The Human Division #10: This Must Be the Place Read Free Page A

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.
    Hart poked his head around the open door and waved to let his father know he was home; his father waved him into the room brusquely and then turned his attention back to his unfortunate apparatchik. “I wasn’t asking why the data was difficult to locate, Klaus,” he said. “I was asking why we don’t seem to have it at all. ‘Difficult to locate’ and ‘not in our possession’ are two entirely separate things.”
    “I understand that, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus the apparatchik was saying. “What I’m saying is that we’re hampered by the holiday. Most people are out. The requests we filed are in and will be honored, but they have to wait until people get back.”
    “Well, you’re in, aren’t you?” Alastair said.
    “Yes,” Klaus said, and Hart caught the slight edge of misery in his voice at the fact. “But—”
    “And the entire government doesn’t in fact shut all the way down even on major global holidays,” Alastair said, cutting off Klaus before he could offer another objection. “So your job right now is to find the people who are still working today, just like you are, get that data and those projections, and have them on my desk in an encrypted file before I go to bed tonight. And I have to tell you, Klaus, that I tend to go to bed early on Harvest Day. It’s all that pie.”
    “Yes, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus said, unhappily.
    “Good,” Alastair said. “Happy Harvest, Klaus.”
    “Happ—” Klaus was cut off as Alastair severed the connection.
    “His Harvest isn’t going to be happy because you’re making him work on Harvest Day,” Hart observed.
    “If he’d gotten me that data yesterday like I asked and like he’d promised, he’d be at home, chewing on a drumstick,” Alastair said. “But he didn’t, so he’s not, and that’s on him.”
    “I noticed he still called you ‘minister,’” Hart said.
    “Ah, so you know about the election,” Alastair said. “Brandt gloating, is he?”
    “I heard it from other sources,” Hart said.
    “Officially, the Green-Union government is extending an olive branch to the PHP by asking me to stay on as minister for trade and transport,” Alastair said. “Unofficially, the point was made to the coalition that they have no one near competent to run the ministry, and that if they are going to screw up any one ministry, the one they don’t want to screw up is the one that makes sure food arrives where it’s supposed to and that people are able to get to work.”
    “It’s a legitimate point,” Hart said.
    “Personally, the sooner this Green-Union coalition collapses, the happier I’ll be, and I gave some thought to turning it down, just to watch the ensuing train wreck,” Alastair said. “But then I realized that there would probably be actual train wrecks, and that’s the sort of thing that will get everyone’s head on a spike, not just the heads of those in the coalition.”
    Hart smiled. “That famous Alastair Schmidt compassion,” he said.
    “Don’t you start,” Alastair said. “I get enough of that from Brandt. It’s not that I don’t care. I do. But I’m also still pissed about the election results.” He motioned at the chair in front of the desk, offering Hart the seat; Hart took it. Alastair sat in his own seat, regarding his son.
    “How is life in the Colonial Union diplomatic corps?” Alastair asked. “I imagine it must be exciting, what with the collapse of relations between the Earth and the Colonial Union.”
    “We live in interesting times, yes,” Hart said.
    “And your Ambassador Abumwe seems to be in the thick of things lately,” Alastair said. “Dashing between