“Is this a joke?” a tiny speaker replied.

“I really couldn’t say,” the girl answered nervously.

“Send him in.”

The receptionist rose to show him in, but Paxton waved her back to her seat and strode toward an ornate door of solid Maratak firewood that rippled with shifting waves of color; the name JosephineFinch was carved in the wood at eye-level and its color shifts were out of sync with the rest of the wood.

A young woman opened the door as he reached it. She wore an azure clingsuit that highlighted the blue of her eyes and the curves of her body. Short, raven hair framed a full-lipped, fine-featured face.

“Hello, Jo,” said Paxton, eying her up and down. “You’ve grown a bit since I saw you last.”

The girl examined him closely, then smiled with delight. “Old Pete! It’s really you!”

“It’s me all right,” he said as he stepped into the office and glanced around. “You’ve really taken over, haven’t you?”

“Why not? I own controlling interest and I happen to enjoy the work.” She moved behind her desk and sat down. “But how about you? You’ve been retired and tucked away on an island in the Kel Sea for the past eight years. What brings you to IBA?”

Old Pete smiled as he settled himself into a chair. “Beating around the bush never was a Finch trait.”

Jo shrugged. “As second largest stockholder you should know that IBA’s being plagued with a host of imitators. You can’t beat around the bush and stay on top.”

“True, true. So I’ll get to the point. Jo, what do you know about the Restructurist Movement?”

She paused before answering and regarded her visitor. Why would an aging man travel halfway, around a planet just to ask her what she knew about the Restructurists? A simple call would have accomplished the same purpose with much less difficulty. Something was up.