The tone cut off as the telecom software decided I wasn't going to pick up the call myself, and went into auto-answer mode. According to the data display in the corner of the screen, the call was directed to my default, rather than my private, mailbox, so I had little incentive to shake myself out of the rack to answer it in-the-meat. While the ancient telecom was chugging through the initial handshaking, I checked my finger-watch. Nigh on oh-three-thirty. Looked like I'd overslept on my intended one-hour nap. Idly, I wondered if Naomi the smartframe had made it back with the correlations already, or whether she'd been waylaid by some electronic diversions along her path.