Chapter 2

Lucas Trent, the "Iceman" himself. He had been right here in her office.

Amaryllis managed to wait until the door had closed firmly behind her new client before she succumbed to the amazed wonder that she had barely been able to conceal during their conversation.

Lucas Trent. He had been sitting there on the other side of her desk. She had signed a contract to focus for him.

Amaryllis sagged weakly in her chair. She still could not believe it.

The man they called the Iceman had been haunting her for months. It had been a gentle haunting, to be sure, nevertheless she had been intimately aware of his existence in a way she could not explain.

A year ago a single news photo of him had transfixed her attention. She had picked up the paper one morning and found herself riveted. It wasn't his business success, or the tales of his exploits during the Western Islands Action that had captured her interest. It was not even the discovery of the artifacts that had intrigued her so much.

She thought it was something about his eyes.

It was not as if she had been obsessive about it, she assured herself. In the months since he had appeared on television and in the papers, her awareness of him had quietly receded to the back of her mind. She'd had more important things to do than dwell on Lucas Trent and she had done them.

She led a busy life, and the past few months had been especially full. What with ending her relationship with Gifford, quitting her job at the university, joining Psynergy, Inc., and preparing to register with a marriage agency, she'd had very little time to think about the Iceman.

His name had actually been familiar long before his discovery of the relics. Everyone had become aware of Lucas Trent three years ago when pirates had attempted a takeover of the Western Islands.

The pirates, a motley coalition of outlaws, career criminals, and assorted riffraff from the three city-states had united under a leader to try to take control of the rich resources of the Western Islands.

Amaryllis had been busy with her research and teaching at the university during the Western Islands Action, but she had heard some of the details. She knew, for instance, that Lucas's wife and his partner had been killed during the initial pirate raid.

In the chaotic days that followed the raid, Lucas had put together a hastily deputized police force from among the miners, technicians, traders, cooks, sailors, and shopkeepers who had found themselves stranded in the islands when the fighting broke out.

It was during the Western Islands Action that Nelson Buriton had dubbed Lucas the Iceman. Buriton and the other correspondents who had covered the story had marveled at the effectiveness of Lucas's strategy and tactics. The pirates had been driven from the islands in completed is array in less than two weeks.

But it wasn't Lucas's success as a commander three years ago that had caught Amaryllis's attention. In truth, she had been too occupied with final exams to notice him. It was his discovery of the relics that had made her so intensely aware of him.

She would never forget the photo of him that had been snapped soon after he had emerged from the jungle with the artifacts in his hands. The harsh landscape of his face had been indelibly imprinted on her mind.

Today she had been shaken to realize that, if anything, the news photos and film clips had understated the reality of Lucas's features. His face was not exactly a thing of beauty. It was a graphic rendering of masculine strength and determination. His bold cheekbones, aggressive nose, and strong jaw were as exotic, compelling, and mysterious to Amaryllis as the alien artifacts themselves.

She knew now that the news photos had failed utterly to capture the bleak, icy gray of his eyes. Nothing could have prepared her for her first in-person glimpse into those veiled depths. The chill of a fierce self-control swirled there. Amaryllis decided that Lucas's nickname suited him far better than Nelson Buriton could possibly have guessed.

The bad news, so far as she was concerned, was that whatever it was about Lucas that had tugged at her senses through the medium of film and photograph was a thousand times stronger in real life. His laconic, Western Islands drawl ruffled the tiny, sensitive hairs on the nape of her neck. The sight of his big, competent, jungle-roughened hands had done strange things to the pit of her stomach.

She was no closer to a logical explanation for her reaction to him now than she had been a year ago.

She was relieved when the door to her office slammed open.

"Well?" Clementine Malone, owner and sole proprietor of Psynergy, Inc., strode into the room. Her shrewd, dark eyes gleamed as brightly as the metal studs on her black leather jacket and pants. Her short, stark white hair, cut to resemble a stiff brush, seemed to actually bristle with anticipation. "Did you get Trent's signature on a contract?"

"Right here." Amaryllis waved the signed forms. "I'll be working with him on Thursday night. But I think I'd better explain something, Clementine. There are some problems with this job."

"We can handle 'em." Clementine plucked the contract from Amaryllis's fingers and scanned the signatures. "Nice going. Very nice, indeed."

"Thanks." Amaryllis watched her boss flip through the short contract. The knowledge that Clementine was pleased should have given her a good deal of satisfaction. Lucas Trent was, after all, the most important client Amaryllis had signed up since she had come to work for Psynergy, Inc. six months ago. She knew it was not only an important step in her new career as a professional prism, it was also a coup for the firm.

Clementine glanced up from the contract. "I knew you could do it. I was just saying to Smyth-Jones that this contract will put Psynergy, Inc. into the big leagues. Proud Focus can eat our exhaust."

Proud Focus was Psynergy, Inc.'s chief competitor. There were a number of firms that offered psychic focus services in New Seattle, but the rivalry between Proud Focus and Psynergy, Inc. had a personal twist. Proud Focus was owned and operated by Clementine's personal permanent partner, Gracie Proud. Amaryllis knew that although the two women had been living together in a blissfully happy union for some fifteen years' duration, they were enthusiastic rivals when it came to business.

"Sorry, Clementine." Amaryllis reached across the desk to take back the contract. "I'm afraid you won't be able to brag about this deal too loudly. Mr. Trent wants it kept quiet. Security work, you know."

"Sure, sure." Clementine winked as she propped one leather-sheathed hip on the edge of the desk. The steel hoop rings in her ears swung gently. "But word has a way of getting around in Trent's circles. If he's pleased with our 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 Buriton had gone on location to the Western Islands to cover the discovery of the artifacts. For nearly a week, Buriton, 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 be any problem focusing his talent. But he's looking for answers, and I don't think he's going to get the ones he wants."

"So?" Byron frowned. "He has to pay the same fee, whether he gets his answers or not."

"Yes, but he probably won't go away happy," Amaryllis said. "You know how it is with high-class talents. They tend to be arrogant and difficult. When they don't get the results they want, they usually blame the prism who worked with them. They claim the focus was of poor quality or not strong enough to handle their psychic energy."

Clementine's gaze sharpened. "You said it was a security job. What's Trent looking for?"

Amaryllis sighed. "Brace yourself, because you're not going to believe this. He thinks a strong hypno-talent has used psychic suggestion to force one of his executives to steal proprietary information from Lodestar Exploration."

"A hypno-talent?" Byron's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"That's ridiculous." Clementine scowled. "That kind of thing never happens except in films or an Orchid Adams novel."

"Psychic vampire," Byron whispered in a voice laced with theatrical dread. "Able to seduce innocent lady prisms and turn them into love slaves."

Clementine grimaced. "Sounds like Trent may have spent a little too much time out in the jungle."

Amaryllis regarded the contract with morose foreboding. "I tried to talk him out of it."

"What?" Clementine nearly fell off her perch on the corner of the desk. "You tried to talk him out of the contract? Are you crazy? He's the most important client we've ever had."

"I'm afraid he's going to be the most dissatisfied client we've ever had," Amaryllis said. "That's not going to be good for business, Clementine."

"Damn." Clementine pursed her lips, obviously weighing the pros and cons of the situation.

An air of gloom settled on the small office.

"Hey, look on the bright side," Byron said after a moment. "They call Trent the Iceman. He's a living legend. He didn't become one by being stupid. He must know the hypnosis thing is very improbable. Maybe he just wants to check out all possibilities before he makes his move. A superstrong hypno-talent who could force someone to act against his or her will is at least a theoretical possibility, isn't it?"

Clementine grimaced. "Sure. And it's theoretically possible that the Return cult kooks are right when they say that the curtain will reopen one of these days and we'll all go back to Earth."

"Get serious, Clementine, Trent's not crazy the way the cultists are." Byron turned back to Amaryllis. "I know he's a class nine. He told me that much when he made the appointment. But what kind of talent is he?"

"He's a detector," Amaryllis said. "He can sense when other talents are working."

"Is that all?" Byron was clearly disappointed.

"According to his certification papers." Amaryllis straightened the forms on her desk. "A class-nine detector."

"Class nine." Clementine whistled in awe. "What a waste. All that psychic power and no useful talent to go with it. Sort of like putting a hot engine in a big, souped-up ice-cycle and then putting it up on blocks."

"Bad synergy, all right." Byron shook his head. "Just imagine what it would be like to know that you had a high-grade talent, but the only thing you could do with it was detect other people when they used their talents."

"Must be frustrating for him," Clementine agreed. "No wonder the news reports have never said much about his psychic abilities. He probably doesn't like to talk about them."

"You know," Byron pursed his lips. "I thought for sure he'd have some really interesting talent."

Amaryllis glanced at him. "Such as?"

"Well, they call him the Iceman because he's so good at finding jelly-ice, right? I thought maybe he'd at least have a talent for locating valuable ore and mineral deposits or something."

"Apparently he did his prospecting the old-fashioned way," Amaryllis said. "Detailed research and a lot of grueling fieldwork. He has a degree in Synergistic Crystal Mineralogy."

Amaryllis did not know much about the complex process involved in the search for jelly-ice, but she knew it was difficult, sometimes dangerous work. It was also vital, high-paying work.

Jelly-ice was slang for the substance known in technical circles as semi liquid full-spectrum crystal quartz. Jelly-ice had a multitude of strange properties including a weird, jellylike consistency when it was in its natural state. But the most important fact about the stuff was that it could be made to produce energy. Clean, efficient, inexpensive energy.

Lucas Trent had made his fortune by locating several extremely rich deposits of jelly-ice in the Western Islands. The company he had founded. Lodestar Exploration, was one of the most successful in the business.

"I don't give a damn how he goes about finding jelly-ice," Clementine said. "All I care about is that it's made him a very important person here in the city." She leveled a finger laden with several steel rings at Amaryllis. "I'm counting on you to convince him that even if there's no psychic vampire hypno-talent involved in this case, he got exactly what he paid for from Psynergy, Inc."

"Right, boss."

Clementine stood and planted her hands on her hips. "Trent is contracting for a professional, highly skilled prism, and that's just what we'll give him. Whatever answers he gets when he links with you are his problem."

"I trust you'll remember that when it's time to hand out the yearly bonuses," Amaryllis said politely.

Clementine gave a crack of laughter. "Don't worry, you've already earned your bonus. Hell, I couldn't lure a class-nine talent through the door until you came to work for me. Nines are snobs to the bone. They insist that any prism they work with must have a string of diplomas and degrees. Even eights are awful damn fussy."

Byron made a face. "Too bad Trent's talent is such a boring one, hub, Amaryllis? The job might have been kind of exciting under other circumstances. I mean, this is real security work. We don't get a lot of that."

"Mr. Trent's particular talent may not sound thrilling, especially since we're highly unlikely to uncover a real, live hypno-talent at work," Amaryllis admitted. "But I think the job will be quite interesting in its own way. At least it will be a change of pace for me. This will be the first time I've gone undercover."

Byron brightened at that news. "Where will you be working?"

"I'm going to hold a focus for Trent on Thursday night at the reception that the New Seattle Museum is hosting to celebrate the opening of the relics wing."

"What's this about working undercover?" Clementine frowned. "I thought this was just a straight security check gig. No one said anything about undercover work."

"It's no big deal," Amaryllis assured her.

Byron refused to be discouraged. "I'll bet Trent has arranged for Amaryllis to masquerade as a member of the catering staff at the reception. That way she'll have an excuse for being nearby when he wants to link."

Clementine's brows rose. "I can see her now in a snazzy little black and white server's outfit carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Let's be sure to get a photo before she leaves for the assignment. We can frame it and hang it in the reception lobby. Put a little slogan under it. You know, something along the lines of We Go All Out to Serve Our Clients."

Amaryllis drew herself up very straight in her chair. "For your information, I won't be serving canap'es or champagne on Thursday night."

"No?" Clementine eyed her with grave interest. "Is Trent going to get you into the reception as a journalist or as a member of the museum staff?"

"Not exactly." Amaryllis tried to look calm and composed. "I'm posing as his marriage agency date for the evening."

The effect was immediate and not especially gratifying, in Amaryllis's opinion.

"You're going to the reception as a marriage agency candidate for Lucas Trent?" Byron looked stunned. "I don't believe it."

Clementine whistled soundlessly. "Hot synergy. Who'd have thought of that?"

"What's so strange about it?" Amaryllis angled her chin. "Mr. Trent happens to be in the process of registering at a matchmaking agency. He told me so himself."

Clementine's eyes danced. "Talk about life's little ironies, hub? What would your aunt and uncle say?"

"Aunt Hannah and Uncle Oscar don't know about this, and I have no intention of telling them." Amaryllis fixed Clementine and Byron with a warning glare. Her aunt and uncle, together with most of the rest of her family lived an hour's drive from the city in the rural farm town of Lower Bellevue. There was no reason for any of her relatives to ever learn about Thursday night's activities. "Furthermore, if either of you blabs, I will personally exact a terrible vengeance."

Byron held up both hands, palms out. "Don't worry, Clementine and I won't breathe a word."

"We won't have to," Clementine said dryly. "The museum reception will be heavily covered by the media. You can bet that a lot of the out-of-town papers will carry the story. Nelson Buriton himself will probably be there. Trust me, Amaryllis, on Friday morning your aunt and uncle will open the Lower Bellevue Journal and see a lovely picture of their precious niece clinging to the arm of one of the richest men in the city."

"Oh lord." Amaryllis dropped her head into her hands. "I forgot about the press."

Byron's eyes danced with mischief. "This assignment is starting to sound more interesting by the minute."

Amaryllis glowered. "That's enough out of you, Smyth-Jones."

Clementine held up one hand for silence. "That's enough, boys and girls. We're trying to run a business around here. Save the squabbling for later. Amaryllis, you'd better take the rest of the afternoon off."

"Why?"

"Because in about forty-eight hours you'll be attending the major social event of the season in the company of one of the most important businessmen in the city. Something tells me that you haven't got a thing to wear."

Panic assailed Amaryllis. "Good heavens. I've got to go shopping."

Byron eyed her with critical appraisal. "Try one of the new flutter dresses. Green would be good on you."

"He's right, Amaryllis." Clementine paused in the doorway. "Try that boutique on Fifth Avenue. That's where Gracie does a lot of her shopping. Tell the store to send the bill to Psynergy, Inc." She winked. "The dress will definitely be a business expense."

"The best part," Byron said with unconcealed envy, "is that you'll get to ride in his car."

"What's so special about that?" Amaryllis asked.

"It's an Icer. I saw it parked outside. What a beauty."

With any luck, she would finally exorcise Lucas Trent from her mind tonight.

Amaryllis slipped the new flutter dress over her head and watched in the mirror as it floated into place. Experimentally, she took a few steps, watching her reflection. The green, jewel-toned scarves that comprised the cleverly designed gown wafted gently with every move. The silky material seemed to be in constant motion. When she turned slightly, it clung briefly at hip and thigh. When she walked, it drifted around her legs and danced on the air.

She took two quick steps, pirouetted, and whirled around to peer at her image in the mirror. The scarves settled demurely into place. She touched the neckline, wondering if it was just a bit too low, and then reminded herself that this was an evening affair. Many of the gowns would be cut much lower than hers. She checked closely to be certain that the straps of her white bra did not show.

It was a sensible, functional, well-made bra, designed for long wear and many trips through the washing machine. She had bought it during the semiannual underwear and foundation sale at a major downtown department store. It was a practical, serviceable piece of clothing. She had half a dozen others just like it in the top drawer of her dresser. But she knew that it was not the sort of bra that one wore under a flutter dress. She wished she had a silky little scrap of lingerie to go with the gown. Something in black lace, perhaps.

On the other hand, she would probably never have an opportunity to wear the flutter dress again, so it was just as well that she had not invested in a fancy designer bra to go with it. It would have been a waste of money.

Pleased with the dress and with the fact that she was ready ten minutes before Lucas was scheduled to arrive, Amaryllis walked out of her bedroom. She felt calm and collected, just the way a good prism was supposed to feel before an intensive focus session.

Then the reality of what was about to happen hit her again. She was going to spend the evening with Lucas Trent.

She clasped her hands very tightly together and took several deep breaths. She was annoyed to note that her palms were damp. She had tried to ignore the nervous anticipation that had been building within her, but things were getting worse. It was ridiculous. She had to get a grip, she told herself.

She came to a halt in the middle of her small living room and gave herself a stern lecture. To focus effectively for a high-class talent, a prism had to be composed and in command. A prism who could not control herself could not control a strong talent. She had to do a good job tonight, if not for herself, then for the sake of Psynergy, Inc.

As usual, thoughts of duty and responsibility had a wonderfully calming effect on Amaryllis's nerves. She was relieved to feel her pulse slow. The cool mantle of professionalism descended upon her.

Much better. Almost normal. This was a working evening, she reminded herself. She was under contract. This was not a social event. The fact that she had been anxious for the past two days must not be allowed to affect her performance.

The fact that she was going to focus for the Iceman was irrelevant.

The doorbell chimed.

Lucas had arrived.

She would walk, not run, to the door, Amaryllis told herself.

The bell chimed again as she went down the short hall. Somehow the usually mellow tones seemed to have been infused with an imperious note. High-class talents were an impatient lot, Amaryllis thought. They were difficult, demanding, and arrogant. That was the principal reason why they rarely got along well with full-spectrum prisms.

For some reason, although she had taken her time getting to the door, she felt a little flushed when she finally opened it. Lucas stood on the front step.

"You're early," Amaryllis said.

Lucas frowned. He glanced at his black wrist watch. "It's exactly seven o'clock."

"Is it? Imagine that." Amaryllis summoned up a smile. "Sorry. Guess my clock is slow."

Lucas was dressed in conservative, formal evening black. Black shirt, black jacket, black trousers, and black tie. Not a hint of khaki in sight, Amaryllis noticed. She wondered what he thought of the current fad for Western Islands gear. Not much, judging from the fact that his dark hair was cut short and brushed back in a crisp, no-nonsense style.

Lucas surveyed her from head to toe. "Something wrong?"

Good grief, she was staring. "No, of course not." Amaryllis hurriedly stepped back into the hall. "Come on in. I'll just be a minute. I have to get my purse."

"There's no rush." He walked through the door. "I allowed plenty of time."

The implication that he had expected her to keep him waiting annoyed Amaryllis. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

She went into the bedroom and snatched her purse off the dresser. When she returned to the outer room she found Lucas examining the contents of her bookcase. He had a copy of Orchid Adams's newest release, Wild Talent, in his big hands. He glanced at Amaryllis with an odd expression.

"Don't tell me you like these psychic vampire romance novels," Lucas said. He sounded wary, not derisive.

"As a matter of fact, I enjoy them very much."

"But you don't really believe there are off-the-scale talents who can take over helpless prisms do you?"

"Of course not. That's why they call it fiction, Mr. Trent."

"I don't read much fiction. I prefer nonfiction."

"I'm not surprised that we have different tastes." Amaryllis gave him a grim little smile. "There's an old saying that high-class talents and full-spectrum prisms generally have nothing in common except the ability to hold a focus."

"True." His eyes moved over her as if he were assessing all the various ways in which they differed. "Shall we go?"

"Certainly."

The phone rang just as Amaryllis turned to lead the way toward the door. She ignored it.

"Feel free to answer it," Lucas said easily. "We're in no hurry."

"You're sure?"

"Believe me. I'm not in a rush to spend the evening sipping green wine punch and eating soggy hors d'oeuvres."

Amaryllis went to the phone and lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

"Oh, hello, dear." Hannah Lark's voice sounded warm and cheerful, as it always did. She was a doctor, and her bedside manner stemmed from a genuinely caring nature. "I'm glad I caught you."

"Well, actually. Aunt Hannah, I'm just on my way out the door." Amaryllis slid a quick glance at Lucas who was now studying her collection of music discs. "Can it wait?"

"This will only take a moment," Hannah assured her. "I'm filling out the marriage agency forms for you, as we agreed, and there are one or two questions I thought I'd bounce off you."

"Not now. Aunt Hannah, please."

"Do you have any strong preferences when it comes to physical appearance?"

"Uh, not really."

"Height? Weight? Eye color?"

"No, Aunt Hannah. It doesn't matter."

"You're sure, dear?"

"I'm positive."

"Good, that makes things much simpler. Now, then, intelligence and education are critical, of course. I've already made a note of that. What about mutual interests? How picky do you intend to be in that area?"

"Very picky. Compatibility is a must. Listen, Aunt Hannah, someone's waiting for me. We'll have to do this some other time."

"Who's waiting?" Hannah's voice sharpened with interest. "A man?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact."

"Someone from work?"

"Sort of. I'll tell you all about it later."

"You're avoiding me, Amaryllis." Hannah sighed. "This happens every time I try to get your attention long enough to complete this form. You can't make excuses forever. The Synergistic Connections agency is the best matchmaking service in the city-state. They only handle a certain number of select clients. Their list was already filled for the next six months. It wasn't easy convincing them to make room for you. I had to pull a few strings."

"I know I'm lucky that you were able to get me registered with Synergistic Connections. I promise I'll call you tomorrow so that we can fill out the form together, but I can't do it now. I really have to run."

"All right, we'll do it first thing in the morning. There's no excuse for waiting any longer. By the way, where are you going tonight?"

"The reception at the museum."

Hannah gave a delighted gasp. "Are you serious?"

"Very. Talk to you later. Aunt Hannah. Good night." Amaryllis dropped the phone back into the cradle before her aunt could recover from her shock. She looked at Lucas. "Let's go before she calls back."

Lucas's gaze was unreadable as he followed her to the door. "You're registered with Synergistic Connections?"

"My aunt insisted." Amaryllis grimaced. "She says it's the agency that matched her and my Uncle Oscar."

A glimpse of genuine understanding appeared in Lucas's eyes. For one brief, shining moment, Amaryllis felt an unexpected sense of mutual empathy flash between them. She and the Iceman might be polar opposites in some ways, but when it came to the business of marriage, they comprehended each other very well.

Marriage was a serious matter. It had been since the founders, faced with the task of creating a colony that could survive the rigors of being stranded on an alien world, had deliberately set out to promote a strong family structure. Their historical and psychological research had convinced them that only a society founded on the firm support of rock-solid families could meet the challenges that lay ahead.

The institution of marriage was regarded as a permanent commitment. It bound not only two people but two extended families. Under the guidance of the founders, the monumental weight of social pressure and the enormous power of the law had been brought to bear in order to enforce the unwritten as well as the written rules that governed the social order.

Amaryllis knew those rules only too well. Her parents had not been married. She had not only lost both her mother and her father when she was less than a year old, she had paid the price of their indiscretion.

One of the most unpleasant fates that could befall a child in such a family-oriented society was to be born out of wedlock. The shame and the humiliation cast shadows for years, especially in small towns such as the one where Amaryllis had been raised. She was well aware that she had been very fortunate, under the circumstances. Many bastard children did not fare so well.

Hannah and Oscar Lark had taken her into their home after her mother's death. From birth, Amaryllis had been surrounded by a host of loving relatives. There was little the Larks could do about the cruelty of her classmates or the whispered gossip of adults, however. Nor could anyone make up for the fact that her father's family, the wealthy and influential Baileys, chose to ignore Amaryllis.

For her part, Amaryllis had vowed early on never to embarrass her aunt and uncle or any of the rest of her mother's relatives. She knew her duty and her responsibilities. High on the list was the necessity of contracting a proper, agency-sanctioned marriage when the time came.

She had put off the inevitable as long as possible. She had finally run out of excuses.

Sooner or later, almost everyone, gay or straight or in-between, got married. Same-sex alliances, known as permanent partnerships, were as binding as heterosexual unions and had equal status as well as equal responsibilities to the community. Divorce was virtually impossible.

Given the legal ramifications, the expectations of families, the pressures of society, and the permanence of marriage, very few people attempted to find their own mates. It was understood that judgments made in the heat of passion were not to be trusted, which was not to say that passion was forbidden. On the contrary, affairs were quite common before marriage and were known to occur after the event as well. Discretion was expected from everyone involved.

The guiding principle behind the actions of responsible people was Don't Embarrass the Family.

The founders had been far more concerned with the stability of the social structure than with individual happiness. Nevertheless, for the sake of the institutions they valued so much, they had tried to ensure a high percentage of reasonably contented couples.

To that end, they had established marriage agencies staffed with trained synergistic psychologists to help individuals choose mates wisely and well. Although marital alliances based on such ancient considerations as property and family connections occasionally took place among the very wealthy, most people registered with matchmaking agencies when the time came to get serious.

It was considered remarkably stupid to even consider contracting such a formal and terribly permanent alliance without the assistance of a good counselor and a respected agency.

Lucas followed Amaryllis out the front door. "I'm registered with Synergistic Connections myself."

"I'm not surprised." Amaryllis paused to activate the jelly-ice lock on her door. "It's not as though either of us has a lot of choice, is it? There are only a couple of agencies in New Seattle that handle high-class talents and full-spectrum prisms."

Lucas slanted her an enigmatic glance as he guided her to the sleek sports car parked at the curb. "No one will suspect you're a full-spectrum prism tonight. After all, I'm a class nine, and everyone knows that no agency would match a nine with a strong prism."

Amaryllis smiled very sweetly as she got into the car. "High-class talents are notoriously difficult to match with anyone, prism or non-prism. They tend to be arrogant and overbearing."

"It's common knowledge that full-spectrum prisms aren't any easier to match," Lucas said. "Too damn picky."