"You could turn on the tube."

"What channel?" Reuben asked, kneeling before the television.

"Find me that show where everybody argues about the news. Take my mind away."

Reuben found the Worldwide News Network and waddled back, still crouched, hands dangling between his knees.

"You know, you don't have to hang around to keep me happy," his father said. "I'm working out Bea's death. I'm getting it straight in my head. I'll live."

Reuben smiled over his shoulder. "Where would I go?" he asked. But he knew he'd be leaving soon. There were necessary things to do. He had to carry what was in his coat pocket; he had to find the person that something was for. He had been given memories of a voice, a distinct English accent, but little more.

He leaned back against his father's knees and listened as the hosts of Freefire squared off against each other, bristling even as they announced their guest. The young liberal's stiffly formal visage seemed to soften.

"He's acted as advisor to the President on the Death Valley spaceship, and he's well known in scientific and journalistic circles. He's had over forty books published, including his recent prophetic novel, Starhome, a scientific romance about first contact. His name is Trevor Hicks, and he's a native of Great Britain."

"Citizen of the world, anymore, actually," Hicks said.

Reuben stiffened.

Voice.

I’d take them home to meet my mum. My mother.

"That's him," he said.

"Who?"

Reuben shook his head. "Where is he?"

"They're in Washington, like always," his father said.

"—Mr. Hicks, are we to understand that it was you who first advised President Crockerman to reason with these invaders?" the eager-faced conservative asked.

"Not at all," Hicks said.

Reuben's brow furrowed with the intensity of his concentration. That's the one. He's Trevor Hicks. His name, his voice.

"Then what did you tell the President?"

"Gentlemen, the President would not have listened to me no matter what I said. He hoped for a sympathetic ear, and I tried to provide that, but I am as adamantly opposed to his policy regarding the spacecraft as I imagine you are, Mr. . . . Mr. ..."

"What do you recommend we do with the spacecraft? Should we destroy it?"

"I doubt that we could, actually."

"So you do hold defeatist views—"

Reuben trembled with excitement. Washington, D.C. He had enough money saved to go there. Big town, though. Where would Trevor Hicks be in Washington, D.C.?

He listened closely, hoping to pick up clues. By the end of the show, he had a fair idea where to begin.

The next morning, at dawn, Reuben stood in the door to his parents', his father's, bedroom. His father stared at him from the bed, blinking at the orange hall light behind his son's silhouette.

“I’ve got to leave now, Pop."

"So sudden?"

Reuben nodded. "It's important."

"Got a job?"

Reuben hesitated, then nodded again.

"You'll call?"

"Of course I'll call," Reuben said.