by Sam Smith
Such was the man whose bony hand Nero Porsnin released.
* * * * *
“Start at the beginning,” Jorge resumed his seat, “and tell me all that you believe appertains to your previous Director’s disappearance, and what actions you have taken.”
Nero smiled, the man’s reputation was no exaggeration. Sitting where Tulla Yorke had sat when Munred had defended his doing nothing, Nero gathered his wits, sought a starting point, and looked into Jorge Arbatov’s face. The eyes appeared translucent, the face without any flesh, the skin seeming to have shrunk to the bones.
“I’m not sure of the exact date,” Nero said, “but it started about forty days ago with the request to investigate Happiness.”
“Happiness!” Jorge snorted, “The names they give these planets. Peace! Harmony! I had one in my Department once called Tranquillity. Their major township had three earth tremors a week. Mind you the most absurd I’ve ever heard is one called Greendom. Just that — Greendom! Goes to show the kind of mentality they hope to attract. What’s this one’s moon called? Joy?” He didn’t wait for Nero’s reply, “Sorry, go on.”
Without further interruption Nero told how nothing could at first be done because of the absence of both police ships, then of Tulla Yorke informing Munred of the disappearance of the moon, of the police ship’s first visit to Happiness, of the ships that had reportedly disappeared en route from Happiness to XE2, of the one doubtful eyewitness account of two ships exploding, of Munred’s visit, of his disappearance, of the police ship’s second visit, of the Spokesman’s request for more ships.
“Have you obliged them?”
“No. Inspector Boone has issued an all stations directive rerouting all ships from the planet.”
“Quite.”
Jorge Arbatov gazed thoughtfully at the screen, which Nero now saw had Munred Danporr’s record upon it.
“The Director’s apartment is empty,” Nero told him. “I can show you there now if you wish. I’ve had all her personal belongings put in store.”
“Her?”
“Petre Fanne. Munred Danporr’s consort. She left this morning for the city.”
“Did she?”
“She would have had to leave here anyway,” Nero said.
“Ridiculous practice,” Jorge offhandedly dismissed that particular Service policy; and his hand went absentmindedly to his chin as he took up the classic thinking pose.
Nero waited for him to speak. Jorge didn’t.
“I’ve made a list,” Nero pointed to the desk top, “of all the codes you might need.”
“Thank you.” Jorge came out of his reverie. “Thoughtful of you.”
“You’d like to see the apartment now?” Nero stood.
“I want to look through the records first. I slept all the way here on the ship.” He explained, “Didn’t know what awaited me. But you go. And thank you for your admirable summing up. No excuses. That’s what I like.” Nero blushed — he’d had no need to make excuses, any mistakes that had been made had been made by Munred Danporr.
“In the morning,” Jorge said, “I’ll have decided what action we’ll take. See you then.” Nero left the office thinking that old Jorge Arbatov was nowhere near as formidable as people liked to believe.
That night Jorge Arbatov worked through all the relevant records. He read the minutes of the three Extraordinary Meetings of the Happiness Senate, read and reread the two lengthy police reports. He sneered at Munred’s interview with Tulla Yorke, grunted cynically at his interview with Happiness’s Spokesman. With both Tulla Yorke and the Spokesman Munred had endeavoured only to prove that what had happened had not happened.
Jorge looked back over XE2’s transport logs, arranged the events into chronological order, read the police reports again. He examined the records of all concerned, Tulla Yorke, Petre Fanne, Anton Singh, Inspector Eldon Boone, Constable Drin Ligure, Sergeant Alger Deaver, Belid Keal, Halk Fint and the others who had disappeared from Happiness, including those freighter skippers whose ships hadn’t been seen since their itineraries had taken them to Happiness. He also made a careful study of Nero Porsnin’s record.
When Nero Porsnin returned to the office in the morning Jorge Arbatov was once again reading through the transcript of Tulla’s conversation with Munred.
“Tulla Yorke passed through here the morning before Petre Fanne left for the city?” was Jorge’s greeting to Nero. Nero immediately decided that he’d possibly been a trifle generous in his opinion of Jorge Arbatov the previous evening.
“She’s gone to one of the platforms,” he answered evasively, confirming his record.
“And is due back here tomorrow,” Jorge curtly continued. “Did she see Petre Fanne?”
“No idea. They are friends, and she was here for an hour or more. Her apartment isn’t that far from Petre Fanne’s. And her doorkey was found in Petre’s apartment.”
“Any idea why Tulla Yorke should have gone to the platforms?”
“None. But she did leave a note asking Inspector Boone and I to meet her on her return. I sent the request on to Inspector Boone.”
“This meeting is tomorrow?”
“The day after.”
“I didn’t see this note,” Jorge indicated the screens. Nero apologised for not leaving the code: he had placed it under a futures file.
Jorge Arbatov interlocked his long knobbled fingers and stared at the screens. He sat back,
“It’s a connection. That’s all. Now,” he impatiently gestured Nero to a seat, “here’s what we’re going to do. I intend to share this Directorship with you. The situation demands it. At some time in the near future I will no doubt have to go down to the planet. I too might disappear. You therefore will once again find yourself Acting Director. If you know what is going on you will be able to preserve continuity — of sorts. Invaluable experience for you anyway. Therefore you will be privy to every decision made in this Department; and everything now, no matter how apparently unconnected with Happiness, will go on record and will remain on open record. Even this conversation. Is that understood?”
Nero Porsnin nodded.
“Right,” Jorge continued. “I believe that Tulla Yorke must be following some lead in going to the platforms. When she returns she might be able to tell us what has happened to the moon. Once we know why the moon has disappeared we may then know why the ships have disappeared. Before her return, however, I propose sending the police ship back to Happiness and denying their request for more ships. Seems rather pointless sending them ships that will only disappear if they try to leave the planet. I will tell them that their request will be acceded to when, and only when, we know why their other ships have disappeared. In the meantime they’ll have to sweat it out. I also propose requesting from Inspector Boone that the police ship, it being the only ship which seems to be able to visit Happiness with immunity, be seconded to this Directorship’s command until he returns to this station, or until this mystery is solved. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” the word jumped out of Nero’s mouth.
“Now, before I send them off, I want to interview Sergeant Alger Deaver and Constable Drin Ligure. You will be present. Then I am going to eat and sleep. There is nothing else for us to do at the moment, except await Tulla Yorke’s return. Those platforms are, however, close to Happiness. So, in case she too goes missing, I suggest that today you go to the library here and try to parallel her likely research. Just guesses. Other moons disappearing. Anything like that. When we’ve interviewed the police you can show me this apartment. I’ll sleep for three hours. Then I’ll probably join you in the library. Now let’s see those two policemen.”
* * * * *
Three and a half hours later Sergeant Alger Deaver and Constable Drin Ligure found themselves, their leave curtailed, for the third time bound for Happiness.
Chapter Seventeen
Petre Fanne’s psyche was lagging light-years behind her soma.
So sudden and rapid had the changes been, o
ne following upon the other, that she had yet to adapt to her new circumstances. Added to which her entire previous life, with all its unquestioned assumptions, seemed to be under incessant attack, everything new she learnt seeming only to add to her feeling of alarming unreality.
For instance, every waking hour of their three day journey to the city, Anton Singh had been sitting at the console, his case plugged into it, decoding as much of the information the ship carried as he was able. Petre had been shocked speechless at first by the man’s utter disregard for the confidentiality of that information. Without compunction he riffled through Service records, police reports, business and personal correspondence, even occasionally adding to his crime by taking illicit copies.
What Petre hadn’t then been aware of was that many freighter crews, to wile away the boredom of their long journeys, also riffle through the mail this way. Indeed it has taken on the status of a subculture among freighter crews, freshly broken codes being passed on from crew to crew. Anton Singh, therefore, made it his business to know freighter crews, swapped many a code with them.
Petre, however, was unaware of such a widespread, and largely innocent, practice. Though it did then occur to Petre that this must have been how Tulla had discovered the contents of the police reports on Happiness. Such an assumption, though, did little to reassure Petre and was, moreover, incorrect; because Petre was also unaware just how high Tulla’s security clearance was.
That aside, to be in the presence of so casual a criminal unnerved Petre, had her physically trembling, had her swallowing down her nausea. Then, happening to look over Anton’s shoulder, she became fascinated by what institutions and other people regarded as confidential. So she came to read of Munred’s encounter with Happiness’s Spokesman; which was why, she belatedly realised, Anton had delayed their departure from XE2, so that he would have access to the police report. Reading that report, and in light of what Tulla had told her, Munred sounded a fool and a prig. That novel view of him disheartened her, brought into doubt the genuineness of her grief.
Then when she read Sergeant Alger Deaver’s opinion of her as ‘shrewish’ she cursed him, much to Anton’s amusement, from one end of the small ship to the other. While she merely hooted at each of Nero Porsnin’s copybook suggestions as to how she might be encouraged to leave XE2 and move out to another station, one on which Munred had not served and where she would have known no-one.
Beholding such impersonal views of herself, Petre’s loyalty to her past life was lessened; and so too was her shock at Anton’s breaching of confidences. And when the information that Anton decoded no longer directly concerned her — what others considered secret appearing both petty and banal, making of Anton’s scandalous prying less of a sacrilege — Petre lost interest in it. Save to ask him why he bothered.
“In commerce,” he told her, “information is a commodity which can be sold.”
For the remainder of the journey Petre flipped through Anton’s books and magazines, tried to anaesthetise herself with print, occasionally rousing herself to speculate on Anton Singh. But even to his closest associates Anton Singh is a man about whom much is rumoured, little is known. He answered her questions readily enough, but he volunteered no unasked for details. Nor could she interest him in her.
Up to that point Petre’s life had been such that she had come to expect sexual overtures from her every male heterosexual acquaintance. By his own admission Anton was no homosexual. Consequently — his scrupulously honouring his contract with her; and though solicitous of her welfare, though gently chiding her to make her eat — when he made no advances to her she became increasingly disconcerted, began to doubt her powers to allure. Added to that, because of her recent lack of exercises, she knew that her body was becoming soft, and she felt even more out of touch with her old self, couldn’t wait to get herself established in her new apartment and, at the first opportunity, punish herself back into shape.
Chapter Eighteen
Tulla Yorke’s research ship was an interspace ship, was not aeronautically designed to operate, even had she wanted, within a planet’s atmosphere. However, before proceeding to the platforms, Tulla diverted her ship to the two planets between Happiness and the sun. Both of those smaller planets were too hot to support life. Neither had seas. She orbited those planets and their three moons, scanned them all, and from the orbit of each scanned Happiness.
While she was circling those planets Anton Singh and Petre Fanne were travelling to the city. While she was scanning the inner planet’s single moon, unbeknownst to her, Jorge Arbatov arrived on XE2.
Her work, however, finally completed, and keenly aware of the passage of real time, Tulla made quickly for one of the platforms.
Those three platforms are in geostationary orbit 145 million kilometres from Happiness’s sun. Each platform is placed so that ships from the city do not have to go beyond the sun to reach it. They are also positioned with regard to Happiness’s annual orbit, so that no platform either obstructs or deflects the sun’s radiation from the planet. The platform that Tulla chose lay closest to her direct route back to XE2.
On her arrival she was unable to raise any response on the radio. After waiting the mandatory hour she docked in the central loading bay.
Once plugged into the platform’s internal communication system she called the technician’s quarters, received no answer, was about to go and physically search for someone when a throaty male voice asked her if she knew what time it was. Tulla, realising, apologised. Since she had been on Ben the hours that she had kept had been so irregular that she had come to disregard normal hours, sleeping only when her work and travels allowed it.
She introduced herself, gave her profession, explained that she had come to the platform to conduct some research into the sun, asked where it would be most convenient to dock. The surly voice told her to go to any of the top right hand bays: they had just been seeded. Before signing off Tulla asked how long it was before the platform’s machine records were overwritten.
“What d’you wanna know that for?” the voice snarled at her.
“My research.”
“Leave it till morning willya?” The line went dead on Tulla.
“Charming,” she said.
She moved her ship to the docking bay in the uppermost right hand corner of the platform. Once her ship’s tanks had refilled with water from the platform she showered, had some breakfast. There was little point in rushing: she’d have to wait for the technician to wake to give her the codes she needed.
Tulla had not been on a platform before. She took this opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. First, on leaving the ship, she encountered — as expected — the prickly humidity of all platforms: it is the standard grouse of all who have ever visited a platform. From the walkway she could see, through the clear screens at the far end of the sloping up fields, the yellow-white disc of the sun. The inner walkway screens were dimmed.
In the fields at the top level, as the technician had said, were line upon spiky line of green seedlings in the furrowed dark soil. The two metre depth of the spongy soil surprised Tulla: she had expected it to be much shallower.
The elevator took her down three levels before she began to see fields of full grown crops; legumes, pulses, brassicas, tomatoes, flooded rice fields, grapes, groundnuts, berries of all sizes and colours... Three fields were darkened to create a frost for germination — so much she remembered from her school biology. In some fields machines were harvesting root crops, conveyors transporting the bulbous vegetables to silos between each docking bay. Four fields were given over to the growing of medicinal and nutritious fungi; and, opposite the central docking bay, were the pungent yeast tanks.
The machine room was beside the central docking bay. The technician was waiting there for her. His greeting was unceremonious,
“What d’you want?”
Tulla was used to dealing with misanthropic technicians; although this one, round and wispy-bearded, did seem even more un
communicative than most. She told him that she was looking for any increase in the sun’s radiation, therefore needed the records of the screen adjusters.
At that moment a buzzer sounded, heralding the arrival of a freighter.
“Gotta go,” the technician said.
“What about the code?” Tulla called after him.
“Find it yourself!” the technician shouted back.
Shaking her head with amazement at his appalling manners, Tulla looked about the machine room for the code book. The machine room was as disorderly and as grubby as the technician. Below some of the consoles were several dirty piles of manuals. The pages within their protective transparent sleeves were sweat and grease stained, and limp from the humidity. After an hour of leafing through the manuals, and wiping the dust from her hands onto her tunic, Tulla was certain that the code book wasn’t there.
The buzzer had twice sounded while she had been searching. The technician appeared suddenly in the machine room doorway.
“Can you move your ship to C5? I got a load of seed coming I forgot about.” And before Tulla could ask him for the code book he had again gone.
Fingers impatiently tapping her thigh Tulla rode up in the elevator, then marched angrily along the walkway to her ship. Three other ships were now docked. She could hear the bubbling slurp of their tanks emptying sludge into the platform’s compost processors. (Inside those processors the city and station waste would be treated with bacteria, the resultant compost used for fertiliser, the derivative methane made liquid and dispatched to various factories.) From inside the first ship to have arrived came the gurgling screaming hiss of pressurised steam as its emptied holds were being washed and sterilised.