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gentlemen.”

3
    “Name?”
    “Charles Dean.”
    “Middle name?”
    “Aloysius.”
    “ Real middle name?”
    Dean pursed his lips, hesitating to answer.
    “If you think this is hard,” said the man in the black business suit near the door, “just wait.”
    “My middle name is Martin,” Dean said. “Charles Martin Dean.”
    The technicians sitting in front of him nodded. Dean sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair in his undershirt. A web of thin
     wires ran from sensors taped to his chest, back, neck, and both arms. A headband held larger arrays of sensors to both temples.
     He felt like an actor in a ’50s Disney movie, transferring his consciousness to a chimp.
    Or maybe Mr. Black Suit by the door. Same difference.
    “Place of birth?” asked one of the technicians.
    “Bosco, Missouri. Population 643, not counting the cows.”
    “It would be better if you answered the questions simply,” said the technician on the right. “The process is automated, and
     anything the machine can’t interpret will be held against you.”
    “Let him ramble,” said Black Suit. “We’ve got nowhere to go.”
    Dean started to fold his arms to his chest before remembering the attachments. He put his palms on his thighs instead, willing
     himself into something approaching patience while the techies continued with their questioning. As Black Suit had hinted,
     this wasn’t the actual interview; all the technicians were doing was calibrating their elaborate lie detectors.
    It took them nearly forty minutes to do so. When they were done, Dean asked for a break to hit the head.
    “Not now,” said Black Suit. “You’re a Marine. Cross your legs.”
    Three hours later, Dean’s bladder had displaced his lungs and was working its way toward his throat. It gave him a bit of
     an edge on the questions about his sexual relationships and carried him through the little game Black Suit and the head-shrink
     played, peppering him with accusations about how he must really consider himself a failure. But it started to become painful
     when they began asking him detailed questions about his belief in God.
    Dean wondered what part religion might play in his assignment as George Hadash’s photographic memory. Hadash hadn’t been particularly
     profuse in describing what Dean was supposed to do before sending him up here, saying only that he wanted someone he could
     trust to take a look at something unpleasant.
    Dean had met Hadash years before, back when both were considerably younger. As a Marine, Dean had been assigned to accompany
     a young Pentagon visitor around Da Nang for a few days. Hadash proved to be considerably smarter than most of the suits who
     came out to look at what Vietnam was all about. He’d also proven himself relatively brave, if somewhat naive, volunteering
     to go out in the bush with Dean. Dean took him—a decision that caused him considerable grief with his commander.
    But it wasn’t like he and Hadash were best of friends. Hadash got in touch with him a few times after the war, once to tell
     some students over at MIT what the jungle was like. Until yesterday morning, he hadn’t even realized Hadash was the country’s
     National Security Director.
    “You can take a break, Corporal Dean,” said Black Suit finally.
    “Yeah, real funny,” said Dean, who had left the Marines as a gunnery sergeant, not a corporal.
    Black Suit smiled—the first time he had for the entire session. “Actually, I thought you might finally pee in your pants.”
    “I’ll tell you something truthful. When I was a corporal, that was probably the best time of my life,” said Dean as they unhooked
     him from the machine. “I should have refused the promotion.”
    Dean was taken down the hallway, flanked by two men who accompanied him into the men’s room. They said it was impossible to
     go anywhere here without an escort, and under no circumstances to lose his badge with its “V” insignia—someone without a badge
     might