At T-minus-two I settle myself down at the telecom, with Argent in the same spot as before, out of the field of view. I run the self-diagnostics on the telecom twice—growling "Frag off’ at Argent when he chuckles—and then I’ve got nothing to do during that last, endless minute. The timers on both our watches go off within a second of each other, and I can imagine that, somewhere in SanFran, Peg the decker’s busy patching together another seven-node relay, this one to handle an incoming call. The telecom’s flatscreen lights up with a calibration grid, the signal that we’re hot and tracking, waiting for Lynne Telestrian to place her call ... assuming she does place the call.