The Only Words That Are Worth Remembering by Jeffrey Rotter

missiles.
    At a small gravel road he turned off into the woods. We crossed the culvert on a makeshift bridge of tractor tires and scrap lumber. In a clearing the white warehouse loomed overhead. You could still make out a faded Gunt flag and the cultish blue emblem of the Astronomers writ huge on its facade. But when Terry edged around back, we saw how low this cathedral had sunk.
    The rear of the building had been shredded by storms and melted by fire. You could see inside from the floor clear up to the ruined roof. Nguyen told us it was the largest one-story building ever made. Neat mounds of rubble had been bulldozed out to the perimeter, but the rubbish crew was now gone and their earth movers rusted under blue tarps.
    Attached to the warehouse was a four-story structure that appeared largely intact. “Launch Control.” Nguyen idled in front of the lobby. “This is where the Astronomers made their sacrifices to the Moon, where they sent tributes to the Wanderers,” only to watch their bright missiles crash against the Night Glass.
    He spun the van about and carried on past a stand of bleachers and low black buildings. These were for “the lower Astronomers, Gunt functionaries, come to admire the sacrifices.” The road we were on paralleled a second, broader thoroughfare that was paved down two sides with unbroken bands of concrete. The median had been filled in with crushed bluestone. Pop asked if it was a runway.
    â€œWe think it was a road,” said Nguyen. “For a colossal truck they called the Crawler. It was how they carried the missiles from the warehouse to the launchpad.”
    Umma grew more agitated the farther we traveled. Her hands wanted a job to do. They dug into the upholstery like she was prospecting for loose change.
    The Crawler Road veered off to our left. I saw where it ended at a flattop mound penetrated by a great concrete trough. Faron pointed to a structure on top, an openwork scaffold or antenna.
    â€œLaunchpad 39B,” said Nguyen. “Take a good look. This is the last acre of Earth your feet are going to stand on.”
    Umma spoke for the first time, her voice small enough to get Terry’s attention.
    â€œAre we a sacrifice?” she said.
    He pushed on through a bog of scrub palms and onto a dirt road. “Miss Van Zandt,” Terry said. “Bear in mind that everything I tell you is a fairy tale. Or perhaps it isn’t.”
    â€œDid they ever make it through, though?” By which she meant through the Night Glass.
    Nguyen braked in a clearing between two elegant motor homes. “Here we are!” He honked to disperse the turkey vultures and got out to show us around our new lodgings.
    Someone had dressed up the door with a wreath of Spanish moss. Our surname was stenciled in red on the polyvinyl. Nguyen turned a key and tried the knob with his diminished hand but it wouldn’t budge. By the van Umma made a circle like a mutt trying to settle in, then sat in the grass. Pop strode up and checked the door with his shoulder. I heard the old weather stripping rip free.
    â€œMy wife is not feeling well,” he said.
    I shut my eyes and smelled my way inside the motor home. The interior reeked of wet canvas, a smell I particularly loved, for it reminded me of tent living in the peach orchards. Terry Nguyen found the light switch, and Pop whistled appreciatively, for Umma’s benefit. She followed us in.
    â€œSee here, doll. I told you Bosom would put us up in style.”
    He was right. This was utter luxury. The dine-in kitchen had about fifteen styles of veneer, each one a studied facsimile of some natural surface. The double sink looked new. It was offset by a marbled backsplash with hooks for scrub brushes and oven mitts. There was no oven—who would bake bread in this heat?—but the full range had a built-in timer and a center eye exclusively for pancakes.
    Pop slipped out of his boots and moaned. The carpet was