The next morning I grabbed some breakfast, gave Abby a rudimentary lesson on accessing the Grid, and went to campus to get some real work done. When I returned at noon, Abby was sitting on the couch, looking at a visiscreen. I went into the kitchen. She called out to me, “Do you want to tap Kate’s hospital?”

“I’m sorry—I should have told you this morning. I left a message for the chief administrator to tap me. They said he’s out for a couple of days.”

Abby sounded disappointed when she asked, “Can’t someone else there help us?”

“It’s a small hospital. I think anyone else would automatically refer us to him.”

I knew the answer wasn’t satisfactory, but I didn’t know what else to tell her. She had to be frustrated, waiting to hear developments through me. I fixed some lunch and brought it to the table. “What are you watching on the visiscreen?”

“World news. How can you call this a screen? There’s nothing there.”

I smiled. “People still call them screens even though they have no physical reality. The images are electronic projections onto a specific spot in the room—two-dimensional holograms, if you will. You know, with neural implants you could watch the news in three dimensions, like everyone else.”

“No thanks.” She muted the visiscreen, came to the table, and had a bite of her sandwich. “I can’t believe they’re actually mining on the moon.”

“Helium-3. The moon is full of it. They anticipate it will supply most of our energy needs by 2100. That’s optimistic, I think. But it has a Gore of zero, so the government is committed to it.”

“What’s a Gore?”

“It’s a pollution measure. Carbon dioxide parts per million divided by BTUs. Basically, how much carbon pollution is generated per unit of energy produced.”

She reached into the bag I had put on the table. “Mmm. This is good. Salty. What is it?”

“A potato chip.”

She ate half the bag before I finally advised her to desist. “Your stomach’s not used to those, you know.”

I went upstairs for a few minutes after lunch. When I came down, Abby was lying on the couch, not looking the best.

“How’s your stomach?”

“It’s been better. I’ll survive. I think.” She raised herself up. “Creighton, I need to ask you an important question. Will you help me with my task?”

“Your task? What task?”

“Spreading the gospel of Christ here in the States.”

I sat in the recliner, considering how to adroitly respond to this request. “Abby, the last thing you want right now is a high profile. Or any profile, for that matter. We’re keeping you out of sight, remember?”