Passive-aggressiveness must run in the blood of the people in the States. The governor's aide sounded not too dissimilar to the President, the sex difference aside. Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat upon hearing about the mission's apparent failure. While he couldn't be sure the UCS hadn't been planning on building a nuclear missile base on the largest of Asphodel's moons, he didn't want the mission to fail, either.

"Sorry to hear that," he began, slowly and sincerely. "Now, I'm not entirely sure on our space program's present capabilities, or what I can tell you, but if you don't mind holding a few minutes while I dig up the files, I'll see what we can do for your man up there."

Alex gently set the phone down on his desk, and opened a drawer to retrieve a contact book. In it, the names and phone numbers of every Swehtesh government official in office and on public record. As he stepped out of his office, he flipped through it, looking for a name. There it was, halfway through the book, with red ink scribbled next to it. Once a mid-level administrator like Alex, Peter was now one of the project overseers for the Swehtesh space program, as small as it was. Commandeering his receptionist's desk, Alex dialed the number in the book, and waited.

---

"All right, thanks for holding, Mister President. I've got some good news, some bad news, and some confidential stuff that I won't be telling you. Bad news is that we don't presently have anything sitting around that we can get to Akheron to pick up your man, unless you've got some Sanctian tech-wizardry for a small, unmanned mission."

"Now, the good news: The Swehtesh government is willing to help in any way it can to rescue your stranded spacefarer back home. Tell us what you need and when you need it, and we'll do our best to get it there."

"Okay, Mister President. Give us a call when you need us. Good day. And good luck."