Free Happiness: A Planet by Sam Smith Page B

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.

Chapter Nine
     
    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.
    Asinstructed 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