The Roswell Accident

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It was sweat that finally brought up the subject of Roswell and what really happened there in 1947.

The bar was one of those low-lit, low-rent holes-in-the-wall you can still find in the non-yuppie parts of Las Cruces, part cowboy-redneck, part Chicano, a sort of neutral watering-hole where the two cultures met and mixed in an uneasy, alcohol-blurred truce. And so it was that Francisco Herrera Silva—“Frank”—and I were sharing an easy New Mexico afternoon savoring the cool darkness together, sipping beer and telling stories, yet overshadowed by a stratum of incipient sadness. I had met this man nearly forty years ago, when I was a co-op student at White Sands Missile Range, but I had been gone a long time, working on, let us say, “other areas of interest.” Last week he had called with news of his bad heart condition and I hurried back from Washington for what we both knew would be our final meeting. Frank was very important to me—and potentially, for other reasons, to others in my agency.

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