Kinoshita was the kind of man who took his work seriously and had the bad luck to prove it somewhere no one would ever notice.

His posting: the TOI-199b Tourist Information Office. For seventeen consecutive years, it had ranked in the bottom three for visitor numbers across the entire Interplanetary Tourism Bureau.

The planet itself wasn’t the problem. Temperatures ran a steady 60 to 90°C year-round — you couldn’t survive without a spacesuit, sure — but the scenery was genuinely something. The gas giant’s banded atmosphere stretched across the sky in broad swirling stripes, and at dawn, orange clouds drifted low on the horizon. Storms rolled in, but they were gone in two or three days. The guidebook gave it three stars.

And still. Nobody came.

“Let’s see, TOI, T-O-I… one, nine, nine…”

On the rare occasion an inquiry came in, it usually stalled right there. People couldn’t remember the name.

Over seventeen years, Kinoshita had compiled 2,480 survey responses. Of those, 2,412 included notes like “the name is too hard,” “I couldn’t type the planet name into the reservation form,” or “I got TOI-199a and TOI-199b mixed up.” For the record, TOI-199a is the host star. You cannot visit it for tourism purposes.

Kinoshita brought it up with his supervisor, Section Chief Kuroiwa, more times than he could count.

“Could we give it a nickname? Something like ‘Nostalgic Star,’ or ‘The Orange Planet’?”

“Nicknames require approval from the Planetary Nomenclature Committee,” Kuroiwa said. “From application to approval, you’re looking at four years minimum.”

“Four years.”

“And rejection is fairly common, so realistically, budget seven to ten.”

Kinoshita spent another seventeen years there.

In the spring of his eighteenth year, he finally moved. Without telling anyone, he added four small words to the office’s tourism pamphlet: “also known as the Just-Right Planet.” He printed the official designation alongside it — TOI-199b, a.k.a. the Just-Right Planet — and added a note to the inquiry form: “You can also search for us as ‘Just-Right Planet.’”

Within three months, twelve bookings came in.

Seventeen years between reservations. Kinoshita came close to crying.

Four months later, he was called in by management.

“Mr. Kinoshita, we’ll need a written apology regarding your unauthorized use of an unofficial planetary nickname.”

“I — sorry?”

“Using an unapproved nickname without Planetary Nomenclature Committee authorization is a violation of Article 17, Paragraph 3 of the Interstellar Tourism Act.”

“But the bookings—”

“We’re aware. The procedure is still the procedure.”

Kinoshita wrote the apology. “Just-Right Planet” disappeared from every pamphlet. Three months later, the visitor count returned to what it had always been.

Then, at the end of the fiscal year, an internal memo arrived on his desk. Addressed to: TOI-199b Tourist Information Office, Attn: All Staff. Contents: Due to a cost-effectiveness review, the TOI-199b Tourist Information Office will be discontinued as of next fiscal year.

When Kinoshita began the paperwork to process the closure, the clerk on the other end of the line hit a snag entering the destination address.

“Let me see… T-O-I… one, nine…”

The next morning, the closure notice never reached Kinoshita’s office. A form input error had caused the delivery to fail.

Kinoshita put on a pot of coffee.