Amaryllis (13 page)

“What do you want to know?” Amaryllis asked warily.

“Well, under the circumstances, I think that the most important thing is to find out which matchmaking agency he's registered with.”

Horror shot through Amaryllis. “Aunt Hannah, don't go getting any ideas. He's listed with Synergistic Connections, but he's a serious talent. Class nine.”

“What a pity.” Some of the enthusiasm drained out of Hannah's voice. “Are you certain?”

“I saw his certification papers. I worked with him last night. Yes, I'm certain.” Amaryllis frowned at the recollection of that first surge of power through the prism. Definitely a full class nine. If she hadn't seen his papers, she would have guessed that he was higher than a nine. But his certificate had been very specific. Lucas was a class nine stuck with the almost useless ability to detect other talents at work.

“Oh, well. It was just a thought,” Hannah murmured. “You know, I've heard that there have been one or two rare instances in which an agency matched a full-spectrum prism and a strong talent.”

“The instances are so rare as to be in the realm of legend,” Amaryllis said dryly. “I repeat, don't start thinking of Lucas Trent as a possible match for me. It's not in the cards.”

“It really is a shame,” Hannah said regretfully. “I wonder if Mr. Trent would have been a possibility if he weren't a class nine. Just speculating, you understand.”

“Don't bother,” Amaryllis muttered. “Even without the talent-prism problem, I can promise you that no reputable agency would have matched us. Trent is not just my polar opposite psychically, he's also my opposite when it comes to temperament, personality, and personal philosophy of life.”

“Oh, well, all the more reason for finishing the forms
from Synergistic Connections. I promised your counselor, Mrs. Reeton, that I would turn them in this week.”

“Why don't you just send the questionnaire to me, Aunt Hannah? I'll fill it out in my spare time.”

“No, you won't. You'll put it aside and never get around to it. You've been dragging your feet about this long enough. I blame your poor attitude on that unfortunate affair with Gifford Osterley. Sometimes I think he actually broke your heart.”

“He didn't break my heart. Or, if he did, I've recovered.”

“I'm not so sure about that. You've been running scared of men ever since.”

“Not true.” Amaryllis fiddled with her coff-tea mug. “I've just been cautious.”
Except for last night
, she thought.

“Too cautious, if you ask me. When I was your age, I was out almost every night until I met Oscar. No offense, dear, but you're a bit of a stick-in-the-mud when it comes to your personal life.”

“A prissy little prig, would you say?”

“No, of course not. Just a bit shy, I think. Well, Synergistic Connections will find you some compatible dates. Now then, let's see, where did we leave off on this questionnaire?”

“I don't remember.”

Hannah ignored that. “Ah, here we go. Physical characteristics desired in mate. We're almost finished with this section. You told me that you didn't have any strong preferences.”

“Gray eyes,” Amaryllis heard herself say.

“I beg your pardon?”

Amaryllis toyed with the phone cord. “I want him to have gray eyes.”

“You're going to get choosy about eye color?” Hannah demanded in disbelief. “Why in the world would you care about something so inconsequential?”

“I don't know.” Amaryllis felt suddenly, inexplicably inclined to be stubborn. “But since this is my registration questionnaire, I'm going to be picky about eye color.”

“That's ridiculous. Dear, are you feeling well? You sound a little strange this morning.”

“Long night. Listen, Aunt Hannah, I've got to run. I'll be late for work.”

“What about the questionnaire?”

“I'll give you a call this evening.”

“See that you do,” Hannah said. “I'll be waiting. We have to complete this quickly. Mrs. Reeton wants to schedule the personal interview.”

Raw panic nearly overwhelmed Amaryllis. Filling out the agency questionnaire was one thing. The personal interview with her assigned syn-psych counselor was another. This was getting serious. Reality hit Amaryllis with the force of lightning. She was on the verge of getting herself married.

“Bye, Aunt Hannah. I'll call you later, I promise.” Amaryllis slammed down the phone. Her fingers were trembling.

She regarded her shaking hand with disgust. It was too much. She was turning into a nervous wreck, and all because of Lucas Trent. She had to get a grip. She needed to get her mind off her personal problems.

She gave herself another minute to calm down and then she lifted the receiver again. She dialed the number of her office.

Byron answered on the first ring. “Psynergy, Inc. We make it happen. How can I help you?”

“Byron, it's me, Amaryllis. Put Clementine on the phone, will you?”

“You sound terrible.”

“Gosh, thanks. And a cheery good day to you, too. Get Clementine, please.”

“Didn't things go well with your hot date last night? What happened? Wasn't he straight?”

“Get Clementine,” Amaryllis said grimly.

“Okay, okay. Here you go. Great shot of you in the morning papers, by the way. You look like you're about to deliver a lecture to the photographer.”

“Give me Clementine.”

“You got 'er.”

Clementine's deep, no-nonsense voice came on the line a few seconds later. “Amaryllis? How did it go last night?”

“It went very smoothly. No problems. Case closed.”

“No mysterious off-the-chart hypno-talent at work, I take it?”

“Of course not. The motivation for the corporate theft was personal. A little old-fashioned revenge. It's over. I'll send Trent the bill as soon as I get to the office.”

“Get to the good stuff,” Clementine urged. “What happened after the reception? Was Trent any good in bed?”

Amaryllis gritted her teeth. “We kept the relationship on a strictly professional footing.”

“Boring.”

“Clementine, I want to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever heard of a politician or anyone else, for that matter, using a prism to focus something like charisma?”

“Charisma?” Clementine sounded surprised. “That's not a talent. It's like charm or a cheerful disposition or something. Some people have it, some don't. It's a personality trait, not a psychic power.”

“Last night when I focused for Lucas Trent, I… we … stumbled into another strong talent and prism team working in the same room.”

“So? There are a lot of strong talents and prisms running around. Chances are good that there were a few in that room last night.”

“But the talent felt very odd. I'd like to get another professional opinion on it.”

“What the hell is wrong with my opinion?”

“Nothing,” Amaryllis said hastily. “But I'd like to talk with someone in the academic world. Call it professional curiosity. I think I'll go out to the university today.”

“Hang on. That art dealer from Cascade Galleries called for an appointment. You know the one, the class-six talent with the nifty ability to detect forgeries. She needs a prism to help her look at some paintings that have been offered for sale.”

“Have Zinnia Spring handle it.”

“You know Zinnia only works nights. Damn it, Amaryllis,
I'm trying to run a business here. I'm not paying you to satisfy your professional curiosity. Besides, it's none of your business what that other team was focusing. Stay out of it.”

“Please. My intuition tells me this may be important. I want to check it out.”

Clementine sighed. “All right, but get back here as soon as possible.”

“Thanks.”

Amaryllis hung up the phone and sat gazing glumly at it for a long while. Clementine was right. Whatever had happened with the other talent and prism team at the reception was none of her business. But she couldn't shake the urge to check into it. Things had felt wrong.

Maybe she was, indeed, turning into a sanctimonious little prig, a busybody who thought it was up to her to make sure everyone else stayed on the straight and narrow.

She wondered if Synergistic Connections would match her with a man who was just like her.

It was not a thrilling thought.

The carved relief that covered the entire south wall of the university library depicted the First Generation settlers in their finest hour. Amaryllis paused on the broad steps to gaze at the massive figures hewn from stone. As always, the sight elicited a quiver of admiration and pride in her.

The scene showed the stranded colonists fifteen years after the closing of the curtain. The last of their Earthbound machines had long since failed, forcing them back to a technological level that had been the rough equivalent of the seventeenth century on Earth. They had been forced to find ways to work with native materials.

The artist had created a memorial that had inspired students for nearly a hundred years. The stoic, determined faces of the men carved into the stone were turned resolutely toward the future as they drove primitive plows pulled by big, shaggy six-legged ox-mules through the mud. The women cradled infants to their breasts as they sowed grain from heavy sacks slung across their backs.

The young children were depicted sitting under trees, poring over heavy, handmade books while teachers supervised
their instruction. The books were a very significant part of the scene. The cumbersome, handcrafted books had been the salvation of the First Generation.

When the settlers had realized how swiftly their sophisticated technology was failing, they had launched a prodigious effort to save as much of the contents of their computerized library database as possible.

It had been a harrowing race against time. The colonists had set up a scriptorium that had functioned around the clock for months. Information from the disintegrating computers had been painstakingly transcribed by hand onto thick paper made from native St. Helens plants.

There had not been time to salvage everything. The founders had soon realized that only a fraction of the database could be saved before the computers fell apart. Priorities had to be set.

The desperate colonists had concentrated primarily on the basic information they knew they would need to survive. The dazzling technology of Earth was of no use to them. They ignored it in favor of more pragmatic data related to farming, medicine, and survival skills. They had also copied information relating to the social structures that would support a stable community.

A hard, realistic lot, they had not allowed themselves to dwell on what had been lost. But their heritage was built into their language. It showed in many ways, including the whimsical tendency to name the exotic new flora and fauna of this world after the plants and animals that had been left behind. There were no real physical similarities between the life-forms of St. Helens and those of Old Earth, but that had not stopped the colonists from choosing names that held memories.

The library that housed all the precious home-world knowledge turned to dust along with the computers that had housed it. But the founders had salvaged enough to enable them to gain a toehold on St. Helens. The history texts they had copied so laboriously had taught them how to build plows, how to sow and reap and spin and weave. They had learned to make clocks and boats and sewage systems.

Their hand-copied library had saved the founders, and
they had made certain that future generations never forgot the lesson.

Amaryllis dashed a small tear from the corner of her eye and continued on up the steps of the library. She walked past it, turned left, and went through the impressive arched doorway of the Department of Focus Studies.

Old memories came back in a rush as she walked along the corridor. Her office had been the second one on the right. She felt a small pang of wistfulness when she noticed the new name on the door. She reminded herself that she had made the right decision when she had left the academic world six months earlier. It had taken her a while to realize it, but now she knew that she belonged in the business sector. Even if she was a professional snob at heart.

“Amaryllis. Long time no see. What are you doing here?”

Amaryllis smiled at the woman who had just rounded the corner. “Hello, Sarah. This is just a social call. How are things going with you?”

“Great.” Sarah Marsh tossed a swath of long, dark hair over her shoulder and grinned. “Got a paper coming out in the summer issue of
Focus Studies
.”

“Very impressive. Congratulations.” Another jolt of wistful regret. No one in the business world cared much about the acclaimed papers Amaryllis had published in the professional journals.

“With any luck, it will ensure that I get promoted to assistant professor in the spring.” Sarah shrugged. “But who knows? Things have been a little chaotic around here since Professor Landreth died.”

“It's hard to imagine the department without him. We all knew that he was getting on in years, but somehow it seemed as if he'd be here forever.”

“Uh huh. Running the department with his iron fist,” Sarah concluded dryly.

“Iron fist?” Amaryllis hesitated. “I certainly never thought of him as a dictator.”

“Oh, come on, Amaryllis. Landreth was one of the best scholars in the three city-states, but there was no getting around the fact that he was a martinet. Seemed like he was always lecturing staff and students alike about the importance
of professional ethics and standards. Let's be honest. The man was a stiff-necked prig.”

Amaryllis flushed. “He was very dedicated to the profession.”

Sarah chuckled. “True, but he was also rigid, obsessive, and narrow-minded. He's only been gone a month, but there's a new wind blowing through the department and I, for one, welcome it.”