The application was handwritten.
Kei Yamamoto, examiner at the Bureau of Interplanetary Migration, stared at the papers and for a moment suspected the receptionist. A prank, maybe. But she looked back at him with her usual blank expression and said, “Came through normal channels,” then disappeared into the back room.
The form read: Application for Interplanetary Migration (Form No. 7). Applicant: Mamoru Tanaka, 42, office worker. Under Preferred Destination, written in careful, unhurried script: Steam-World Planet, Section D.
Yamamoto read the reason field slowly.
No pollen.
That was it.
Here was a man applying to relocate to a planet 97 light-years away, and his entire case rested on the absence of pollen. Yamamoto took off his glasses and pressed two fingers against his temple.
This was the third steam-world application this year. The first: I like rain. The second: High humidity is good for my skin. Now: hay fever. The stated reasons were getting worse — or more honest, depending on how you looked at it.
He uncapped his pen and began writing up the rejection.
The estimated atmospheric temperature of the target planet exceeds 400°C, rendering it unsuitable for human habitation. Furthermore…
He stopped.
Outside the window, the cherry blossoms had started to fall. Right at that moment, Yamamoto’s nose gave a faint, traitorous twitch.
He had hay fever. Had for twenty years. February through May, never without medication. That morning he’d used his nasal spray three times before leaving the house, and still his eyes were so puffy he’d missed his stop on the train. This year the pollen count was higher than usual, and his new prescription wasn’t cutting it.
He looked back down at the form.
The estimated atmospheric temperature exceeds 400°C…
At 400°C, he thought, there would be no pollen. No pollen, no cedar, no cypress, no PM2.5, no yellow dust from the continent. At 400°C, every organic molecule in the atmosphere would vaporize. Just clean, hot steam.
Of course, a human being would also vaporize.
He held his pen and sat with that thought for a while. A steam world. Nothing but water vapor. Brilliant and scalding and perfectly, utterly clear.
Sure, you’d die.
But no pollen.
”…”
Yamamoto reached for the rejection stamp. He pressed it against the ink pad, positioned it over the top-right corner of the form.
He held it there for five seconds.
Then he set the stamp down and looked at the bottom of the page — the Co-applicant field. It was blank. Normally used when family members apply together.
He picked up his pen again.
And wrote his own name.
Kei Yamamoto (Examining Officer)
He blinked. Came back to himself.
He slid the form into his desk drawer, got up, and went to make coffee in the break room. Standing there with his mug, he thought: it wouldn’t go through anyway. He’d be the one rejecting it.
But he left his name on the form.
The next morning, Mamoru Tanaka received his rejection notice. The reason given, in neat official print, was: Environment incompatible with human survival.
In the bottom-right corner, someone had added a small handwritten note.
Your sentiment is entirely understood. — Examiner Yamamoto