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Wilburdon decides to replace me. He's an asshole, and there's a good chance he'll get killed or ruined trying to do this. And if he survives, he'll be a better man for it."
    "Daddy?"
    "Yes, boy."
    "Good night, Daddy."
    3
    "Look, it's not like this is some kind of a -" aaron green said. Then a cautious instinct took control and he brought himself up short. He was looking over the epaulets of the security guard at a large red sign on the wall: DO NOT MAKE JOKES OR COMMENTS REGARDING WEAPONS OR EXPLOSIVE DEVISES.
    "It's not a what?" said the guard in front of Aaron, a wiry older white man. Aaron was still trying to decide where to begin when the guard spoke the dreaded words: "Step over here with me, sir."
    Aaron followed the guard over to a table, just beyond the picket line of metal detectors, still within the dreaded security zone. Beyond it lay the concourse, a pacifist Utopia full of weaponless citizens streaming in an orderly fashion toward their gates. In the overpriced bars and overpriced restaurants, business-suited travelers stood, drinks in hand, below television sets, watching the President deliver his State of the Union address.
    "What do we have there, sir?" said the guard behind the table, the chief of this beady-eyed, polyethnic truth squad. He was a very wide, convex black man with a deep voice and he was trying to sound open-minded and jolly. He was wearing an ID flasher with the name BRISTOLS, MAX.
    "It's a piece of electronic equipment," Aaron said, setting the case on the table.
    "I see. And you can open this up and show it to me?" Bristol said.
    The case was largely full of gray foam rubber. A rectangular cavity the size of a couple of shoe boxes had been excavated from
    the center. Filling this cavity was a white steel box with ventilation slots cut into the top. The box was exactly the right width to fit into a standard electronics rack.
    The plan was that one day, a whole lot of these things would be sacked together in racks, racks lined up next to each other, hundreds in a single room. The room and the equipment would be owned by big media companies in L.A. They would buy all of the stuff from Green Biophysical Systems, of which Aaron Green was the founder, chief technologist, president, and treasurer.
    With the lid of the case open, the upper half of the faceplate was visible. It had no controls, knobs, or anything, just a single red LED with the word power printed underneath it, and, in big letters, the Green Biophysical Systems logo, and the acronym IMIPREM.
    The power cord was coiled up in a separate niche in the gray foam rubber. Yet another niche contained an item that Aaron hoped they wouldn't notice: a cuff. Hard plastic shell lined with black foam, for comfort. He wondered what the guards would think of that.
    "Looks interesting," the guard said. His insincerity was palpable. "What is it?"
    Aaron took a deep breath. "An instantaneous, multiplexing, integrating, physiological response evaluation and monitoring device."
    "What does it do?"
    It doesn't blow up. "Well. It's a little bit like a polygraph."
    "I need to see it work."
    "What?'
    "I need to see your IMIPREM work," Bristol said.
    Aaron pulled the IMIPREM out of its foam rubber nest and set it on the table. Then he uncoiled the power cord, fit one end into a three-pronged recessed socket on the back of the unit, and plugged the other end into a wall outlet near the table. The little LED came on. "There," he said.
    Bristol raised his eyebrows and looked extremely dubious. "That's all it does?"
    "Well, it does a lot more than that, naturally," Aaron said, "but it has no interface, per se, except through a computer. See, if I could hook this up to a computer, it would produce all kinds of meaningful output."
    "But the only thing it'll do right now, here, for me, is turn on this little red light," Bristol said.
    Aaron was trying to come up with a diplomatic way to say yes when they were interrupted by another person. He was carrying a laptop