A man stands before a bank of screens, each one shows a single person. Some stand, some sit, some lounge. All appear to be immaculately or exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion of some metropolis, and where a background is visible it can only be described as requiring money to have it there.

The more cautious individuals have chosen to have drawn curtains or blank walls behind them.

'So - is this failure?'
'Not at all, it was just one of many possibilities. There are other places where the results are far more promising.'
'Name one.' came the challenge.
'Britain.' came the confident assertion. 'At two of the Globo fashion events free magazines were distributed. The covers were impregnated with chemicals similar to the Truth Serum - they are absorbed easily through the skin or by breathing them in. They simply make the reader more suggestible. In the south of England the magazines showed kilts and tartans as the latest thing, in the north of Scotland they showed black trousers with everything. That was thought to be one of the easiest changes to spot and map.
The effects do not last more than a few weeks, but that is all to the good. Every time the chemical is administered there will be a new style suggested, and everyone will want it.'
There was a silence as that information was considered.
'Very good.' said one, though without real enthusiasm. 'I look forward to further reports on this effect.'
'Isn't it a rather expensive method of persuasion? How much do the magazines cost to make and distribute?'
'At the moment, too much,'
There was a small but complex 'aaah' of disappointment.

Ephan Moore-Naste cursed inwardly that someone should have realised the greatest problem of the plan. Realised or perhaps had known already - it was impossible to guard against spies when the stakes were this high. Outwardly he remained unmoved.

'However - the means of delivery can be refined if it can be shown that the fashion sense of a nation can be guided by such methods.'
Another pause.
'It is all taking a very long time.'
'We need to be certain. We must not show our hand too soon.'
'Then shouldn't you have chosen something rather more discrete - shoe colour perhaps?'
'With such a small sample - just 2 thousand magazines in each location, it was thought that something unmistakable should be chosen. Even if anyone notices, how could it be linked to us? And by Christmas it will have been forgotten entirely.'
'Let us hope so.'
'It is taking too long!'
'Patience, please! At least something is being done, and if it takes months or even years to perfect some way of controlling clothing sales, it will be worth it - surely?' Ephan Moore-Naste noted down those who were making him plead. They would, he decided eventually come to regret their intransigence.
'We will be watching.'
One screen went blank, and the others followed in rapid succession.

Ephan Moore-Naste turned away, his features hard and angry.
'That went well,' sneered a woman who had been observing from beyond camera range. 'They did not believe you, and you have yet to convince me.'
'You always want to inflict pain. My way is better.'
She looked at him coldly but offered her perfectly manicured hand so he could assist her to rise onto the rather dangerously high heels she wore.
'We shall see.' she purred and then pouted her glossy lips before taking her hand from his and walking away.

He rubbed his hand where her nails had left imprints, but his face was still unreadable, though his gaze never left her until she swayed out of sight.