Oliver was having a good afternoon. The Seahurst account had come through, all his doing. The bonus on that alone would support him and Alicia for a year. The sun was shining. The daffodils were blooming along the walkway through the park, promising warmer days ahead. Alicia’s parents were coming to dinner next Sunday for the big announcement. And just that morning Carson Smith, the managing partner, known among the young associates as the managing ogre, had suggested that he, young Oliver Long, not quite thirty-five, was on track for Partner.

Oliver took the same walk every afternoon at three before heading back for the usual grind until seven PM. That was the time when the other associates started looking around to see who would be the first to go so they would not be. But tonight his work would go far past seven, so he definitely deserved a couple of Emily’s scones. Maybe three or four.

He always walked the same route, across Pascal Avenue and into the park, where he would sit on a bench by the pond for exactly five minutes, no longer, and watch the ducks. It was important to stay connected with nature, but also to keep one’s self disciplined, so he never deviated from the five-minute rule. Then it was on across Division Street on the other side of the park to Emily’s Patisserie for a sweet roll and a cup of coffee.

Near the curb to the left of the pastry shop, no more than thirty feet from its door, stood a relic: a glass and aluminum phone booth. For Oliver, it occupied that perceptual background of things that never emerge into the foreground until they make a difference.

But today, while waving to Emily through the window of the pastry shop, and before he went in, the phone rang.

Oliver remembered people using these devices when he was a small boy, so he knew how to answer it. But he saw no reason why he should. The call was clearly meant for someone else. Still, he stopped for moment of doubt. There was no one up or down the sidewalk to answer the phone. It could be an urgent call for help. He was a responsible person. His sense of duty compelled him to answer.

He moved across the sidewalk to the open phone booth, looked at the ancient device, thought twice, then picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. He wondered as he did so if he would catch something from the disgusting-looking mouthpiece.

“Hello?”

“You are the only person who can save the situation,” said an anguished female voice.

A pang surged through Oliver’s stomach. The phrasing was odd but the voice was earnest.

“Save what? You don’t even know who I am.”

“Me. Peace on Earth. Good will toward men.”

The abiding strangeness of this answer gave pause but made the decision for him. Had to be some kind of disturbed person. “Look, I’m a busy. Good bye.”

“Wait!” said the woman, but he hung up the phone and headed for Emily’s door. She smiled through the plate glass and held up two fresh scones, his favorites. She pointed to them and licked her lips.

The phone immediately rang again. He sighed, doubled back and picked it up.

“I remembered the number,” said the voice quietly. “Look, I really am in trouble here. I need you to contact the police and send them to 219 Juniper. There are men upstairs with guns. They think they’re going to ransom me, but I have no money.”

“Right. So you’re downstairs on the phone and they don’t hear you?”

“In the basement, yes,” she whispered. “My husband put a phone down here, a landline, years ago, before he died.”

Oliver shook his head in irritation. “So why not call 911?”

“I did that. I got a recorded message that said they were busy right now with other emergencies, and that if my emergency was potentially life-threatening, I should call 211 and ask them to call the police.”

“So why didn’t you do that?”

“I did, and I got a similar response. Nothing.”

Oliver wanted to hang up again but she sounded just credible enough. “So how do you even know this number? It’s a phone booth, you know. I just happened to be walking by.”

“God bless you, young man, for answering. I can tell from your voice you’re a nice young person. I just called a random number. I have no one any more, you see. Since my husband passed.”

“I’m sorry. Nobody else who can help? Neighbors? Siblings? Children? Cousins?”

“No. I could be the last of my breed.” There was that strange manner of speaking again. Then she said, “Will you help me?”

“Look, I am very busy.” The pile of Intercorp paperwork that had to be done by tomorrow morning formed a clear image in in mind. “I don’t have time for this, but I will at least call the police and send them to 219 Juniper.”

“Do you have a cell phone number? What if I need to contact you again? You won’t be near this phone.”

“I rarely give it out.”

“I’m in danger here.”

He sighed. “All right.” He gave the number, thinking it was foolish. “OK, I am going now. I will do as I promised, but that’s the extent of it. I am very busy.”

“Thank you young man.”

Oliver immediately called 911 on his cell phone. Oddly, he received exactly the same recorded message the woman in distress had described. As a responsible citizen with a stake in society, he was incensed. No 911 caller should ever receive a recorded message. He called 211 and listened to a similar message.

Now quite irritated at these displays of the incipient breakdown of social order, he went into the patisserie with a scowl on his face. Emily instantly sensed his mood. They normally exchanged good-natured pleasantries.

“Oliver, you look angry. What’s wrong? Something about that phone call you made on the old pay phone? Why did you do that, anyway? Cell phone not working?”

“Actually, I answered the phone; I didn’t make a call on it. And that’s why I need to know the number for the police. A woman in distress just called that number randomly. She couldn’t get through to 911, and neither could I.”

Emily took on a proper look of concern. “OK, no problem.” She took a cordless phone from under the counter and handed it to him. “Use mine.”

She watched as he called 911. He handed the phone back to her so she could hear the same recording. She listened for a moment, then punched the End button.

“Wow, that’s weird.” She consulted a plastic card taped to the wall behind the counter and copied down a number on a piece of white pastry paper. “Here’s the number for the police.” She slid it across the counter.

“Thanks.”

He called the number, and astonishingly, received a phone menu which directed him to an option that generated a ring, but no answer. Five rings, seven rings, eleven, thirteen, seventeen. No answer.

He punched End. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “No answer. I’m going to have to go myself and see if I can help this woman. ‘Armed men upstairs,’ she said. They were going to ransom her. I’m not sure what to do.”

“You could just go to the police in your car, report it, and go back to work.”

“There’s no such thing as making a fast police report, then leaving. It took me two hours once to report a luggage theft. I have to do this myself.”

“Well, first, take a bite of this scone.” Emily handed him one of his favorites partially wrapped in white paper. “On the house. It’ll put you in a better mood. And second, if you’re going where there are guns, you might need this.” She reached under the counter and came out with an automatic pistol. “It’s loaded, so be careful. You do know how to use one, right?”

He looked at the weapon doubtfully, then at beautiful Emily. He wasn’t sure which distressed him more, the fact that she felt a need to keep a weapon under her counter, the fact that he barely knew how to use one, or the fact that he was going to lie to her.

“Of course,” he said breezily, and slid the heavy gun into his jacket pocket. He hoped the safety was on, but he didn’t want to figure out in front of her which button it was. “But I’m not sure which is worse: men with guns, or blowing the Intercorp deal. One might kill me, and the other will surely cost me my job.”

“But you’re going to go and try to save that woman’s life. That’s noble of you, Oliver. You’re a good person.”

“Yeah, who’s about to become unemployed.”

“Eat the scone. It will give you courage and brighten your day. Would you like me to close the shop and come with you?”

“No. One person getting shot is enough. Thanks for the scone. Hopefully I’ll be back before too long and get another one.”

He made his way back across the park to the parking lot at Smith, Threadneedle, Tunkett, and Pall and climbed into his Civic. He had been planning on a Beamer, but that now looked like a stretch too far. The pile of documents on his desk was six inches thick, and he needed to go through each and every one and make sure it was properly reflected in the contract for Intercorp’s buy-out offer to Seaway, the largest containerized freight company in the world. Even all night would have been close, but he had been sure he could make it, just barely, with a good sugar high from Emily’s scones and liberal amounts of coffee. Now, he was pretty sure he would not.

Worse, his GPS told him 219 Juniper was in Coromandel, a subdivision forty minutes away on the other side of town. There was now no doubt. He would not get the contract done in time, and no one else at Smith, Threadneedle, Tunkett, and Pall knew enough about it to help. Weeks of pre-work had been necessary to get his understanding to where it was now.

As he drove, honking angrily at drivers who didn’t understand that he was on a mission, he plunged into despair. A day, a week, a month, a year— indeed, a life—bright with promise half an hour ago was crashing into ruins. He could of course turn around and go back and work on the contract, but he knew guilt would eat him up. As it was, the suspicion that he was ruining his life based on a hoax racked him, but he couldn’t take the chance. He had been raised as a good boy, a Boy Scout: trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly and all that. He couldn’t turn his back on that now.

Of course, he could hurry back to the office once he had saved this woman, assuming he didn’t get killed by a bunch of kidnappers, and rush through the papers, cutting corners where he thought no harm would come. But that was the thing about legal documents. Harm could come from the most inconspicuous sentence or phrase in the most harmless looking document. Even a missing comma could be disastrous.

There was no cutting corners. That would just set up Intercorp, and thus Smith, Threadneedle, Tunkett, and Pall, for disaster at some future time. And of course, himself.

And there was no delaying the meeting. Intercorp’s CEO and lawyers were due in from Hong Kong any time for tomorrow morning’s meeting. The Managing Ogre himself was wining and dining them tonight.

There was no way out. He was completely, comprehensively, thoroughly screwed.

As the GPS told him he was getting close, he realized he needed a plan. Just because he was forfeiting his professional life didn’t mean he should shuffle off the mortal coil at the same time.

He tried the police one more time, but got the same phone menu followed by no response. There was nothing for it but to go in with the gun and save the woman.

He passed the house, an unassuming ranch house with a ragged lawn, which meant the woman couldn’t mow it herself, or lacked the money to pay for it to be done. The garage door had badly peeling paint, so he began to feel sorry for the woman. Looked like her story was consistent.

He parked the Civic down the street and walked back to the house next door, which had a for-sale sign in the front yard. It was well maintained, with the lawn lately mown, but its windows were dark and lacked curtains. The house looked unoccupied.

Good. He went into its back yard and hid behind a bush while he took the gun out of his pocket and acquainted himself with its features. He reassured himself that it had a bullet in the chamber, and that the safety was on. Then he stealthily moved to stand beside the woman’s back door, peeking through the glass. He held the weapon up and at the ready, with his trigger finger outside the trigger guard, as he had seen police do on TV.

Inside, a gray-haired woman sat at the kitchen table with her back to him. She wore a short-sleeved work shirt of some kind, and comfortable-looking leather shoes showed beneath the chair. It looked as if she was in loose slacks. On the table to her left lay a pile of scones on a paper plate in a wicker holder. She raised her left arm without turning around and beckoned to him. A speaker overhead in the eaves said, “Come on in, Mr. Long. I’ve been expecting you since we spoke on the phone. There is no danger. No kidnappers.”

Oliver was suffused with fury. No danger? No kidnappers? It was a hoax. He had just ruined his life for a hoax!

He pushed the door open so hard it swung around and hit the door stop. He stepped aggressively into the kitchen, but looked quickly all around to make sure she was telling the truth. She was.

“Ma’am, I have nearly certainly ruined my professional life to come here and help you, and now I find no danger at all. I am mad as hell, and I am going to make a report to the police. You deserve whatever—”

She turned to face him, and he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw her face. She was a mature woman, that was true, but she was also beautiful. And he couldn’t quite decide what shocked him more, the fact that she was beautiful and the mere sight of her face calmed him, or the fact that at one moment she looked like his mother, the next like his wife, the next like Emily, and the next like his kindly old Latin teacher at the academy.

“Relax, Oliver,” she said. Definitely the same voice, but now with no hint of anxiety. Even her voice had a calming effect on him. “There is no danger now. Have a scone. They’re delicious. I know that’s where you were headed when I called you.”

“Wha . . .?” he croaked.

“You came. You saved your world. We would like to sanitize this planet and keep it for ourselves, but we are not barbarians. We couldn’t just liquidate your proto-civilization without testing its moral character. So we conducted the usual sort of test, making allowances for different technology and customs. We made thousands of calls to cell phones before we realized they are constantly bombarded by crank calls, so we narrowed our search. We realized that crank calls probably don’t go to the old pay phones. More importantly, they have no caller ID, so we concentrated on those.”

Oliver found his voice. “For what?”

“The moral test.”

“Moral test?”

“Yes. Would your people help their fellow man?”

“Of course. We do that all the time.”

“Yes, of course, when others are watching. But the true test is when nobody is watching, and there is a big price to pay. Like the contract you’re supposed to be finishing today.”

“How do you know about that?”

“We know everything. All your systems are open to us. And our AIs can process everything instantly to tell us what we want to know.”

“Who is “we”?

The woman stood and spoke a word that was more a sound than a word. Suddenly the two of them were in another room, one side of which was a massive window. The moon hung huge in the window, and past the edge of the moon, the earth was visible as a blue and green ball.

“What?” he said weakly. “Just a big television screen? Where are we?”

“No television screen. Put your gun on that pedestal behind you.”

Oliver did. It glowed and disappeared.

“Now look out the window.”

There floated the weapon he had just put on the pedestal.

“Now let’s go back,” she said. She made the same sound, and they were back in the kitchen of the house at 219 Juniper Lane.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Never mind. The question is, who are you, and the answer is, the man who saved humanity from being cleansed from the Earth so we could live here. Or try another species program. We took a valid statistical sample, thirty-two humans who actually answered the pay phone out of thousands of calls when people could have. Of course, when someone did answer, we arranged for the 911, 211, and police recordings. And we made sure each person exposed to a call had a big price to pay for helping. And Oliver, the previous thirty-one people who answered ignored the pleas for help and walked away. Only you came to help. Thus you saved your entire race from extinction. We really like this planet, but we conclude from our test that your race has the beginnings of morality.”

“What? You would have killed all the people on the planet?”

“There would have been no pain, of course. We are not barbarians. We simply cull our experimental species that don’t measure up. You did.”

Sweat broke out in Oliver’s hairline. The woman, or whatever she was, probably really could have wiped out humanity.

“But wait! What about my job? My life?”

“What about them? There’s always a price to pay for being good.”

The woman disappeared and left Oliver standing alone in the kitchen with the plate of scones.