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directed.
    Back in New York once more, his trip to the Beloved Brethren Moratorium completed, Glen Runciter landed via a silent and impressive all-electric hired limousine on the roof of the central installation of Runciter Associates. A descent chute dropped him speedily to his fifth-floor office. Presently—at nine-thirty A.M . local time—he sat in the massive, old-fashioned, authentic walnut-and-leather swivel chair, behind his desk, talking on the vidphone to his public-relations department.
    “Tamish, I just now got back from Zürich. I conferred with Ella there.” Runciter glared at his secretary, who had cautiously entered his personal oversized office, shutting the door behind her. “What do you want, Mrs. Frick?” he asked her.
    Withered, timorous Mrs. Frick, her face dabbed with spots of artificial color to compensate for her general ancient grayness, made a gesture of disavowal; she had no choice but to bother him.
    “Okay, Mrs. Frick,” he said patiently. “What is it?”
    “A new client, Mr. Runciter. I think you should see her.” She both advanced toward him and retreated, a difficult maneuver which Mrs. Frick alone could carry off. It had taken her ten decades of practice.
    “As soon as I’m off the phone,” Runciter told her. Into the phone he said, “How often do our ads run on primetime TV planetwide? Still once every third hour?”
    “Not quite that, Mr. Runciter. Over the course of a full day, prudence ads appear on an average of once every third hour per UHF channel, but the cost of prime time—”
    “I want them to appear every hour,” Runciter said. “Ella thinks that would be better.” On the trip back to the Western Hemisphere he had decided which of their ads he liked the most. “You know that recent Supreme Court ruling where a husband can legally murder his wife if he can prove she wouldn’t under any circumstances give him a divorce?”
    “Yes, the so-called—”
    “I don’t care what it’s called; what matters is that we have a TV ad made up on that already. How does that ad go? I’ve been trying to remember it.”
    Tamish said, “There’s this man, an ex-husband, being tried. First comes a shot of the jury, then the judge, then a pan-up on the prosecuting attorney, cross-examining the ex-husband. He says, ‘It would seem, sir, that your wife—’ ”
    “That’s right,” Runciter said with satisfaction; he had, originally, helped write the ad. It was, in his opinion, another manifestation of the marvelous multifacetedness of his mind.
    “Is it not the assumption, however,” Tamish said, “that the missing Psis are at work, as a group, for one of the larger investment houses? Seeing as how this is probably so, perhaps we should stress one of our business-establishment commercials. Do you perhaps recall this one, Mr. Runciter? It shows a husband home from his job at the end of the day; he still has on his electric-yellow cummerbund, petal skirt, knee-hugging hose and military-style visored cap. He seats himself wearily on the living-room couch, starts to take off one of his gauntlets, then hunches over, frowns and says, ‘Gosh, Jill, I wish I knew what’s been wrong with me lately. Sometimes, with greater frequency almost every day, the least little remark at the office makes me think that, well, somebody’s reading my mind!’ Then she says, ‘If you’re worried about that, why don’t we contact our nearest prudence organization? They’ll lease us an inertial at prices easy on our budget, and then you’ll feel like your old self again!’ Then this great smile appears on his face and he says, ‘Why, this nagging feeling is already—’ ”
    Again appearing in the doorway to Runciter’s office, Mrs. Frick said, “Please, Mr. Runciter.” Her glasses quivered.
    He nodded. “I’ll talk to you later, Tamish. Anyhow, get hold of the networks and start our material on the hour basis as I outlined.” He rang off, then regarded Mrs. Frick silently.