Ignoring the high speed lift, Lottag Prengi, seven and half feet of fury, bounded up the stairs two at a time, her footfalls resonating in the metal stairwell, and stormed once again into the office of the assistant vice minister of Off World Trade. This time she had over 8,000 supports on her multi-communicator, individual files that could be played separately or all together. The vice minister had left instructions to keep her out, but a combination of anger and a false ID got her past the crew of assorted office staff minions. It was clear that she was not going to let this go and that the assistant vice minister would have to address it. He asked her, almost begged her, to please calm down and take a seat. She lowered her massive body into the bulky, solid wooden chair and put her heavy booted feet up on his table, indicating a certain disdain for him and bureaucrats in general. She was wearing what she called her hiking uniform, heavy pants and jacket, along with high boots. The thick hair of her face and neck hung, unkempt, over her collar, the hair on her hands was tangled from doing physical work at her dwelling.                


    She looked around at his ornate office with the walls of glowing, deep blue stone that is rare and is used to impress. Lottag was not impressed, not with the office, not with this dull, timid male, with oil-slicked and powdered hair. “You must mount a rescue party, and you must do it immediately. Father’s final communication makes it sound very serious.” She dropped her communication device on his desk, looking at it as if it were a weapon.