I was sitting there at the council of Shrroobs, who were trying to get it through to their Viceroy that things weren't looking so bright. Viceroy D'Armnom was particularly far away during this session, probably lusting after the hay day of a youth she never got. She was like insurance in the sense that everyone tells you you should have it, but you end up just using the document as a coaster for your morning coffee. I could certainly place every Shrroob on the council next to some type of human insurance and the similarities both physical and behavioural, would be startling. On the other hand, Shrroob insurance wasn't a lucrative industry.
The end of the galaxy was on their minds. Viceroy D'Armnom had opened with an introduction to the topic exclaiming the various ways in which the galaxy could end, how many civilizations currently occupied said galaxy and how many were predicted to occupy it when it ended, as well as four methods that scientists had devised for evacuation of all essential celestial objects from the spiralling body. Clicks and murmurs popped around the council as Shrroobs expressed their displeasures and affirmations. The galaxy on their minds was going to end in fourteen billion years; it was located in the eight quadrant of the Shrroob's super-galaxy which was eight-hundred light years away from the Shrroobs. Far enough that they needn't be concerned that its explosive end would singe a single hair on a single Shrroob. But that is not how Shrroobs are.
I'd asked each Shrroob before the start of today's council meeting if I could attach a small microphone to their cloaks that would pick-up their voices and send them through a translator to my headset. Perched near the back of the room like a mouse that stumbled upon a lair of intelligent, scheming wildebeests, the voice of each Shrroob sung to me in the accent of a random middle-aged Yorkshire female. It was hard not to project the slang and gender of the lady in my earpiece onto the towering bipedal elephants that sat around the room, which helped to suck some of the intimidation out of the imposing shadows that swallowed me up. The Yorkshire lady started whispering some numbers into my ear: the lead Shrroob of Plan Galactic Gallantry 551 was beginning his case for execution of the plan, providing an estimate on the number of future celestial bodies that could be saved should Galaxy CB14 be given new life. Just as old people need new hearts, old galaxies need blackhole transplants. Galaxy CB14 was the galaxy that was on every Shrroob's mind.
It has been almost one Earth year since the meeting assembled. One day on Silo – the planet of the Shrroobs – is ten Earth years. Every few Earth hours I've had to excuse myself for a nap and pray, pray that I'd chosen a time when the important points of discussion were in a lull. My last break was four hours ago but I have clamped my bladder tight and pulled my eyes open to be certain I won't miss anything about Galaxy CB14. According to the Shrroob's council archivist, Wohhr, this would be the five-hundred and fifty-first galaxy the Shrroob's have discussed saving. The number for labelling the Plan Galactic Gallantry's is reset at the start of each Shrroob year. Shrroob's don't bother keeping records more detailed than that because the past doesn't interest them and the now is unrewarding. To a Shrroob mind, the very, very distant future is the only thing worth investing any time mulling over. That being said, the entertainment industries on Silo are rife with games all about the immediate, like trying to forecast tomorrow's weather in a particular city, or betting on how many people will ride public transport this week, but these are trivial enjoyments that have no place in the important realm of politics. Shrroob politicians aren't much different from human politicians and take their work very seriously with a blinding belief that their echo-chamber squabbles are mapping the (very, very distant) future fate of the Shrroob species.
Droop! the intermission bell of the council springs into new life to adjourn the council-Shrroob's for thirty minutes, that's about seventy-five Earth days for me. I use the time to go back to my hotel, wash up and plan some sightseeing of Silo. It's hard not to contain my excitement for the work I'm doing here, hard not to get lost in a future where fame carries me along life like a cloud. Perhaps I'll buy that place by the sea for me and Earl? Or even a quaint cottage somewhere here on Silo? Yes, to be the first human to record a Shrroob council meeting. Yes.