Free Happiness: A Planet by Sam Smith Page A

resentment of the imposition of Space Time by planet dwellers.
    Because, unlike us whose days and nights are regulated by machine, they have an idiosyncratic planetary rotation governing the division of their days and nights. For them strict adherence to Space Time leads only to confusion. On one side of the planet day can be from eleven in the morning to midnight; while elsewhere on the same planet day is from lam to 2pm. Consequently most planets maintain a dual system, though Space Time remains the constant, and where different hours are kept they are referred to as being so many hours behind or ahead of Space Time.
    Therefore Drin was incorrect when, because of their shorter days, he assumed that the inhabitants of Happiness would believe they lived a greater number of years. They do have their own calendar for their own years, but their age is measured in Space Time. Although some statistic-happy inhabitants of Happiness, with regard to both calendars, do refer to a particular birthday year as being their year of two summers or two winters, whichever the case may be. Local folklore as to whether such bodes good or ill have grown around this planetary peculiarity.
    Alger, however, ignorant of this numerical phenomena, was studying the two men who were jabbering animatedly to one another on the apron below.
    “They look unstable to me,” he said. One of the men was round and pink, the other tall and gauntly yellow. The tall one’s arms were waving about in nervous gesticulation. The shorter man was attempting to placate him.
    “Better arm ourselves,” Alger told Drin. “And get a recorder.”
    Drin tapped the recorder within the tunic at his breast. He buckled on the gun Alger handed him.
    “Check it’s on stun,” Both examined their guns.
    “Check.”
             “Out we go then.” Alger took a deep wavering breath, “Open door.”
    No sooner were they on the ramp than the taller man shouted up to them,
    “Where’s our moon?”
    Alger raised an eyebrow to Drin and, pulling back his shoulders, sucking in his stomach, raising his chin and authoritatively lowering his eyelids, he began his stately descent of the ramp, a figure of police imperturbability.
    “Where’s our moon?” the Senate Member for North Eight again screamed at Alger.
    “It’s not there,” Alger calmly replied.
    “We know that!” the man snapped at him. “Where is it?”
    “I’ve no idea,” Alger said; and, reaching the bottom of the ramp, he formally introduced himself and Constable Drin Ligure.
    Drin was now used to Alger’s abrupt transformation to the formal and ponderous Sergeant Deaver. He too was becoming adept, the moment he stepped beyond the ship, at switching to the buttoned up Constable Ligure. Nor did he any longer feel foolish in acting this part, for he’d had proved to him on one substation how their apparent calmness had caused others to be conscious of their own hysteria, and so calm themselves. Their impassive formality now had its effect on the Spokesman.
    “Excuse our bad manners,” he said. “You must understand that we’ve been very very worried.”
    The Spokesman introduced himself and the Senate Member for North Eight, his near neighbour. Drin noticed that tiny grains of dust had settled on the two planetary men’s hair and skin. They seemed unaware of it. Drin imagined several itches on his own body.
    “You’ve no idea what’s happened to our moon?” the Spokesman said.
    “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