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services, he’ll recommend us to others. And the next thing you know, we’ll be the most exclusive agency in town.”
    “We already are the most exclusive agency in town,” Byron Smyth-Jones, Psynergy’s Inc.’s combination receptionist and secretary, said from the doorway. “How many times do I have to tell you that, Clementine? You have to think big in order to be big. Attitude is everything. Vision precedes reality.”
    Clementine eyed Byron with mild disgust. “What in the name of the five hells ever possessed me to send you to that positive synergy management seminar last week?”
    “You sent me because you know I’m destined for the top.” Byron gave her a complacent grin.
    He was in his early twenties, lean, good-looking in a youthful way, and painfully trendy, in Amaryllis’s opinion. His long, blond hair was pulled back and tied with a black leather cord. He wore khaki trousers and a matching shirt. Both garments were festooned with countless epaulets, buckles, snaps, and pockets. An artificially weathered leather belt and deliberately scuffed boots completed his ensemble. He could have served as a model for an ad featuring the Western Islands look.
    The style had exploded onto the fashion scene a year earlier when popular news anchor Nelson Burlton had gone on location to the Western Islands to cover the discovery of the artifacts. For nearly a week, Burlton, looking attractively rugged in Western Islands gear, had appeared nightly on the evening news. He had not only focused public interest on the alien relics, he had done wonders for the khaki manufacturers.
    The young males of the three city-states had gone wild for what had come to be known as the Western Islands look. To date, the fad showed no signs of waning. A new wave of public excitement generated by the impending opening of the relics gallery at the museum had only served to fuel the rage for the style.
    “Destiny is a function of synergy and can be easily altered,” Clementine intoned.
    Byron made a face. Then he grinned at Amaryllis. “Don’t you just hate it when she starts quoting some old dippy philosopher?”
    “She’s quoting Patricia Thorncroft North,” Amaryllis said, automatically slipping into her academic persona. “North was not some old dippy philosopher. She was one of the discoverers of the Three Principles of Synergy. If it had not been for North and her work, you might not have your present cushy job with Psynergy, Inc.”
    Clementine gave a snort of muffled laughter.
    Byron groaned and put a hand to his forehead as though he had suddenly taken ill. “Please, not another lecture, Amaryllis, I beg you. I’m still recovering from the one you gave me yesterday.”
    “But she’s so good at them,” Clementine murmured.
    Amaryllis flushed. She was still not accustomed to the phenomenon of office humor. There were too many occasions when she could not tell the difference between good-natured teasing and more serious remarks. Things had been different at the university, she reflected. Sometimes she missed the sober, serious-minded atmosphere of the Department of Focus Studies. But only sometimes.
    “The point here,” Byron continued in the painstakingly exaggerated tone one used to explain basic synergy to a child, “is that you have landed one very big fish for good old Psynergy, Inc., Amaryllis. I’d ask for a raise right now if I were you. Timing is everything in business, you know.”
    Amaryllis smiled wryly. “I appreciate the advice, Byron. But I think I’d better hold off asking for a raise. I have a feeling Mr. Trent is not going to be a happy, satisfied client when this job is finished.”
    Clementine’s eyes widened in alarm. “What the hell are you talking about? Why shouldn’t he be a satisfied customer? I know he’s a nine, but you can handle him. Hell, you’re a full-spectrum prism. You’re certified for tens.”
    “It’s not that.” Amaryllis studied the contract unhappily. “There won’t