the police are also, knowingly, symbols of all-knowing authority and unrelenting order. They are therefore aware of the danger of not being taken seriously, of subsequently appearing foolish. They are also aware that, rather than hold to an untenable opinion, then an admission of ignorance, of humanity, will endear them to the public and not, as one might expect, estrange them. Hence in police circles the popularity of the saying — when all else fails, confess your fallibility.
“What would you like us to do Sir?” Alger asked the Spokesman. “I’ve never come across anything like this before.”
“Nor I,” the Spokesman grimaced. “Sometimes I think your Director could’ve been right.”
“How Sir?”
“Mass hysteria. No,” he drew himself erect in immediate denial of that, a reprimand to himself for ever having considered such a possibility. “Our moon has gone,” he said. “Ships are disappearing. You could try and find out what’s happening to them.”
“The Director’s was the last ship to leave here?”
“No. A freighter left North Three yesterday.”
“Was it tracked?”
“I assume so. We’re all of us naturally interested in what’s going on. It’s not a good feeling knowing you’re isolated.”
“We’re here Sir.”
“And that doesn’t make sense either. There’s no logic to any of it.”
Back within the ship Alger told Drin to look through the record of the Director’s and Spokesman’s meeting for their ideas on what might be happening. As they took off Drin said,
“Hey! The Director’s put us both down for commendations.”
“No fool that Director,” Alger grinned at him.
Travelling into the night towards North Three, Drin related the various theories to Alger. Some they laughed at.
“Bent mining consortium seems the best bet,” Alger decided.
“Except the planet’s been mined out.”
“Unless they’ve found something new here.”
“How could they blank out a whole planet?”
“Beats me.”
It was raining, when they arrived among the date palms in North Three.
Rain is like being inside a vast condensation chamber. Drops of water shattered and splashed off the illuminated nose of the ship, tiny rivulets ran down the screens.
The farmer had been in bed an hour, but not asleep. He sent a canopy out to the apron so that Drin and Alger could enter his farmhouse without getting drenched. The rain drummed on the canopy, ran off it to bubble and trickle in gutters and drains. Alger, his voice raised, introduced himself and Drin.
“How do you put up with this much noise?” Drin shouted at the farmer as they hurried after Alger to the farmhouse.
“You soon get used to it,” the farmer said.
“Yea?” Drin said disbelievingly.
They entered the insulated stillness of the house. Before Alger could inform the farmer of the purpose of their visit a woman, in her night-clothes, came rushing into the room.
“They found Hal?” she asked the farmer.
“Hal?” Alger looked to the man.
“Halk Fint. Our son.”
“Ah... The boy who was first to leave. I’m afraid not.” Before Alger had finished speaking the woman had turned and had gone. The three men stood in uncomfortable silence.
“What have you come for?” the farmer asked them.
“About the freighter you had here yesterday. Did you track it when it left?”
“As far as we could.”
“And it left safely?”
“Far as we could tell.”
“Where was it bound?”
“Processing plant.”
“Where?”
“City limits.”
“What was it you sent?”
“Dates.”
“And they’ll convert them to food there?”
“No. They’ll auction them, package them, and sell them for treble the price.” Although it was said in a tone of complaint there was no heat in it: a ritual grouse as ancient as the profession of farming.
“Did you hear him give the destination?” Alger asked the farmer.
“They usually do it on the ground here. Pre-program. It’ll be on record. Don’t you think she made
“What would you like us to do Sir?” Alger asked the Spokesman. “I’ve never come across anything like this before.”
“Nor I,” the Spokesman grimaced. “Sometimes I think your Director could’ve been right.”
“How Sir?”
“Mass hysteria. No,” he drew himself erect in immediate denial of that, a reprimand to himself for ever having considered such a possibility. “Our moon has gone,” he said. “Ships are disappearing. You could try and find out what’s happening to them.”
“The Director’s was the last ship to leave here?”
“No. A freighter left North Three yesterday.”
“Was it tracked?”
“I assume so. We’re all of us naturally interested in what’s going on. It’s not a good feeling knowing you’re isolated.”
“We’re here Sir.”
“And that doesn’t make sense either. There’s no logic to any of it.”
Back within the ship Alger told Drin to look through the record of the Director’s and Spokesman’s meeting for their ideas on what might be happening. As they took off Drin said,
“Hey! The Director’s put us both down for commendations.”
“No fool that Director,” Alger grinned at him.
Travelling into the night towards North Three, Drin related the various theories to Alger. Some they laughed at.
“Bent mining consortium seems the best bet,” Alger decided.
“Except the planet’s been mined out.”
“Unless they’ve found something new here.”
“How could they blank out a whole planet?”
“Beats me.”
It was raining, when they arrived among the date palms in North Three.
Rain is like being inside a vast condensation chamber. Drops of water shattered and splashed off the illuminated nose of the ship, tiny rivulets ran down the screens.
The farmer had been in bed an hour, but not asleep. He sent a canopy out to the apron so that Drin and Alger could enter his farmhouse without getting drenched. The rain drummed on the canopy, ran off it to bubble and trickle in gutters and drains. Alger, his voice raised, introduced himself and Drin.
“How do you put up with this much noise?” Drin shouted at the farmer as they hurried after Alger to the farmhouse.
“You soon get used to it,” the farmer said.
“Yea?” Drin said disbelievingly.
They entered the insulated stillness of the house. Before Alger could inform the farmer of the purpose of their visit a woman, in her night-clothes, came rushing into the room.
“They found Hal?” she asked the farmer.
“Hal?” Alger looked to the man.
“Halk Fint. Our son.”
“Ah... The boy who was first to leave. I’m afraid not.” Before Alger had finished speaking the woman had turned and had gone. The three men stood in uncomfortable silence.
“What have you come for?” the farmer asked them.
“About the freighter you had here yesterday. Did you track it when it left?”
“As far as we could.”
“And it left safely?”
“Far as we could tell.”
“Where was it bound?”
“Processing plant.”
“Where?”
“City limits.”
“What was it you sent?”
“Dates.”
“And they’ll convert them to food there?”
“No. They’ll auction them, package them, and sell them for treble the price.” Although it was said in a tone of complaint there was no heat in it: a ritual grouse as ancient as the profession of farming.
“Did you hear him give the destination?” Alger asked the farmer.
“They usually do it on the ground here. Pre-program. It’ll be on record. Don’t you think she made
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