Jordan watched as a pair of snails meticulously made their way across the walkway that lay before him. Slowly but diligently they plodded across the heated asphalt, snaking back and forth in large exaggerated arcs to avoid various debris that littered their path. They left behind them a thin, slick film that was soon turned to gas by the monstrous rays of sunlight beaming down on William Rhodes Memorial Park. Eventually they reached the grass that sat on the other side of the walkway and disappeared from view, consumed by a sea of emerald blades running rampant thanks to a lack of park supervision. The only evidence of the snails’ journey thus far was a quickly fading strip of mucus that shone fervently on the black terrain surrounding the park.
	The sun’s position in the sky indicated that it was sometime in the early afternoon, and William Rhodes Memorial Park was teeming with the hustle and bustle typically associated with a public space on a beautiful summer day. Wild animals darted every which way, searching for a wayward saint that would provide them with handfuls of bread or birdseed. People strolled aimlessly on any and all available paths, some holding leashes which were attached to dogs of varying sizes and dispositions, others clutching cold plastic cups with sweat beading up on their exteriors. By twelve-thirty it was already the hottest June day in the history of eastern Massachusetts meteorological record-keeping, and the suns unrelenting trek across the horizon indicated that the record was climbing still.
	Jordan Weber was perched upon a blasé stone bench that was erected some time ago in the southernmost corner of the park. He sat doubled over with his hands cupping his head, his elbows resting in-between the creases of his pleated slacks. The heat had forced him to abandon his blazer which now sat next to him, draped haphazardly over one of the bench’s two armrests like a slick grey crust. His tie hung loosely around his neck, swaying lazily with the rise and fall of the breeze. He had a satchel strung across his shoulder, largely empty save for three items; a leather case that housed the glasses prescribed to him for reading small print, a receipt with the days date for a bottomless cup of coffee from the Cafe Aluate on the other side of the park, and a freshly folded piece of paper that had grown slightly worn from numerous frantic readings. The paper was a letter, stamped with an official US government seal, addressed to the twenty-something members of the Harvard Institute of Metaphysical Research Astronomical Investigation Group (H.I.M.-R.A.I.G. for short). The letter is transcribed below in its entirety:



To:  Members of the Harvard Astrological Investigation Group

From: Carter Bellview, United States Department of  Defense

Date: June 7th, 1985

Re: Containment of astrological phenomenon


The cosmic transmission intercepted by the Harvard Astrological Investigation Group at 1700 on Thursday, June 6th has been brought to the attention of the United States Department of Defense, as well as several members of the United States Military deemed integral to the analysis and interpretation  of said transmission. In the interest of National Security, we ask that all twenty-three members of H.I.M.-R.A.I.G. report to the Otis Air National Guard Base in Mashpee, Massachusetts no later than 2030 on Friday, June 7th so that they may be transported to Fort Bragg for further briefing. It is imperative for the safety of all H.I.M.-R.A.I.G. operatives, as well as the security of the nation as a whole, that no word of the discovery be leaked to the general public before official measures have been put in place to aid in the delivery of your findings. It is strongly recommended that all individuals addressed in this letter cease all further contact with friends and family until they have been further instructed by United States Military personnel. It is crucial that each and every one of you make it to the Otis Air Base at the designated time. Do not disclose any information stated in this letter to anyone outside of the persons to whom it is addressed.
Sincerely,
Carter Bellview, U.S. Director of National Placidity




	Upon arriving at the office Friday morning and first reading the tiny white slip of pulped tree shavings, Jordan had assumed it to be a joke. Something left on his desk by Dr. Linkletter , or possibly Erin from accounting— a humorous way to congratulate him for his discovery. After all, most post-graduate astronomers had had their social skills degraded to the point of nonexistence by countless nights spent pouring over mountains of discrete cosmic data, and preferred to complete their human interactions via the written medium.  Jordan had walked from his office towards the break room, faux-memo in hand, smiling slyly to himself thinking about the jeers and adulation that awaited him. But upon entering the room he wasn’t greeted by comraderry  or playful slaps on the back. He was instead met by 22 faces the color of fresh cotton, each one attached to a body that gripped in its hand a slip of tree pulp identical to the one in Jordan’s possession. They turned to him, eyes glassy, mouths dried by an anxious anticipation of the unknown. It was no joke. Even Dr. Linkletter, resident loud-mouth, sat in stunned silence, his eyes shut tightly as to conserve energy for his racing mind.
	The group sat in silence for what seemed to them a lifetime, reading over that sole paragraph again and again, trying with all their might to make sense of the jumble of letters and punctuation that stared back at them. Eventually one of the team’s senior members, Dr. Enif Abdal, stood up and walked out of the room without a word, presumably to begin the 70 mile journey down the coast from Boston to Mashpee. He paused at the doorway and scanned over the thin rectangle in his hands one last time, studying it with the scrutiny of a monk analyzing the words of his creator. Seemingly un-satisfied by what he’d read Dr. Abdal folded the memo, placed it squarely in his jacket pocket, and made his way down the hallway towards the building’s main entrance, not even bothering to stop and grab his brieface. One by one the rest of the group followed Abdal out the door, many conducting a similar last-ditch search for answers and coming up, just as he had, with nothing. Soon the only two people that remained in the  break room were Jordan and Peter Crane, the only other person who had been in the observatory at the time of Jordan’s discovery one day prior. Peter sat his personal copy of the memo down on the table in front of him and looked up at Jordan.
	“What the hell does this mean?” prodded Peter, his voice hushed so as not to disturb the tense air that still hung in the room. “How did they even hear about the transmission in the first place? It’s been barely 20 hours since we  told the team about it and it’s already made it’s way to the god damn department of defense!?” He said, waving a hand in the air incredulously.
	“Big news travels quickly” Jordan responded vacantly, still scanning the piece of paper he now knew by heart.
	“Big news!?” cried Peter, “Jordan, it’s a bunch of random fucking noise with some bleeps at the beginning and the end,” his voice carried the same hushed intensity as before, like that of a husband and wife arguing while their children sit in the other room. “Now I’m as excited about it as you are, believe me. But this isn’t some ship with little green men in it or god’s foot or something. It’s just noise. We’ve had transmissions like this before and after a week we forget they even existed in the first place.”
	“Well obviously this one’s at least a little different,” Jordan snapped defensively, holding up and shaking the summons still clutched in his hand.
	Peter didn’t reply, opting instead, after a brief moment of silence, to slump onto the break room table with his hands cradling the back of his head.
	“I can’t do this Jordan,” he’d lost all semblance of bravado and now spoke in a drawn out, tiered tone, “Beth’s  got her next radiation appointment tonight, and I’ve gotta go with her. You’ve seen how she is after those things,” he lifted his head now, his purple-rimmed eyes coming to Jordan’s attention for the first time, “I can’t let her go through that alone. She’s hardly holding on as it is, I practically have to beg her to do each one. She says soon she’s just gonna…” the last word came out as little more than a whisper, “stop”.
	Jordan walked over to his crestfallen colleague, setting his copy of the letter on top of Peter’s and settling into a chair directly across from the worried astronomer.
	“Listen Pete,” he began, “I’ve got no idea who or what’s waiting for us in Mashpee, or Fort Bragg or wherever it is they’re taking us. But this discovery we made, whatever it is, is way more important than either of us realized, and it obviously has serious implications that we can’t even begin to understand yet.” Jordan’s words seemed to be inspiring the tiniest amount of hope in his downtrodden teammate. “And I’m absolutely positive that you’ll be able to see Beth again before the week’s over. Doesn’t her sister live just over in Alston?” Peter nodded. “You could have her go with Beth tonight, and stay until you come back on Saturday or Sunday.”
	“Yeah…” the now less glum Peter started, “Yeah I guess you’re right. She’ll understand— if I show  her the letter she’ll understand how important it is.” Suddenly he rose to his feet and grabbed his copy off the table, nearly toppling over his chair in the process. “Christ I gotta get home,” before Jordan knew what was happening Peter had made it halfway to the break room door, “I’ll see you in Mashpee Jordan, there’re some things I need to take care of.”
	Jordan started to muster some sort of farewell, but before he could find the words Peter had already turned the corner and started heading towards the buildings main exit. After a moment the clang of metal on metal indicated that Peter had made it out the door, and the only inhabitants left in the office were Jordan and his personal copy of the Government summons addressed to all 23 members of H.I.M.-R.A.I.G. . For a moment he sat with his eyes focused on the little black and white sheet that had so drastically altered the course of his day, and an unforeseeable number of days yet to come. He challenged it with his gaze, daring it to do or say something that would make sense of the predicament that now fell upon him and his teammates. The paper, of course, did no such thing. It simply sat there and responded with a cold, heartless gaze of its own. Having followed the same desperate routine of all his other colleagues in search of some sort of answer, Jordan now folded the letter, placed it in his bag, and made his way out into the hall way, making sure to flick off the break room’s halogen lights as he left.