unwittingly gotten his hand stuck in a paper towel dispenser.

One of the scientists began “But, Arthur, was your remark not the joke? What good is the pilot of an unmanned vessel? Her worth will be that of a Ramadan lunch buffet.”

Arthur checked his watch, herculean. “In the contract written up for the grant you have received, the stated goal was to launch an unmanned probe into orbit around the moon. My understanding of the purpose of this was twofold: an advancement in human exploration, and an opportunity for women in the space program.”

Eleven couples experienced their first kiss. A young woman revealed her homosexuality to her parents. Three heart attacks, a prostate exam, and a botched circumcision. An egging and a rape conviction. The conclusion of a debate over the merits of suicide, and the initiation of a whiskey-soaked wake toast. Constant flux. To be wise is to cease hoping for a captain.

“I believe I speak for the three of us here in stating that we probably should have been more vigilant in our phrasing. 'Automated,' perhaps, in the place of 'unmanned.' A true pleasure to make your acquaintance though, Ms. Golden. We kid as but a sign of our solidarity with the plight of the female academic.” The other two men echoed this sentiment with vigour and embarrassment.

Suddenly towering over the weathered desks, Elizabeth Golden understood that these men were mere apes attempting to deal with the discrepancy between the sizes of their reproductive organs and egos. Living through the gradual humanization of her sex had taught her one transcendent lesson: the path to a better world was paved with empathy for fucking idiots. “Charmed, gentleman.”