"You're in a glass jar, about the size and shape of a normal human skull case. Leading in through the sides of the glass are several plastic tubes, a jumble of wires, and a thermometer. Attached to all of this is about a hundred pounds of machinery, gauges, and such."
I must be quite a handsome cuss.
"Oh, yes," she laughed. "Quite colorful, in fact. With those chrome-plated fixtures, you cut quite a figure."
You're talking to me, Karen, and you can't hear me. Tell me, is this being broadcast all over the place, or is it strictly a personal conversation?
"George," she said, "you're somewhat of a novelty. The electrodes that pick up your tiny nerve impulses—the sub-vocalization—feed the signal into a computer-translator sort of thing that changes it into words. Your voice is purely mechanical. It comes through earphones from the translator. Of course, everything we say is automatically recorded."
Is what I think—to myself, that is—is that recorded, too?
"No." Her voice had that same gentle, understanding quality. "We respect your privacy."
Thanks. I don't guess there would be much I could do about it if you didn't, though.
"I'm proud of you, George. You're taking all this quite calmly."
What have I got to gain by getting excited?