“Of course.”
“Who lost it?” Fire Team Leader Bravo inquired.
“Probably some Mexicans.” The General put the bus back in gear and prepared to pull back on the road. “They tend to misplace things — identification documents, peace treaties, precious metals. Private Tango, reach inside my rucksack and grab that book.”
“This one, sir?” Private Tango held up a dog-eared copy of
“Exactly. It’s got a whole chapter on Mexico. Whatever we find, we keep. Now settle down, men — we’ll be in Austin in no time.” The General pulled back onto the road, narrowly missing a passing semi with its air horn blaring.
To: International Astronomical Union
Paris, France
Dear Complaint Department:
Something has annoyed me for quite some time, and I need to get it off my chest. Why in the hell did your organization downgrade Pluto from a planet to a dwarf planet? Dwarf planet? Seriously? I’m very pissed off, and, as the owner of my own astronomical object, which I’m sure you’re aware of, I know a lot about this stuff. I’ve reread your new definition for planets in our solar system several times. Pluto does orbit the sun! Pluto does have significant mass to achieve a round shape! The only thing that could possibly disqualify the poor rocky ice ball is that it doesn’t dominate the neighborhood around its orbit. I understand that its largest moon, Charon, is basically half the size of Pluto, but come on. It seems to me that you’re simply discriminating against a planet because one of its moons has a fat ass. That’s just cruel. There’s no room in science for bullies. Carl Sagan would be ashamed of you. And what does dominating its orbit have to do with anything, anyway? Rhode Island doesn’t dominate its surrounding area. We don’t just rename it Eastern Connecticut or classify it as a dwarf state, do we? Come to think of it, Connecticut doesn’t exactly dominate its neighborhood, either. New York could kick the crap out of both Rhode Island and Connecticut with Long Island tied behind its back. Plus, I spent an inordinate amount of time in grade school memorizing the order of the planets. What a waste of time now. You’ve even ruined my superbly fabulous planetary mnemonic for reciting their sequence. My Vicious Evil Monster Jumped Sally Underneath the Neighbors’ Porch. Get it? Mercury, Venus, Earth, etc. Without Pluto, it just doesn’t make sense anymore. Neighbors’ what? It could be anything. It’s so frustrating. I just don’t know why you did this to Pluto. Is this some kind of anti-American thing? Clyde Tombaugh, who discovered Pluto in 1930, was an American. In fact, he was the only American to ever discover a planet in our solar system. Now we’ve got no one on the scoreboard. I’ve noticed the International Astronomical Union is headquartered in Paris, France. Is this a jealousy thing? Does this have anything to do with the recent lack of success of French cyclists in the Tour de France, not to mention the whole Lance Armstrong thing? There’s no room in science for bigotry. Speaking of which: What the hell is up with the label dwarf planet, anyway? Shouldn’t it be “little person” planet? I’m sure you’ve had plenty of complaints from the vertically challenged over that one. Get with the program, you cheese-eating French xenophobes. And why you decided to pick on Pluto in the first place is beyond me. Pluto, or Hades, as he is known in some circles, is the ruler of the underworld. Not someone to take lightly, and definitely not someone to piss off. Just keep this in mind: Pluto resembles a large asteroid composed of rock and ice. What happens when asteroids get ticked off? They smash into things! I have enough on my plate already. I don’t have time for the President to summon me to the White House in order to meet with his advisors and mastermind a brilliant last-minute strategy to save the earth from a rogue dwarf planet — sorry, I meant a rogue “little person” planet — hell bent on crashing into the Earth and unleashing a new ice age just because you don’t think it deserves to be considered a planet anymore!
Outside, the sun baked Austin. From a distance, the big white house with the prominent columns in front shimmered in the heat. Inside, Maximilian licked himself. He was a French bulldog, so it was all right. They tend to do that. A lot. Max, the sturdy alabaster dog, snuffled along the baseboards, looking for snacks. He didn’t find anything worth eating. Maybe a few things for chewing, but he wasn’t interested in chewing. It was too hot. Eating, maybe. Chewing, too hot. Outside, a noise caught his attention. He leapt up toward the low windowsill and slammed his front paws on the glass with a bang. His flat face pressed against the picture window, leaving a fresh smudge of drool on top of the other smudges of drool that lived on top of the other smudges of drool that defined his window. It was definitely Max’s window, and everyone knew it. The smudges were just his way of signing his work. It was an artist thing.
Outside, a long vehicle pulled up to the curb.
“What the hell is that damn dog doing now?” Bennett asked his son Kip and sister-in-law Polly, both eating a lunch of pimento cheese sandwiches and Polly’s homemade pickles at the table. The sandwiches were excellent, but Polly’s pickles were rank. Her recipe, handed down from her mother’s mother, landed somewhere in between sickeningly sweet, half-sour, mildly dilled, and completely fermented. They tasted awful, but they packed an alcoholic punch. More than two, and driving was not recommended. Kip tried to inconspicuously hide his pickle in his napkin. Bennett, a retired doctor, rose from the table and headed toward the front door, only to nearly be run over by Avery as he pounded down the main staircase, stumbling most of the way.
“Got it,” Avery yelled as he leapt the last two steps to avoid tripping. “As you were.” He brushed past his stepfather.
“Jesus,” Bennett said as he grabbed the banister for support. “Boy, you’re as useful as a trapdoor on a canoe.” Avery pulled open the front door just as the motley and extremely sleepy members of STRAC-BOM reached the porch. The General, in his tanker uniform, led the way.
“Avery Bartholomew Pendleton, I presume,” the General said as he saluted.
“Never heard of him,” Avery said as he returned a half-hearted salute. “Refer to me as Agent 00Zero.”
“Private Zulu has informed me of your real identity.”
“Never mind, then. Inside, quickly!” Avery frantically waved the camouflage fatigue–wearing men into the house. “The black helicopter traffic has been infrequent lately, but we can’t take any chances.” Max eyed the seven strangers with suspicion as they entered. “Don’t worry, though — I’ve swept the interior for bugs and surveillance devices. Can’t be too careful with the current administration in Washington.”
“Well put,” the General replied.
“Avery,” Bennett asked as he filled his pipe with tobacco, “what the hell is going on?”
“These are my associates. We’ll be embarking on an important scientific journey shortly. Kindly refrain from opening my mail or entering my office while we’re gone. It’ll be booby-trapped.”
“You’re leaving. Why didn’t you say? I’ll help you pack.”
“Good day, sir,” the General said as he extended his hand to Bennett. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Well, the Baptists and the Johnson grass are taking over.” Bennett shook the General’s pudgy hand. “Other than that, I’m pretty fair, I suppose. You are?”
“I’m General X-Ray, the commanding officer of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia. I’m sure you’ve heard of our courageous exploits protecting America from invasion. My men and I will be escorting Avery on a top-secret mission to Mexico. Have no fear for his safety — my men are
