“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 is your 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.