Which seemed appropriate for the evening of a day — -after which, he said to himself, he'd be so engaged in meetings and preparations he wouldn't have time to draw breath. He wanted to acknowledge the staff.
He'd gotten a note from Hanks, which said, Message received. I've sent data to Mospheira and trust the phones will remain available at least from this side.
He received one from the elderly gentleman of Tano's clan, which said, You have prolonged my life as well as my livelihood, nand' paidhi. I hope at all times to render satisfactory service.
One from Ilisidi, saying: The flowers are delightful, but nothing replaces the sight of a young man in my apartment in the morning.
One — he hoped might be a telegram from his mother. But it was another one from Barb, saying, Bren, please call. I have a new number. It's 1-6980-29-82.
He sat through another cup of tea, signing the very last cards, affixing ribbons and seal with the help of a pleasant older servant, a woman to whom he had already given a card, for her help with the messages.
He sat, he signed, he stamped, while Lamiji, which was the woman's name, held the card steady for his one-handed effort; and he delivered the last few thank-you's to junior staff, who expressed themselves as very, very pleased.
It was good, it was more than pleasant, to deliver gratitude to honest people who well deserved it.
He had replied to the dowager with, Please accept my intentions to attend breakfast on the 15th, to which I look forward as the reward of a long work schedule. I would be there every day, but my days break with phone calls and emergencies. I reserve the 15th with determination not to be cheated again of the pleasure I find in your company.
"Is it too forward?" he asked Tano, his arbiter of protocols. "Tell Cenedi to read it and send it back if it won't be well-received. One doesn't know how far I dare go with the dowager. But I esteem her greatly."
And back came the message from Ilisidi herself, saying, If we were more reckless we would cause rumors, nand' paidhi. Come early on the fifteenth. Watch the dawn with me. Let us worry the nosy old woman of the balcony next. I know she suspects the worst.
One could truly adore the old reprobate.
But in the world not of an atevi lord's whimsy, one had to deal with a mother who didn't answer the phone, didn't answer telegrams, didn't answer messages on the island-wide system, and hadn't been in communication with Toby since his message.
Or if she had, Toby hadn't seen fit to call through. And he generally expected better of Toby.
He went back to the lady Damiri's office and put through a call to his mother's number, which, as he expected, got the same recording.
Then he called the personal-emergency after-hours number at the State Department, which raised a junior assistant, whose answer to his query about threats against his family, specifically against his mother, was, "I really don't know, sir. I don't think I've heard of any trouble." And: "I don't have an authorization to call the city police, sir. I'll give you their number." With the sound of rustling paper.
"I have their number. Put me through to the National Security Agency." He swore a change in procedures in State if he survived long enough in his job. He listened through the clicks and thumps as the call transferred to the agency and got another nighttime junior assistant officer.
"This is an emergency number," that one started off.
"I'm aware it's an emergency number. This is Shejidan calling. This is a senior State Department officer who's advising you of a security problem."
"What's your name again, sir?"
"Bren Cameron. In Shejidan." His tone was more patient, the madder he got. "This is the paidhi. I want you to call a senior officer. I want you to check —"
"Just a second, sir. I need a report form. Is this a complaint or a —"
He was a diplomat. He understood forms and reports. He wasn't in the habit of slamming the phone down on confused juniors.
"Mister — what is your name?"
"Jim."
"Well, Jim, I want you to get me Sonja Podesty. Now."
"Ms. Podesty's at home, sir."
"I know Ms. Podesty's at home. I want you to ring Ms. Podesty right now, and put me through. If I lose you off the phone, I want you to file a report of threatening anonymous calls against my family, namely my mother, possibly my brother, possibly Ms. Barbara Letterman and Mr. Paul Saarinson."
"Would you spell Saarinson, sir?"
"Approximate it. Just ring Podesty."
"Yes, sir." There was a period of ringing. And ringing. And Podesty's answering system. He repeated the names, the message, and lost the NSA off the line.
He thought in fact of calling the civil police, which would get another agency involved in what didn't need publicity. He'd already stretched the point. He wasn't sure threats existed. He wasn't sure about anything he surmised, but it didn't cure the worry.
He called Toby, up on the North Shore, and Toby's message service said he was unavailable. The phone was making that sputtering sound that said there were real, not political, interruptions possible, and that the phones, installed early and not the most modern of Shejidan's modern conveniences, might go down at least temporarily due to weather.
The paidhi on his schedule of meetings, interviews and briefings wasn't having damned much luck making calls to relatives and official agencies at hours when people were in or officials who could do anything were doing business at all. Mospheira's usual emergencies were drunken college students. Its criminals were mostly pilferers, card fraud and divorce cases; its lunatic bigots were legislators and department chairmen who generally kept their rank and file in line.
Except the occasional quiet sort who did try to bomb some legislator's garage with garden chemicals. With moderate, even dangerous success.
He had official numbers left to call. There was one private number for someone who really ought to know what was going on, who at least could take the bus across town and find out for him — if he really, really wanted someone to do something reliably, and wanted to pay the price of such information.
He gave the operator the number. And waited through the relays. And the rings. Six of them.
" Hello?" Barb said, then; and his heart, unreliably informed that things were different, did a rise and crash.
"Hello, Barb. How are you doing? Congratulations."
"Bren, I'm so glad you called. I hope you're not mad at me,"
"No…" Maybe it wasn't the most flattering, most truthful thing he could say. "Paul's a nice fellow. I'm glad you're happy. Sorry I missed the wedding. Congratulations."
"Bren, I — really want to talk. I mean, I just couldn't, we never could talk."
"Yes, well, I know that. Nature of the job, Barb, I never made it out to be anything different than it is."
"Bren — Bren, it's not, I mean, Bren, I don't know, I'm not sure, I'm just not sure anymore."
"Well, it's kind of too late for that, isn't it?"
" I want us to get together, I mean, when you get back. Bren, I just need to think. There're so many things I have to deal with."
"There's no use in talking about it, Barb. There's no 'get back.' There's no dealing with it. The ship doesn't make it any different. It won't be. You made your decision." The bitterness was there, unwished, uncalled-for, and he bit it off, fast. "Which isn't why I called, Barb. I'm not getting anything from Mother. I wondered if you might possibly have been in contact with her."