Not a rich place, no. And the party talk around her, gathered in fragments from the twenty or so who crowded the room, didn't contradict that impression. This seemed to be a subsistence-farming culture . . . here on Terra? Well, it was possible; talk of farm animals, equipment, and markets, and canning, yes. Nothing of politics, or the Empire, or the nobility, as was so common in the circles she was used to, but the warmth and friendship here had value of their own. These people might not have much money, but they couldn't be called poor. Sue found herself pleased by that. It was people like these, after all, who were the Empire's substance, its reason for being. It was good to be reminded of that, from time to time. Imperial nobles and officers had the trappings of rank, yes, but the underlying purpose of that rank was to insure that Imperial citizens like these could live freely and without fear. And she was one of those officers . . . Sue smiled to herself, and kept listening as carefully as Bridget kept her chocolate cup full and hot. The MacGregor farm, she found, wasn't a particularly prosperous one even by this island's standards. Donal's tractor was unreliable at best, Geordie couldn't seem to find a sponsor who'd get him even as far as being tested for the Military Academy--well. It had been a long time since she'd had an opportunity to indulge herself. About an hour after she'd been helped inside, Sue stood and attracted Tara's attention. "Mrs. MacGregor, may I use your phone now?" "Of course, lass. Back this way." "Thank you." Sue looked around, gestured to Geordie and Donal. "Would you come, too?" The two men exchanged glances, then Donal shrugged and smiled. "If you wish, lass." The MacGregors did have a phone in the kitchen, Sue found, but it was clear that they seldom used it; Tara had to move half a dozen jars of canned tomatoes before she could take the phone out of the cabinet. And it was basic: small 20-cm screen, push buttons instead of voice activation--probably black and white, too, Sue thought as she activated it. No, it was color. The screen lit up in pale green, reading 'Dial.' As Sue entered the various access codes, the readout changed. Intercontinental . . . Antarctica . . . Imperial Palace. That got murmurs of surprise, which grew louder as she punched in the last numbers and the Imperial Seal appeared on the screen. "Voiceprint ID required," a flat voice said. "Speak." "Ranger Susan M. Lindner, ident code RSR-0651-0173." "Ident confirmed. To whom do you wish to speak?" "Castellan Gordon, please." "One moment, sir." Within seconds, the Seal disappeared, to be replaced by the face of a gray-haired, tired-looking man. "What can I do for you . . . ah . . ." He hesitated, frowning. "You haven't heard-- No, Comm Central said you weren't answering--"