When the Moon Hits Your Eye

by John Scalzi

“You’re running a moon mission on foreign soil,” Glover said, to Miller. “You’re somehow surprised we keep tabs on you?”

“When he comes back he’s not going to be happy,” Olsen growled. “His welcoming committee will be the federal marshals and a bunch of canceled contracts. If he comes back. The moon is fucking cheese, after all.”

Get him to the moon, gentlemen. And then get him back. So we can give him a ticker tape parade in public, and I can punch him in the face once we’re alone.”

“There’s going to be a line to punch you in the face when you get back,” Able said to Bannon, or at least to the idea of him. “I’m not going to be in the line. I’m going to be the one holding you while they punch you.”

Q: What would you say to the other billionaires who have space companies? A: Just this: Hey, Elon and Jeff? Ha ha hah lol suck it, dudes.

“We have three types of customers,” Jack said. “We have the regulars, we have the tourists and we have the weirdos. Those were the tourists.” “There are cheese tourists?”

So, fine. Here’s what we were doing in that room: While dressed up in a NASA jumpsuit, I rubbed Representative Michael Groupo’s naked body with cheese, saying it had come fresh from the moon. And then, when he got excited enough, I watched him fuck an entire wheel of warm brie.”

“So, no. It’s not fair. But it’s the world that we’ve made for ourselves, isn’t it. Or at least, the world that we let those who we elected decide was the one we should have.” Schmid stared at him. So did everyone else in the room. “I think I’m hangry,” Davis said.

“NASA is worried about cheese rocks,” Jody said, skeptically. “It sounds stupid when you put it like that, but it’s not a stupid concern,” Miller said.

Mackie pointed. “Exactly. One of the richest men in the history of this planet. Richer than Rockefeller. Richer than Croesus. Richer than Scrooge McDuck.” “No one’s richer than Scrooge McDuck,” Peter said. “Wrong,” Mackie said. “He’s worth, like, fifty billion, tops.” “There was a comic where he said that if he spent a billion dollars a minute, he’d be broke in six hundred years, which would put his worth in the mid quadrillions,” Peter said. “And that was in the seventies. It might be in the quintillions now with inflation.” “He’s self-reporting,” Cyrus said. “You can’t trust rich people to honestly tell you what they’re worth. Even a duck.” “Especially a duck,” Lisa chimed in, for the hell of it. “Realistically,” Mackie said, “he’s worth about fifty billion.” “Realistically, for a cartoon duck,” Peter said. “I’m trying to get to my point,” Mackie protested. “Oh, well, please.” Peter made an expansive motion with his hand. “Leaving Scrooge McDuck out as a fictional and mathematically trivial outlier,” Mackie continued, “Jody Bannon was one of the richest people who ever lived. And how did he die? Penetrated by cheese.” “Penetrated by cheese on the moon,” Cyrus amended. “Okay, but does that matter?” Mackie said. “No matter where you are in the universe, death by cheese is a pretty ignominious way to go. Has there ever been a worse way?” “In the Great Molasses Flood of 1919, twenty-one people were drowned in syrup,” Peter said. “Well. Some drowned. Others were crushed.” “I ...

“I was saying,” Mackie continued, “that Jody Bannon dying by cheese shows that it doesn’t matter who you are, what you do or how much you are worth. If you die in a weird and humiliating way, that’s what people are going to remember you for, through the rest of human history.”

“Now that he’s died by cheese, he’ll be remembered,” Lisa said. “Yes!” Mackie said. “But only because he died in some horrible, ridiculous way. His whole life’s legacy will be one thing, and one thing exactly: At the moment of his death, cheese entered his body from every possible entrance.” Lisa pointed at her friend. “No, that’s just you. Everyone knows he dies by cheese, but only you are imagining a cheddar colonoscopy.”

“So, what, he’s floating in space?” Lisa asked. Mackie nodded. “Filled and encased in cheese,” he said. “Like a human Enchirito.” Lisa narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t have to say that. Now it’s in my brain.” “Do you think he’s orbiting the moon, or did he achieve escape velocity?” Cyrus asked. “That explosion was pretty big,” Peter said. “They’re still tracking the debris from it. At least some of it hit escape velocity. Some of it might eventually get caught in Earth’s gravity well and fall to Earth.” “A cheesy human Enchiriteorite,” Mackie said.

“What’s that poem? The one about the end of the world.” “That’s about half of them.” “No, the one with fire and ice.” “You’re probably thinking of the one by Robert Frost,” Heffernan said. “‘Some say the world will end in fire—’” “That’s the one,” Boone said. “The world will not end in fire, or in ice. It’ll end in cheese. Suck on that, Robert Frost.” “Well, when the cheese hits, there will be fire,” Heffernan said. “So technically he still gets it right.” “The Cheese Flambé Apocalypse,” Boone said. “That’s going to look great on my Wikipedia page, Pat.” “It’ll be the end of the world,” Heffernan said. “No one will bother to write it.” “So I have that going for me, which is nice,” Boone said.

“A well-managed apocalypse,” Heffernan said, nodding. “That’ll look great for Wikipedia.”

“Well, this was a day,” Boone said to his wife. He began to undress. “So I’ve been reading,” Angie said. She looked over to her husband and turned the tablet around. “I particularly like this headline from the New York Times. ‘We Will Work the Problem in Front of Us.’” “I didn’t think that one up.” “I know this. You might owe Andy Weir a royalty payment for it.” Boone didn’t know who that was, so he ignored it, shed his button-down shirt and dropped it to the floor. “I know you’re not just leaving that there,” said Angie, turning the tablet back around. Boone looked over to his wife, exasperated. “I’m the president of the United States, you know,” he said. “I’m the president of the United States and I’ve been dealing with the end of the world all day long. I think I should be able to leave my shirt on the floor.” Angie looked over the tablet at him, silent. “Fine.” Boone reached down, picked up the shirt, and carried it and himself into the adjoining dressing room. “Thank you,” Angie said, in a singsong private voice, eyes back on the article she was reading. Boone came out of the dressing room, in pajamas and a robe. “We have staff, you know,” he said. “They would pick up a wayward shirt.” “If you dropped a shirt with the expectation that someone else would pick up after you, I would divorce you instantly,” said Angie. “Oh, that’s what you would divorce me for,” Boone said. “Out of all the other possible things.” “The other things were human failings,” Angie said. “And st...

“You think he’s right, but you don’t think we’re doomed.” “What makes you say that?” “Because we just spent minutes talking about your shirt,” Angie said. “If you really thought we were doomed, when I complained about your shirt you would have just picked it up and walked it to the dressing room hamper without a word. You go silent when you’re feeling defeated. You don’t feel defeated. You don’t think we’re doomed.”

“Maybe we will. And if we do, then maybe I’ll get reelected.” “Don’t get your hopes up,” Angie said. “I’ve seen your poll numbers.” Boone looked at his wife, mouth open. Angie took one look at her husband’s hurt expression, laughed out loud, and gave him a tackle kiss.

And if an impact does become certain? “I’ll find the highest place I can get to and flip the thing the finger as it comes down.”

“Why are they flipping off the moon?” “Because it’s making them question the nature of reality and confront their possible mortality, mostly.” “We used to take shrooms for that,” Ted said.

“You just … went and got your baseball bat?” he said to Jack. “Didn’t think about it, just came in swinging? Against a mob.” “Pretty much.” “No plan.” “Not really.” “That wasn’t very smart,” Ted said. “No,” Jack agreed. “But people were threatening my little brother.” “Who wouldn’t talk to you for twenty years. And who you wouldn’t talk to either.” “That’s different,” Jack said. “That’s between you and me. Someone gets in your face, that’s a whole other thing.” “I’m not sure if they had been in front of your shop, I would have done the same thing,” Ted confessed. “Of course you wouldn’t,” Jack said. “You don’t have a baseball bat in your shop.”

I am such a tight ball of cringe right now

Wait Lyle: Where did Randall go Lyle: WHERE THE FUCK DID RANDALL GO Austin: So, I was told to come in here right this instant LYLE: GOD DAMN IT RANDALL YOU GOSSIPY LITTLE BITCH

DO IT IN PERSON YOU UNBELIEVABLE PASTRY FORK OF A MAN

“You aimed for Blondie. You hit Vampire Weekend.” “That’s an awful thing to say to someone.”

“I was being nice,” Cassie said. “I almost said you hit Owl City.” “How dare you.”

My plan is to check out a bunch of books from the library in the last week and then never return them. With any luck I’ll be reading a big fat James Michener book when the cheese hits.”

Alton frowned. “All that plastic,” he said. “You’re not wrong, but we’re well past worrying about microplastics, aren’t we?” “The irony,” Alton said. “All those shitty people were right not to worry about trashing the planet.” “They weren’t right,” Clyde said. “They just missed out having to deal with the consequences. That’s different.” “Spoken like a true philosopher,” Dave said.

“Also, you won’t have to stock up on water bottles,” Clyde said. “Just before the cheese comes down, you can both stay with me. I already have a garden, I have solar panels and I have well water. At the end of everything, we’ll still have showers and electric lights and operating toilets. You can’t ask for much more than that.” “We could ask not to be smothered in cheese,” Alton said. “You can ask that,” Clyde confirmed. “But the answer is probably going to be no.” “Damn it.”

“Then the two of you will have to share a bedroom.” Alton turned to Dave. “I snore.” “That’s all right,” Dave said. “I fart.” Alton turned to Clyde. “Please stock up on air freshener before it runs out.”

“And thank you. For officially inviting us to the end of the world.” “You’re welcome,” Clyde said. He put himself back together and stabbed his fork into his ice cream. “There’s still two years between now and then. We could still drive each other bonkers in that time. You might change your mind.” “Hell no, I’m not changing my mind,” Alton said. “All I have to look forward to is starvation and lake water. This is my apocalypse sorted.”

The character of Dan Sandler, who shows up as a screenwriter pitching a TV show about the cheese moon, is named for the actual Dan Sandler, who donated money for the appearance. When the fund-raiser happened I warned that it was possible that the character would die horribly, and Dan noted that he hoped that if he died, a coconut would somehow be involved. As it happens, Dan’s character did not die in the pages of the story, but I regret to say that after Dan Sandler the screenwriter left his TV show pitch, he was tragically killed on the 101 South, after the driver of an eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of coconuts lost control and swerved into Dan’s Tesla Model 3. The memorial service was well attended, and posthumously, Dan’s screenplay for a movie called Hey, That’s My Monkey! became a popular watch on Netflix. The producers dedicated the movie to him in the final credits. Isn’t that nice.