There’s silence for an instant, then another voice—also synthesized—pipes up. "You have reached Lone Star Personnel’s automated attendant," it drones. "Regular office hours are oh-nine-hundred to seventeen-hundred, Monday to Friday. Please call back." There’s a click and it sounds like the connection’s broken, but I know better. I punch in my five zeroes again. When I’m done, the phone beeps once, and there’s more silence. No outgoing message or other voice prompt, but I know a digitizing recorder is online somewhere in the depths of "suit country" in the Star HQ building.