" What do you expect there is?" Barb said, then, sharply: phase two, the emotional attack. " You can do anything you want over there, you can go there where you don't have to have the people who confront you in the grocery store, or stand outside your apartment and ring up on the phones and leave you messages on the system because we're in the public directory and they can't get calls to you."

"Has that been happening?"

" Yes, it happens," Barb said. He could hear the anger, the accusatory tone. " It happens, it's always happened. And I'm scared, Bren, I'm really scared."

"It happens to me, Barb, it happens. I get my mail. I get phone calls when I'm home. What's different?"

"You're over there speaking to the legislature and talking to the ship, and we're here taking calls from people who blame us because we're the only people they can get to, and they're getting scary, Bren. There's this guy that calls me at work, and I changed my home number, but I can't change my work number. There are a lot of people who are real scared, and real mad, and they think you're going to betray them, Bren, they don't understand what you're doing."

"Betray them." God, how much did Mospheira know? "What's this, 'Betray them'?"

"The ship always favored the atevi, they always had this protect-the-planet argument when we wanted to land, and now they can deal with the atevi to get what they want and not even have to deal with us."

"That's crazy."

"That's what they're saying, Bren."

"Well, screw what they're saying. — Who's saying? What kind of nonsense is that?"

"It's people they interview on the news, it's Bruno Previn, it's —"

"Bruno Previn, for God's sake, what channel are you listening to?"

"He's on the regular news, now."

"He's a crackpot."

" They keep interviewing him. He has an opinion. Bruno Previn, Dorothy Durer-Dakan, S. Brandt-Topes—"

One had the idea. "Gaylord Hanks?"

"He's been on. He's demanding an investigation of why you were sent back when they threatened his daughter and why she's not back."

"Will you call him for me and tell him the family should have gotten a call from Deana today, and if not, still, don't worry. She's fine. I had lunch with her and she's stillhis daughter."

" Bren, I — don'tlike this."

"Have you talked to my mother?"

" Damn your mother! Bren, listen to me—"

"Have you talked to her, dammit."

"Not directly, no, but you can call the building manager. That's how I found out what's going on."

It was one route he hadn't thought of. "Have you got the building manager's number?"

"Just a second. — It's 1-6587-38-48."

He was writing with the phone stuffed between the cast and his cheek, and trying to make legible numbers. "Thanks, Barb."

"Yeah."

"Barb, I hope you're happy, I really do."

" Bren, I— still want to talk to you. I want to see you when you come back. I want— I don't know."

"I don't think so. I don't think so, Barb."

" I think I made a mistake. I think I made a terrible mistake."

"Barb — I'm not coming there. You understand? It's not going back to what we had. It can't. It's not your doing, it's not mine, it's nothing we can fix. The world's changed and Mospheira's changed. Just — that's the way it is."

" I don't think I love him."

"You should have thought of that beforehand. I can't help you. I can't beyour answer, Barb, I'm sorry. I don't know I can ever be your answer. I never promised to be."

"Dammit, Bren!"

"I know, Barb, I know, but I can't do any more than I've done. It's not my fault, it's not yours, it just is, that's all."

She didn't answer. He didn't find anything else to say. He finally added:

"Barb, I'm sorry. I wish it was better. I wish it could be. But it's not my damn responsibility, Barb. Ican't fix things for you, I never could. You knew that was the way it would be. And you marriedthe man, Barb, be fair to him."

A small silence. Again. " The hell," she said. At least that was the Barb he knew. At least she took care of herself.

Always depend on that. Self-sufficiency — that had been an asset in Barb — took a bent toward self-protection. Against him.

"Good night, Barb."

" Good night," she said. Then: " Bren, I'll look in on your mother. I'll take the bus. All right?"

"Thanks, Barb."

He hung up. There was a lonely feeling in the small office, as if somebody who'd been there with him had gone away. Stupid feeling. But he felt drained by the effort, listless as if he'd landed on some foreign beach, no features around him, no landmarks, nothing that said, This way, Bren.

Nothing he'd care to explore.

The thunder rumbled, a constant complaint above the rooftops, and he walked out of the office and ordered the inevitable within-hail servant that the paidhi wanted —

Not tea. A drink. Which the servant hastened to obtain for him, shibei, dark and bitter, but safe for him. The servant — her name was Caminidi: he was learning them, one by one, and made a point of asking — was one of the number usually in the offices area, the ones who made spent teapots vanish and whisked wafer crumbs off the tables, as happened when a man blinked. Like the magic castle of fairy tales, it was. Things just were. Things just appeared and vanished. There were doors and halls a little less ornate than the ones the residents used, ways by which the likes of Caminidi arrived in one place and transited to another — but the guest didn't use them, no, hardly proper.

Atevi manners. Atevi ways. Atevi didn't go at you on an emotional pitch. Not — without expecting consequences.

He walked, drink in hand, to the more pleasant venue of the breakfast room — a servant appeared out of nowhere and started to put on the lights, but, deprived of a spare hand to signal, he said, "No, nadi, one enjoys the storm tonight."

He had work to do. He was scheduled to fly tomorrow — ordinarily, he'd pack, but it was a day trip, out and back. He ought to read the Industry Committee report, answering his query about companies currently manufacturing components on a long list he'd bet Jase Graham was going to ask about earliest.

One didn't want to tool up and train workers for a one-shot with no follow-up. It wasn't going to be that, if the paidhi had his way. Their strangers from space weren't going to get a gold-plated vehicle to leap from ground to starflight with beverage and dinner service even if they had one in their plans. They were going to get a reliable, no-frills creature well-integrated into the atevi economy. A workhorse. Lift cargo, lift passengers, and bring it back again with no extravagance of industrial development. If it took space-made exotics, make damn certain that atevi were up there on the station doing the manufacture: no dependencies, no humans at the top of the technological food chain and atevi at the bottom.

Not in this paidhi's administration.

He only wished he had a better background in engineering. He had to cultivate both atevi and humans who did have, and ask the right questions and get honest answers from people with nothing to gain politically, provincially, or parochially.