by Sam Smith
“Psychology’s an easy option,” he looked up from his paper. “Anyone who makes it to the city has to be good at dealing with people.”
“What are the hard options?”
“Hygiene, Nobody wants that.”
“I can understand why.”
“Actually it’s quite involved...”
“But Hygiene...” she made a distasteful face.
“This might all be academic anyway.”
“Why?”
But Munred didn’t answer, sank morosely once more behind his paper. Petre shook her limbs loose, again offered to cancel their evening commitment.
“No. I’ll go.” Munred wearily laid aside the newspaper, self-pityingly sighed, “Give me something else to think about.”
“Trouble at work?” she began stripping for a shower.
“Could say that.”
“Well snap out of it,” she flung her leotard at him. Petre had no patience with self-pity. Munred picked the sweaty warm leotard off his shoulder, obediently grimaced a smile.
“That’s better.” She playfully kicked the sole of his slipper, “Look alive.”
He grunted sourly; and they returned to talking of the evening ahead at Linnie’s. Who would be there with who. And while they talked Petre, naked, continued to wind down from her exercises, touching her toes, stretching out her arms. Though appreciative of the beauty of her lithe body, the sight of it, at that moment, did not excite Munred. Nor was it Petre’s intention to arouse him: in such a mood sex often left Munred even more introverted. Their sex, like that of many monogamous couples, had its own self-congratulatory time and place. Her nakedness was simply the unselfconscious familiarity born of their years together.
Some loose association of ideas, or possibly an unconscious attempt to cheer him, to distract him, prompted Petre to ask,
“Did you know there’s a planet near here called Happiness?” Munred regarded her suspiciously,
“What do you know about that?”
Although Munred kept Petre up to date with office gossip, he told her nothing of his work. (A cynic, again, might say because he had nothing to tell her.)
“Tulla said something about it today.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t know. She only got as far as telling me it was called Happiness. Then we got to thinking about living there and feeling you had to be happy. Bang your head and laugh, ‘Ho Ho that hurt,’ sort of thing. Having to say you’re fed up with a smile. Yes,” she remembered, acted it, “somebody calling Happiness. ‘Hello, are you on Happi...’ ‘Funny you should say that, I haven’t been feeling too bright.’”
Munred did not smile.
“I know she wants to see you about it.”
Relinquishing all further efforts to amuse him Petre left for her shower.
Munred did not understand Petre’s friendship with Tulla Yorke. They were, apart from their both being women, in every other respect unequal and unalike. Physically Petre was short, Tulla tall. Tulla had casually cropped yellow hair, Petre dark lustrous braids. And, where Petre was pert and pretty and perfectly proportioned, Tulla was all big feet, big hands, elbows and knees. Tulla couldn’t hold a glass without spilling it; Petre slid untouched through any crowd. Where Petre was vivacious and apparently scatterbrained, Tulla was slow and nodding pensive. Tulla disliked card games and cheap excitements; Petre enjoyed any game of chance, relished every morsel of sleazy scandal. Petre was a once-upon-a-time gymnast, hadn’t qualifications enough to be a technician; Tulla was an astrophysicist, had degrees from four universities. And she and Petre were friends.
Now there exists a romantic misapprehension that all astrophysicists daringly proceed beyond the frontiers of civilisation charting and assessing the unknown. The contrary is the truth. Because, although a sense of adventure may have lured them into the profession, the great majority of astrophysicists dwell dully secure within city limits, their mundane task to reach a greater understanding of the known. Tulla Yorke belonged to the latter category.
And Munred, with all the usual competitive male vanity, was intimidated by Tulla’s unassailable intelligence. He knew that she happened to be on XE2 as part of her research into certain orbital conditions. He had looked no further. Yet Tulla had told Petre in detail about her research, about what she hoped to be able to demonstrate; and Petre had appeared to understand. Tulla enjoyed Petre’s company, Petre enjoyed hers, a friendship in which both regarded one another as equals and which Munred did not understand: it therefore worried him.
Where he to admit it Munred would have confessed that he was jealous of Tulla’s friendship with Petre, that he perceived it as a threat to himself. Hence his coolness to Tulla. He was not to know that the friendship for both women was an echo of older schoolgirl friendships. Both had known, before they had met, how to amuse the other. In roles previously mapped out for themselves, Petre regarded herself as Tulla’s protector, saving her from social blunders; while Tulla saw herself as Petre’s guardian, preventing her from being exploited by the likes of Munred Danporr. Munred would, therefore, seem to be intuitively right in viewing Tulla as endangering his partnership with Petre; except that Tulla knew that the habit of thought that had her regarding him as Petre’s exploiter was at odds with Petre’s present reality, and so she earnestly endeavoured to be pleasant towards him. Tulla was, however, incapable of dissembling. Consequently, at odds within herself, whenever she met Munred she blushed. Those blushes Munred took to be evidence of her duplicity towards him.
Now, worrying over Tulla’s sudden interest in Happiness, Munred had stripped, was awaiting his turn for the shower.
“Tulla didn’t say what it was about?”
“Only that she’s going to see you in the morning. Before she goes to Ben.”
“Why’s she going out there?”
“I didn’t ask. She didn’t say. Now,” she pushed him under the shower, “work is over.” With her wet hand she slapped his bare bum. He span around, face contorted.
“Do you mind!” he lisping shouted at her through the spray of water. And snatching the soap from the dish he then, cursing, dropped it.
Any display of temper is produced by a psychological quantum state dependant on the number and frequency of irritations and frustrations. A few infrequent irritations and we can brush them placidly aside; a host of constant irritations and we can learn to stoically endure them; but, somewhere between those two, one’s own failure to rid oneself of one’s irritations has to find an outlet in an undirected show of anger, usually against an innocent third party. That quantum temper state also depends on the temperament of the individual and their audience. Aimless solitary people who desire nothing very much rarely lose their tempers. Whereas those with an aim, those who want to get things done, anything done, they are very prone to losses of temper. So, for his intemperate language, Munred’s ambition can once more be held responsible.
As for Petre... she was used to these annual bouts of petulance. For, although Munred had undergone interviews all his working life, and although his promotion had often been a foregone conclusion, he had not once failed to be apprehensive of an approaching interview. That nervousness had always found an outlet in his irritability with Petre. This interview, though, was still weeks away. So Petre said,
“Take it easy sweetheart.” And when Petre said sweetheart it was like ice being grated.
Chapter Six
Munred was sitting, his back to Tulla, facing his desk.
“Good morning Munred,” Tulla said.
Dealing with officialdom flustered Tulla: she invariably offended protocol. Her greeting was probably wrong, she thought, should have said Director or somesuch. Nor, when Munred turned to face her, did he appear his usual affable off-duty self.
“Morning Tulla. This official?”
“I suppose so.”
“Right,” he ostentatiously pressed a switch on his desk.
Tulla found his brisk manner off-putting, forgot her openin
g remark.
As people she preferred technicians, they at least were interested in their work for its own sake. Unfortunately few technicians are versed in the social arts, being more often than not interested in their work to the exclusion of all else. On her travels, therefore, Tulla frequently found herself, despite her reservations, seeking the company of the sociable Service personnel.
“So what do you want to see me about?” Munred faced her.
“Happiness,” she said, and blushed. “The inhabited planet of that yellow G.”
“What about it?”
“Its moon has disappeared.”
“Since when?”
“Thirty two days ago.”
Munred abruptly turned from her, tapped keys. He studied the screen,
“That could account for it.”
“Account for what?”
“That,” Munred pointed to the ‘Priority Happiness’ flashing on the screen. Up until now he had blocked Tulla’s view of it. “We lost radio contact with them thirty three days ago. Could the moon have crashed into the planet?”
Negligently tipping her case over on the floor Tulla sat down and furiously thought. Munred got up and began walking excitedly back and forth, at first stepping over her case, then setting it upright beside her chair.
“The moon crashing into the planet,” he said as he straightened, “would have wiped out all its transmissions. Yes?”
“It would certainly have caused considerable damage. But only on that hemisphere on which it crashed. And then depending on whether it hit the land or the sea. It’s not that big a moon. In one of the larger oceans it might have had no appreciable effect. Tidal waves possibly. On land it may have caused earthquakes. Globally. But even then I can’t see it stopping all transmissions. Besides, you said the transmissions ceased the day before the moon disappeared.”
“But over that distance, a small error in calculation...”
“No. I went to great pains to pinpoint the time exactly. My computations require its position to the second and to the metre.” She tapped buttons on her case, checked date and time with him. “Seven days thirteen hours six minutes twenty three seconds distance?” she said. He concurred. “That makes the moon’s disappearance,” another calculation, “exactly twenty one hours after you lost contact with Happiness. Cause and effect aren’t regressive. And that moon was in full view of our scanners when it disappeared. One second it was there, the next it wasn’t.”
Munred had come to a halt before her, had clasped his hands behind his back and was looking reproachfully down on her,
“Why wasn’t I told of this before?”
“Because,” T’ulla frowned at him, “I, quite by chance, only found out yesterday. I had to verify what I had found before I bothered you with it.”
“Yet you found time to tell Petre. Hardly the behaviour of a professional.”
“My work here isn’t classified. Besides,” Tulla was blushing again, “I saw no need for secrecy.”
“A moon goes missing and you see no need for secrecy?” His facetious tone annoyed Tulla. Her blush deepened,
“I saw that the absence of the moon could have far-reaching consequences. I haven’t computed them all yet, but I felt that I ought to inform you now as you are in charge of this Department. Had I known that Happiness had ceased transmitting I might have looked into that sector before yesterday, have discovered its moon was missing earlier.”
“And when you did discover that its moon was inexplicably missing, didn’t you stop to think they might need emergency services down there?”
“I had no reason to suppose that the moon may have crashed onto the planet. Nor do I still.”
“If it hasn’t crashed onto the planet,” Munred lifted an eyebrow, “where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Moons don’t just disappear. Where is it?”
“I don’t know. But what I do know is that at the moment it disappeared it was precisely 386,542 kilometres from the planet’s surface. Nothing I know can exceed the speed of light from a stationary orbit, and that’s what it would have taken for the moon to crash into the planet. And with the moon’s mass such an instant speed, so far as I am aware, is impossible.”
“That still doesn’t mean that it couldn’t have crashed into the planet.”
The man was in a funk, Tulla realised, wanted to pin any possible blame onto her. She was convenient. But Tulla was having none of it. She had been caught up in the petty intrigues and machinations of Service before, knew that, if one did not immediately and forthrightly protest one’s innocence, culpability was rapidly assumed.
“The planet’s rotation is stable,” Tulla said. “That is its orbit at the moment is stable. The moon was not out of orbit prior to its disappearance. And, if the moon had collided with the planet, then the ensuing explosion would have created so much radio noise that my scanners couldn’t have but failed to pick it up. Even if they didn’t, Communication would have been bothered by it. I’ve checked. No explosions. Have you had no other contact with the planet?”
“Not for thirty three days.”
“No ships?”
“No!” he snapped at her, disliking being quizzed. “Not for thirty three days.”
“But,” Tulla gazed up incredulously at him, “you could’ve had a ship down there in two days.”
“Yes, I could, if I’d had a ship. But the Inspector’s been on Torc the last four weeks, and I can’t override standing police orders. The other ship went out on patrol before it became a Priority. It’s due back,” he glanced to the clock, “in one hour. It’ll be sent to Happiness straightaway.”
“But you’ve got a Departmental ship at your disposal. Why didn’t you go?”
“A Director leave his station?!”
“You could’ve sent your Sub.”
“You telling me how to do my job?”
Munred had considered sending one of his sub-departmental Directors. To the interviewing board, however, he knew that overreacting was a worse sin than inaction. The profligate dispatch of the Departmental ship to Happiness would, therefore, not have impressed them.
“Do you know how many caveats there are about interfering in the life of a planet?” he asked Tulla, “I can sum them all up in one neat phrase — By Request Only. And no-one has requested that I interfere.”
Below her spiky yellow hair Tulla was now a burning shade of crimson. As before, whenever she had encountered officialdom, it had failed to see the obvious, had stood in her way with its proper procedures, had been so busy passing the buck that it had done nothing. A conglomerate of thin-skinned careerists regarding the universe only in how it applied to themselves; careerists who took no chances, made no advances, just covered their tactical retreats. Now she said,
“Interfere? That planet at this moment may be uninhabitable. They don’t have a stable life-support system down there. They have a climate. And extreme climatic effects produce suicides, homicides. Weather! Haven’t you heard of it? Certain winds alone can create harmful emotional states, can exaggerate emotional states. A simple climatic change has been known to send a peaceful people to war! What effect will a missing moon have on the climate, what effect will the climate have on the people? The simple answer is that we don’t know. And that is why, down there, we have people monitoring machines, machines monitoring people. We trust to nothing. All is fallible. And those machines two weeks ago, correct me if I’m wrong, asked you to investigate.” She made an effort to calm herself, “A whole planet loses communication Munred.... it seems logical to send a ship.”
“Seems logical I’d have found out about a missing moon before now.”
“Certainly. If I had been asked to check that particular planet, then most certainly you would have found out about the missing moon earlier. As it is I merely happened to chance upon it in the course of my survey.”
“How was I to know its moon was missing?”
“You weren’t. But you knew that there w
as something amiss with the planet. Ask any technician, Munred, why he is better than his machines; and he will tell you that it is his intuition, his ability to arrive at valid decisions on insufficient data. Do something Munred.”
“I am dammit. I am.”
“What?”
They went over old ground — the police ship, his not having sent the Departmental ship, his not being told about the moon, her not being told of the loss of communication. Back and forth went the accusations, until Tulla thought the squabble both pointless and unseemly.
Although the deliberately cultivated inactivity of Service personnel is often held up to ridicule, it has to be said that, generally, such inactivity is beneficial to our civilisation. Too often in the past humankind has created administrative systems which have worked, but which have subsequently been undermined by those employed within them. In an attempt to justify their salaries and their position those employees unnecessarily interfered with the system’s workings. In self-justification they felt that they had to do something, and so they conjured up, for instance, a new indexing system — when the old system was perfectly adequate and understood by all. And no sooner had those, who had to use that indexing system, adapted themselves to it, than someone else felt that they had to justify their salary by doing something and the system was again, according to the foibles of the latest newcomer, re-indexed. So we had change for change’s sake, until the whole edifice collapsed under the weight of superfluous innovations. Thus, learning from history, in our Service emphasis is placed on uneventful tenure rather than on accomplishment; and proposals to alter any aspect of Service life or working procedures are met with a staunch conservatism.
Within our civilisation the only criteria, justifying the continued existence of any institution or practice is — does it work? As an intelligence we were late arriving at such a rule by which to govern ourselves. Of course there have always been those among us who have owned just such a criteria. Artists, for instance, in the creating of an effect, whether in music, literature or drama, readily abandon outdated methods or stick stubbornly with traditional techniques, providing they get the desired results. So long as the methods employed are effective then they don’t attempt to change them. So too, at long last, our entire civilisation. Although, of course, effectiveness is not the sole consideration; morality and ethics also come into the running of a civilisation. But it is of no use having a practice which is ethically sound if it doesn’t work. So if it works is the predominant criteria — and the majority are happy to abide by it. Though a sizeable minority, like Tulla, would appreciate just a few more exceptions to Service’s general rule of inactivity.