“I helped electrocute a dog in order to save a peace negotiation,” Hart said.

“What?” Catherine asked, momentarily flummoxed.

Wes cracked open an eye to look at Hart. “Is this like sacrificing a chicken to the gods?” he asked.

“It’s more complicated than it sounds,” Hart said. “And I would note that the dog survived.”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Brandt said, and turned to his sister. “I stand corrected, fair Catherine. Hart’s clearly got more important things on his mind than mere politics.”

Before Catherine could retort, Isabel Schmidt descended and embraced her youngest son. “Oh, Hart,” she said. She gave him a peck on the cheek. “So good to see you, son. I can’t believe it’s been another whole year.” She stepped back. “You look almost exactly the same.”

“He isalmost exactly the same,” Brandt said. “He’s not old enough yet to age poorly.”

“Oh, Brandt, do shut up,” Isabel said, not unkindly. “He’s thirty. That’s plenty old to start aging badly. You started at twenty-seven.”

“Ouch, Mother,” Brandt said.

“You brought it up, honey,” Isabel said, and then turned her attention back to Hart. “You still enjoying the Colonial Union diplomatic service?” she asked. “Not getting bored with it?”

“It’s not boring,” Hart admitted.

“You still working with, oh, what’s her name,” Isabel said. “Ottumwa?”

“Abumwe,” Hart said.

“That’s the one,” Isabel said. “Sorry. You know I’m terrible with names.”

“It’s all right,” Hart said. “And yes, I’m still working with her.”

“Is she still an asshole?” Catherine asked. “The last time you were home, the stories you told about her made her sound like a real piece of work.”

“What stories do your assistants tell about you?” Brandt asked his sister.

“If they tell stories, they don’t stay my assistants,” Catherine said.

“She’s gotten better,” Hart said. “Or at the very least, I think I understand her better.”

“That’s good to hear,” Isabel said.

“Ask him about the dog,” Wes drawled from his lounge.

“The dog?” Isabel said, looking over to Wes and then back to Hart. “What about a dog?”

“You know what, I think I’ll tell you that one later, Mom,” Hart said. “Maybe after dinner.”

“Does it end badly for the dog?” Isabel asked.

“End? No,” Hart said. “It ends fine for the dog. It middlespoorly for him, though.”

“Diplomacy is awesome,” Wes said.

“We thought you were coming in yesterday,” Isabel said, changing the subject.

“I got hung up at the hub,” Hart said, remembering his hotel room. “It was easier to head out first thing in the morning.”

“Well, but you’re staying for the week, right?” Isabel said.

“Five days, yes,” Hart said. He had another night at the Campbell reserved before he headed back to the Clarke. He intended to use it.

“Okay, good,” Isabel said. “If you have time, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Oh, Mom,” Catherine said. “Are you really going to try this again?”

“There’s nothing wrong with introducing Hart to some options,” Isabel said.

“Does this option have a name?” Hart asked.

“Lizzie Chao,” Isabel said.

“This is the same Lizzie Chao who I went to high school with,” Hart said.

“I believe so,” Isabel said.

“She’s married,” Hart said.

“She’s separated,” Isabel said.

“Which means she’s married with an option to trade up,” Catherine said.

“Mom, I remember Lizzie,” Hart said. “She’s really not my type.”

“She has a brother,” Wes said, from his lounge.

“He’s not my type, either,” Hart said.

“Who isyour type these days, Hart?” Isabel asked.

“I don’t have a type these days,” Hart said. “Mom, I work out of a spaceship all year around. I share quarters that are smaller than our kitchen pantry. I spend my days trying to convince aliens we don’t want to blow them up anymore. That’s an all-day job. Given my circumstances, it would be foolish to attempt any sort of relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to the other person, or to me, for that matter.”

“Hart, you know I hate sounding like the stereotypical mother,” Isabel said. “But you’re the only one of my children who isn’t in a relationship and having children. Even Wes managed it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Wes said, lifting his hand in a lazy wave.

“I don’t want you to end up feeling the good things in life are passing you by,” Isabel said, to Hart.

“I don’t feel that way,” Hart said.

“Not now,” Isabel said. “But honey, you’re thirty and you’re still at deputy level. If it doesn’t happen for you in the next year or two, it’s not going to happen. And then where are you going to be? I love you and want you to be happy. But it’s time you start thinking realistically about these things and whether the CU diplomatic service is really the best use of your talents and your life.”

Hart leaned over and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go up and unpack, and then I’m going to check in on Dad,” he said. He swallowed the rest of his drink and walked into the house.

“Subtlety still counts for something, Mom,” Hart heard Catherine say as he entered the house. If his mother responded, however, it was lost to Hart.

*   *   *

Hart found his father, Alastair Schmidt, in his home office, situated in his parents’ wing of the third floor, which included their bedroom, its master bath suite, attached and separate wardrobes, individual offices, library and drawing room. The children’s wing of the house was no less appointed but arranged differently.

Alastair Schmidt was standing behind his desk, listening to one of his political underlings give him a report through a speaker. The underling was no doubt in a Phoenix Home Party cubicle in Phoenix City, trying desperately to get out of the office in order to celebrate Harvest Day with his family but pinned to his desk by the baleful attention of Schmidt, one of the grand old men of the party and of Phoenix global politics generally.

Hart poked his head around the open door and waved to let his father know he was home; his father waved him into the room brusquely and then turned his attention back to his unfortunate apparatchik. “I wasn’t asking why the data was difficult to locate, Klaus,” he said. “I was asking why we don’t seem to have it at all. ‘Difficult to locate’ and ‘not in our possession’ are two entirely separate things.”

“I understand that, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus the apparatchik was saying. “What I’m saying is that we’re hampered by the holiday. Most people are out. The requests we filed are in and will be honored, but they have to wait until people get back.”

“Well, you’re in, aren’t you?” Alastair said.

“Yes,” Klaus said, and Hart caught the slight edge of misery in his voice at the fact. “But—”

“And the entire government doesn’t in fact shut all the way down even on major global holidays,” Alastair said, cutting off Klaus before he could offer another objection. “So your job right now is to find the people who are still working today, just like you are, get that data and those projections, and have them on my desk in an encrypted file before I go to bed tonight. And I have to tell you, Klaus, that I tend to go to bed early on Harvest Day. It’s all that pie.”

“Yes, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus said, unhappily.

“Good,” Alastair said. “Happy Harvest, Klaus.”

“Happ—” Klaus was cut off as Alastair severed the connection.

“His Harvest isn’t going to be happy because you’re making him work on Harvest Day,” Hart observed.

“If he’d gotten me that data yesterday like I asked and like he’d promised, he’d be at home, chewing on a drumstick,” Alastair said. “But he didn’t, so he’s not, and that’s on him.”

“I noticed he still called you ‘minister,’” Hart said.

“Ah, so you know about the election,” Alastair said. “Brandt gloating, is he?”