“No. We met in the WebWorld.”
“Come in,” she said uncertainly. “I’ll get him.”
Turning, she strode through the house, disturbed at her state of mind. It occurred to her she hadn’t asked what he wanted to talk to them about. He might, she thought, be a salesman. Or a collection agent! The thought alarmed her.
At the head of the basement stairs, she closed the door behind her and called down. “Ben?”
“Yes?”
“There’s someone to see you. Us.”
Ben Shoreff came out of the laundry room, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms thick with dark curly hair. “Did he say who he is?”
Lee frowned. It was unlike her not to remember; she was good with names. “Lou someone.” She lowered her voice. “And, Ben, he knew where you were: downstairs doing laundry!”
Frowning, Ben started up, rolling his sleeves down as he came. At the top he paused to button them. His attention was on who the visitor might be, rather than on Lee’s odd comment. Lou was a common enough name; he must, he thought, know someone named Lou. Together they went to the living room, where he found an Asian he didn’t recall seeing before. Asian-American, he corrected. He stands like an American, holds himself like one.
“I’m Ben Shoreff,” Ben said. “Have we met?”
“On the WebWorld. I’m Lor Lu. From Millennium. We chatted.”
Ben frowned, not recalling. “And you came here to . . . ?”
The grin reappeared. “I had asked to speak with Mrs. Shoreff. I’d read her business posting.” He paused to grin at Lee, then turned back to Ben. “She wasn’t at home, but you seemed interesting, so I asked you some questions. We need to expand our accounting office, and I like your skills and experience.”
The Asian paused, turning again to Lee. “But it was your business posting I was actually following up on. I’d contacted the references you’d posted, and liked what they said about you.”
Lee Shoreff stared, on the edge of being horrified, but interested in spite of herself. From Millennium! A cult! She had an automatic fear of cults, but economic depression had struck worldwide, and her young consulting business was clinically dead. Ben had posted résumés of his own, but meanwhile they were seriously in debt, and the mortgage company had sent a foreclosure notice.
“What—would I be expected to do?” she asked.
“Millennium is expanding rapidly, and our operations chart just sort of grew; we need something a lot better. We’ve tried adapting generic OCs, but they haven’t been adequate, so Dove—that’s what we call Ngunda—said to get someone who can come in and do the job right. I showed him your posting and the comments I’d gotten, and he told me to hire you.”
Lee licked her lips. What in the world did a cult need an operations chart for? And Millennium was out west somewhere: Oregon or Colorado. Why hadn’t they talked to her by Web, instead of sending someone all the way across the country?
“I suppose I can handle that,” she heard herself saying. “The principles apply to anything. If you saw my posting, you know my fees. I’ll give you a questionnaire, so you’ll know what information to fax.”
Lor Lu shook his head. “That’s not how we want it done. We want you on site. Our operations and services are unlike any you’ve had experience with, and you’ll need to be personally familiar with them to handle the job. Get to know the people.”
She cast a quick glance at Ben. She was, she realized, afraid of this job. “I—how long on site? I have a husband and two school-age daughters.”
Lor Lu gestured. “No problem. Bring them. We’ll provide a three-bedroom house, furnished, and we have a state-licensed school on the premises. Our employees consider the school better than average, and you can take your meals in our dining room if you’d like. The cost is nominal.” He laughed. “Cheaper than buying groceries, and the kitchen staff takes care of the cooking and cleanup.”
Inwardly Lee squirmed, feeling somehow trapped, vaguely desperate. “But—how long?”
“I can write the contract for two months, with extensions as necessary. And we pay transportation, of course, including freight for belongings up to fifteen hundred pounds.”