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office, so the East Asian contingent’s behind her. She’s old, though.” Emily frowned. “And she smokes. An ugly habit and it tends to rub people the wrong way. Those clove-scented Indonesian cancer sticks—one whiff and you’re ready for a biopsy.” She shuddered.
    â€œStill, Suvendra’s our best bet. At least, she’ll appreciate our support. Unfortunately that moron Jensen is running again on a youth platform, and that’ll cut into the votes we can swing. But to hell with it.” She pulled at a coil of hair. “I’m tired of playing the young ingenue anyway. When I run again in ’25 I think we should aim for the Anglo and feminist vote.”
    She flipped pages, frowning. “Okay, a quick review of the party line. Let me know if you need more data on the arguments. Philippines farm project: no way. Farming’s a black hole and Manila’s price supports are bound to collapse. Kymera joint project: yes. Russian software deal: yes. The Sovs still have hard-currency problems, but we can cut a good countertrade in natural gas. Kuwaiti housing project: no. Islamic Republic: the terms are good but it stinks politically. No.”
    She paused. “Now here’s one you didn’t know about. Grenada United Bank. The Committee’s slipping this one in.” For the first time, Emily looked uneasy. “They’re an offshore bank. Not too savory. But the Committee figures it’s time for a gesture of friendship. It won’t do our reputation much good if the whole thing is hashed out in public. But it’s harmless enough—we can let it go.”
    Emily yanked open a wooden drawer with a squeak and put the Report away. “So much for this quarter. Things look good, generally.” She smiled. “Hello, David, if you’re watching. If you don’t mind, I’d like a private word with Laura now.”
    The screen went blank for a long moment. But the time elapsing didn’t cost much. Prerecorded one-way calls were cheap. Emily’s call had been compressed into a high-speed burst and sent from machine to machine overnight, at midnight rates.
    Emily reappeared on the screen, this time in her bedroom. She now wore a pink-and-white satin night-robe and her hair had been brushed out. She sat cross-legged in her wooden four-poster bed, a Victorian antique. Emily had refinished her ancient, creaking bed with modern hard-setting shellac. This transparent film was so mercilessly tough and rigid that it clamped the whole structure together like cast iron.
    She had attached the phone camera to one of the bedposts. Business was over now. This was personal. The video etiquette had changed along with Emily’s expression. She had a hangdog look. A new camera angle, looking down into the bed from a somewhat superior angle, helped convey the mood. She looked pitiful.
    Laura sighed, pausing the playback. She shifted Loretta in her lap and nuzzled her absently. She was used to hearing Emily’s problems, but it was hard to take before lunch. Especially today. Weirdness beginning to mount. She lifted her finger again.
    â€œWell, I’m back,” Emily intoned. “I suppose you can guess what it is. It’s Arthur again. We had another fight. A brutal one. It started as one of those trivial things, about nothing really. Oh, about sex I guess, or at least that’s what he said, but it came out of the blue for me. I thought he was being a bastard for no reason. He started sniping at me, using That Tone of Voice, you know. And once he gets that way he’s impossible.
    â€œHe started shouting, I started yelling, and things just went straight to hell. He almost hit me. He clenched his fist and everything.” Emily paused dramatically. “I ran back in here and locked the door in his face. And he didn’t say a damned thing. He just left me in here. When I came out he was gone. And he took …” Her voice shook