Inertia

Maybe a spaceship has landed on our building—or else that's how it feels to be acquired: There's a heart-stopping crash overhead, an anxious rush to the elevators, a tie-up at the revolving doors, and a frantic dash across the street for a better view. Security guards armed only with cell phones alert the authorities. Passing tourists clutch their children to their chests. Clusters of colleagues stand huddled together, speculating about whether the aliens, disguised as business tycoons, herald doom or redemption.

It's unnerving, having a spaceship dangling above us, but it's nothing new. Over my 17 years of working in offices, such craft have come and gone with all manner of alien intent: restructurings, management shakeups, mergers, and acquisitions. No matter what their ultimate purpose, the aliens inevitably cut jobs, and benefits go away forever. During the last acquisition, free coffee and filtered water came to a stop. Then the pension plan was shut down and the matching gifts program scaled back. The red pens I'd used for years were dropped from the approved list of supplies, and I had to settle for the cheap ones that gave me a sore middle finger. That was back when we were able to order supplies. Now I've resorted to rummaging through vacant desks and sparse storage cabinets for pens and pads of paper, or else, like today's school teachers, I buy them myself.

I shouldn't complain. I should be grateful to have a job—and I am. But this ship is the biggest, shiniest, and most impregnable craft I've seen, and with only its underside to go by, it's hard to judge exactly what it's made of. Like the spaceship in the 1951 movie The Day the Earth Stood Still, it orbited for days before landing. Now it hangs over the edge of the roof at an artistic angle, like a beret worn over one ear. But from below, not much is visible. A silvery edge catches a gleam of light. A shadow is cast on the sidewalk.

Our new leader is dressed in a plain gray suit that says he doesn't have to impress anyone. Waiting for clearance at the security desk, he blends in, like "Klaatu," the alien in The Day the Earth Stood Still. While Klaatu stays in disguise because the populace doesn't know who they're looking for, we recognize our new leader's face from the acquirers' Web site. Besides, he gives himself away with his proprietary glances at the marble walls and the benevolent smile he bestows on us as we return from the street and file back into the lobby through the revolving doors.

He's attended by a young woman with a mane of black hair, flawless skin, and perfect posture. She sparkles with youth and job security—later, we learn she's in Human Resources. In this role, she has powers in common with Klaatu's robot sidekick, "Gort," the megaton weapon that vaporizes guns, tanks, and, later in the movie, human beings. Though un-Gortlike in appearance, she could zap my paycheck into oblivion without breaking a sweat.

The folding chairs in front of the podium are lined up tightly. I'm dressed to meet the acquirers in a new black pantsuit and a shirt that's a shade of blue I've been told looks good on me, especially now that I've grown the dye out of my hair and have let myself go white—a bright white that I hope might be mistaken, in some lights, for sun-bleached blond. Going gray might have been a mistake in this diminished job market, where my age could work against me. My scalp warms with self-consciousness when I picture my gray head among the blonds and brunettes, not to mention the jet black of the woman from Human Resources, who sits in the front row, leaning slightly forward.

We imitate her posture, the better to hear our new leader, who speaks in a voice so soft that one rustle or cough renders him inaudible. Even so, he...