The two other men in the car couldn’t have looked more different if they’d tried. Harrison Schmidt was slightly too handsome, on his worst day, to be a field agent. If he wore the right clothes to make his triangular frame look paunchy, and with the right makeup, he could look nondescript enough to get by in a support role. They tried to keep him from having to do so, since if he lost concentration his native dramatic flair tended to get in the way. He simply refused to alter the windswept, golden-brown hair that could have made a holo-drama hero die from envy. But his talents for obtaining or making virtually anything they needed, regardless of the circumstances, made him a valuable addition to the team.

“Oh, don’t tell me you went in with your hair like that!” their fixer said.

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Cally put a hand to her hair and looked around at the interior of the car trying to find a makeup mirror.

“Nothing, if you like split ends. And when you wash it you really need to work through a little mousse while it’s still wet. And a hot oil deep conditioning treatment once a month. My hairdresser has an herbal shine rinse that works wonders. You need it, hon. And if you can possibly avoid it, no more color changes for you until you can let it grow out enough to trim the damaged hair off.” He flicked a nearly invisible speck of dust off his immaculate, charcoal-gray sweater.

“This is my natural color. Well, now, anyway,” she said.

“No, dear, it’s been bleached and dyed back to your natural color. Not the same at all. When you were first back from sabbatical it was all fresh and not that bad, but the years of chemicals have taken a toll. Honey, you have got to start taking better care of it if you want to be able to pass at parties like this one.”