Meg was there, he almost said. But that was more than Graff needed to hear—if a deep spacer cared about the Company, the Earthers trying to emigrate…
“Think what?” Graff asked.
He couldn’t remember his thread for a moment. He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’s just not the kind. Works a full shift, mostly over, if you want extras you have to do that—and that was all she wanted. A nice place. Maybe a station share. Security. That kind of thing. You wouldn’t get her involved in anything.”
“You know the Civil Liberty Association?”
“No, sir. I never heard of them.”
“They’re the ones funding your mother’s lawyer. They’re headquartered in Munich. They support lawsuits in certain causes, that’s mostly what they do. Their board of advisers has some of the same associations as the Sun Party, the Peace Front, the Karl Leiden Foundation—the Party of Man—“
He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about them. I doubt she does.”
“They’re Earth-based Internationals: of several related groups, only the Civil Liberty Association and the Human Research Foundation maintain offices off Earth. They apparently do each other’s business. So I understand. I’m no expert in terrestrial affairs. But I thought you should know, this organization does have political overtones that aren’t friendly to the program or to the Fleet.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I only thought you should be aware of the situation.”
Deeper and deeper. He thought of saying, I’m in no position to restrain her from anything. I can’t do your politics for you. But it was all on their side and nothing on hers. And probably the lieutenant didn’t want a blunt question, but it wouldn’t be his first offense this week. “So hasn’t the Fleet got strings it might pull?”
“Possibly.”
“So what do you want me to say to her?”
“Nothing. Nothing on that score. I just want you to be aware of these things.”
Why? In case of what, for God’s sake?
“Do you still want to call her?” Graff shifted a glance toward the phone on his desk.
He had never believed of himself that he was smart, no matter what Evaluations told him—if he was smart, he wouldn’t be here now, put on the spot to make an excruciatingly personal phone call in front of a man he’d thought he trusted, whose motives he didn’t now entirely understand.
And, God, he didn’t want to talk to her… he was fast losing his nerve.
“Do you want to do that?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, before all of it evaporated. “If you can get me through.”
Graff took up the handset and punched in. “FleetCom. Route this through our system, FSO, Sol One. —Number there?”
“97…2849. Dekker, Ingrid. Routing can find her.” 2210 mainday and she ought to be home. She didn’t have a nightlife—at least she hadn’t had, when he’d been living at home.
“Takes a bit,” Graff said, and gave him the handset. “It’s going through, now.”
He held it to his ear. Listened to the clicks and the tones. His heart was beating fast. What in hell was he going to say? Hello, mother?
Click. Click-click. Beep.
“There’s a noise on the line.”
“A beep?”
He nodded.
“Somebody’s got it monitored. FleetCom’s picking that up.”
Hell. It was going through. He listened for the pick-up. But the answering service came on instead. Ms. Dekker is out at the moment. Kindly leave your name and number….
You’d know. “Mother. Mother, this is Paul. I’m sorry to hear about the trouble you’re having….” It was hard to talk coherently to a machine, hard to think with that steady beep that meant the police or somebody else was listening. ‘’I don’t know if I can help, but if you just want to talk, I’m here. I’d like to talk to you. I’d like to help—“ He wondered if he should mention money. But while he was thinking, it clicked off and connections broke, all the way back along the route, leaving him the sound of static.
“She wasn’t home,” he said, and gave the handset back. “I left a message on the machine.”
“Anything that comes through—you will get. I promise you.”
“Thank you.” They’d taught him to say thank you. Please. Yes, sir. No, sir. Stand straight. Answer what you’re asked. They’d told him he wouldn’t fly if he didn’t. His mother hadn’t had that advantage in dealing with him. He didn’t remember he’d ever said Yes, ma’am or Please or whatever boys were supposed to answer to their mothers. Fuck you, he’d said once, in a fit of temper, the week she’d bailed him out of juvenile court, and she’d slapped his face.