Happiness: A Planet (9 page)

“We were told that it was missing. No more than that. We returned from patrol two days ago, were immediately told to come here.” That still niggled Alger: he wanted these men to know of the trouble he’d been put to. “We had a look for your moon before landing. We couldn’t find it. It didn’t crash into your planet?”

“No earthquakes anywhere. No exceptional seismic activity. And such a crash would have been seen, let alone registered.”

“Did you go and look for it when it first went missing?” Alger asked him.

An embarrassed shrug from the Spokesman, and an averting of the head by the Senate Member for North Eight, said that none there, so planet-bound were they in their thinking, had considered that most obvious course of action.

“It was pretty obvious that it wasn’t there Sergeant,” the Spokesman said.

“I see,” Alger’s expression said that he thought he was dealing with fools. “I think we can put your minds to rest about why your transmissions aren’t reaching us — some local distortion in your ionosphere.”

Without the discipline of the Senate orb the Senate Member for North Eight shouted over the Spokesman’s head,

“Then what about our ships that were shot down? Eh? Just what’s going on Out There?”

“What ships Sir?”

The Spokesman, raising a restraining hand to the Member for North Eight, told Sergeant Alger Deaver of the six ships that they had dispatched to XE2,

“The first, which left alone and was piloted by Halk Fint, failed to return. Of the other five, which left here together, two were seen to be shot down, one returned, and the other two are missing. The details you’ll have on there,” the Spokesman indicated the interface.

“The ships were seen to be shot down?”

“A girl, Belid Keal, saw it, and returned.”

Alger gazed beyond them to a large tree beside the grey farm buildings. Its dark green leaves twinkled to silver in the light breeze. Sitting in among the dusty green leaves, on one of the lower branches, was a young brown-skinned boy. He was watching them.

“We’d better see this girl,” Alger told Drin. “Where can we find her?” he asked the Spokesman.

“She’s at home now with her parents. You’ll have the co-ordinates.”

“Thank you Sir,” Alger turned back to the ramp.

“On record Sergeant!” the Spokesman called after Alger, “When you return to XE2...”

“If you return,” the Member for North Eight uncharitably amended.

“When you return to XE2 I want you to personally inform the Departmental Director that his presence is urgently required on Happiness — to answer the questions and to allay the fears of the populace. Your ship carries a more formal request, with all due authority. But you impress upon him that I want him here. In person.”

“I will pass on your message Sir.”

Drin followed Alger up the ramp. At the top he lightly tapped Alger in the back.

“Listen,” he whispered.

A sibilant breeze was soughing through the rippling grain. Birds were cheeping, insects buzzing.

“Weird,” Alger said, and he stepped before Drin into the ship.

Sergeant Alger Deaver and Constable Drin Ligure lifted off from the same farm that Belid Keal had left three days previously. Alger held the control column. Drin manned the guns.

“I’ll take her up slowly,” Alger once again told Drin, “Soon as we’re above thirteen kilometres test the guns.”

The square green orchards around the white farm became smaller, came to resemble a grid, the irregular shoreline of the continent the limit of the ruffled blue ocean’s corrosion. Having passed through some thin white clouds the planet took on its spherical aspect. On the surface they had appeared, an optical illusion, to be in a bowl.

“Test ‘em now,” Alger said.

As
instructed in gunnery school Drin double-checked the radar screens to ensure that no ships nor satellites were within range.

“Firing forward,” he said, depressed the grips. Two white beams shot out ahead of them.

“Firing laterals,” he glanced first to one side, flicked out the grips; checked the other side of the ship, flicked again. He went through the same procedure for testing the upper and lower guns.

“Can you put us horizontal to the surface?” Drin asked Alger. “Don’t want to add to their troubles down there.”

The ship levelled out. Drin again checked the radar.

“Firing aft,” he twisted the grips toward himself, studied his rear-view screens. Two shafts of light seared through their vapour trail.

“Guns all functioning,” Drin tonelessly reported. “Set for effective range 4 kilometres.”

“This is what we’re going to do,” Alger pulled the ship back up until it was pointing out to space. “We’ll keep the sun behind us and go out at maximum speed. Don’t bother about accuracy, just give ‘em an all round blast. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Here we go then.”

Both men tensed themselves for the acceleration. Alger depressed the throttle, gripped the control column. Drin fought forward to keep himself over the gun grips. They were in the black of space and still accelerating. Drin glanced from right to left, right to left. And still they accelerated. Their momentum was stabilising now. Drin looked all about him. Only the unwinking stars.

          “See anything?” Alger asked him.

          “No.”

“We’re way beyond their moon.”

From both his tone and the expression on his face Drin saw that Alger had expected to encounter opposition to their departure.

“You stay on the guns,” he told Drin. “I’ll lay in a course for home. Stay ready for action.”

Alger gave the ship its destination, told it maximum speed. The stars shifted before them, steadied. Alger, his hands still on the control column, scrutinised every screen.

“Nothing,” he said disgustedly. He nodded to the console, “When we reach maximum velocity stand down.”

They continued on the alert for another six minutes.

“That’s it,” Alger grunted. “Nothing there.”

Drin let out his breath, released the grips. Flopping back in his seat he wiped his palms on the padding. Sitting back up he flexed his shoulders,

“What do you suppose happened to the other ships?”

“Nothing.” Alger abruptly stood, with vehemence said, “They’ve all of ‘em done a bunk.”

“But she saw two ships destroyed.”

“You believe a girl who talks to animals?”

Throughout the interview Belid Keal had cradled a small furry creature, had whispered to it; and the animal had appeared to understand her words. Come the end of the interview, when she had told of the ships exploding, she had wept into the animal’s fur. The animal had licked the tears from her face. Drin Ligure had never seen a stranger sight.

“Why would she lie?” he asked Alger.

“You get to sense this sort of thing,” Alger called on the mystique of undefined experience to give weight to his opinion. He was standing behind Drin’s seat, swinging his arms, working the tension out of himself.

“But what reason can she have for lying?” Drin said.

“Who knows. Maybe she didn’t want to go, cooked up that story so she could stay home.”

Drin thought on that,

“Where are their ships then?”

“You’ll see. They’ll turn up sooner or later all over the place. These planet kids go mad when they get out here. Hardly surprising, after all that light and dirt.”

Drin brushed some of the dust from his tunic. He still did not entirely disbelieve Belid Keal’s testimony. The memory image of that creature licking the tears from her face both repelled and fascinated him. The creature itself had seemed discomfited by her tears. And, in Drin’s own experience, people who told lies, to camouflage their falsehoods, tried to make themselves appear reasonable and normal.

“What about the freighters?” he asked Alger, “They come to the planet, load their cargoes, and they go. But do they arrive?”

“Soon find out when we get back.” Alger was tired of the topic, “My betting is they do.”

“Say they were attacked though,” Drin persisted. “Why weren’t we attacked?”

“She saw no guns.” Alger wheezed as he did some kneebends, “Just the ships exploding. That make sense to you?”

Alger was talking himself into his new opinion. Drin, though, had seen Alger’s puzzlement when they hadn’t been attacked. His subsequent anger had been at himself for having believed what they had been told on Happiness.

“None of them,” Alger gasped, “were following the courses they’d been given. Could’ve been a collision she saw. That would support her claim that she saw no gun flashes.”

“What if whoever attacked them saw us testing our guns?” Drin turned in his seat, “Not one of those ships was armed. Maybe they thought better of attacking us?”

“Have a coffee Drin. Don’t take it so seriously. Always a rational explanation. Probably some natural cause. Say their moon exploded. That explosion would interfere with their transmissions. And the dirt diggers just got hysterical. You get to see a lot of hysteria in this job. You should have been told that at college.” Breathing heavily he busied himself with cups, “You’ll see.”

Drin checked the console before rising to join Alger in the galley.

“Yes,” he said. “But where’s their moon gone? We saw no debris.”

“Stop worrying Drin.” Alger handed him the coffee, “Just tell me this — who’d want to steal a moon? Motive?”

“I don’t know,” Drin said. “But where is it?”

Alger made no reply to that. When Drin next spoke it was to ask Alger about overtime rates; and then, scratching himself, to announce that he was going to take a shower and change his tunic.

Munred’s was a tight schedule. He had allowed himself an absolute maximum of 6 hours on the planet. Two days back to XE2, two hours to grab a change of clothes, catch up on any news, and four days to travel to the interview, arriving with three hours to spare.

The safe return of the police ship, with its communication update, had cancelled the ‘Urgent Happiness.’ His own return, even if radio contact remained blocked, would delay the resurgence of a ‘Please Investigate Happiness’ for a further seven days.

Despite the Happiness Senate’s threat to appeal to higher authorities if nothing was done, had it not been for his interview with Tulla being on record, Munred would have ignored the Senate’s impertinent demand to see him in person, would have delegated the trip to the Substation Liaison Director. Having things on record, Munred reminded himself, was a two-edged sword. He consoled himself that, if he was allowed to present it in light of his own choosing, his going in person might impress the interview board.

All the records on Happiness that the Substation Liaison Director had been able to find Munred had brought with him. Now, after a day and a half’s solitary swotting in the ship, Munred believed that he knew everything there was to know about Happiness — except what exactly had happened to its moon.

The planet itself was 2.3 billion years old, the solar system 4.2 billion years old. Planet was mined out 453 years ago, moon 427; first agricultural settlements 387 years ago. Various perishable fruits in tropics and temperate zones. Timber in temperate zones only. Ice-capped land masses at both poles. Greatest population 4.5 million 126 years ago, been declining ever since.

As Munred’s deceleration tailed off, and he slowed into orbit around Happiness, he once more checked through the police report. Believing them, believing Tulla, and it would anyway take time, he made no attempt to look for the moon.

At his standard waiting orbital height he was receiving no ground transmissions. Taking the control column he eased the ship down through the ionosphere. As soon as he was through the ship reported that it was receiving transmissions. A natural if freak phenomena, Munred decided, gave the co-ordinates for the Spokesman’s farm in the North, and released the control column.

All was as the police had said. He recorded a memo to the effect that Police Sergeant Alger Deaver and Police Constable Drin Ligure were to be commended for their efficiency.

The Spokesman’s farm was tinted by the light of early evening. From below the horizon the sun was glowing redly, its refracted and diffused light painting the cornfields pink. The Spokesman was waiting patiently alone on the apron.

As soon as Munred reached the bottom of the ramp the Spokesman gripped his hand and ushered him towards his office. Munred was aware of birdsong and of a woman and several children watching him from the open windows of the farmhouse.

The office was a low outbuilding. Along one side was all the usual office equipment. In the middle of the room was a long table stacked high with papers. The Spokesman waved Munred to a seat at one end of the table, turned to a tray on the console to offer him a drink.

“If we could get to business,” Munred declined the hospitality.

“Of course,” the Spokesman said, moved aside some papers and sat opposite Munred. Both men then made a show of recording the interview.