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her shapely figure.   Her black hair hid beneath a pink silk scarf.   The egg-shaped lenses of her white plastic designer sunglasses did little to hide her distraught mood.   My search for just the right words of reassurance derailed when she greeted me with a vicious slap across my face.
    Then she took her boy in hand and continued on toward the main house.   If only her slap had awakened me to what had begun.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
     
     
     
    The following morning, I left my office in Georgetown and drove down the Dulles high tech corridor to the world headquarters of Helms Technology in Vienna , Virginia .   John’s state of mind still concerned me.   I should’ve been more concerned with my own.
    On the surface, the multinational corporation that John founded a quarter century ago is nothing like the high tech firms of the movies, or the wackier outposts of Silicon Valley, south of San Francisco—lands of facial hair and ponytails and Hawaiian shirt-clad CEOs with popcorn machines and nerf basketball hoops in their offices.   At HT, people carry on like adults.
    Geeky adults.   I can recall, for example, one of John’s top marketing executives bragging that his business suits had metal fiber woven into them to stave off electro-magnetic pollution.
    “Have a seat, I’ll be right back,” John said, after greeting me in his corner office.   He disappeared inside the alcove leading to his private bathroom.
    His office bordered on the palatial, with floor-to-ceiling windows ushering in the urban skyline.   There was a definite art deco vibe to the place: black matte walls and walnut millwork and a unique, chrome and glass office desk, where a chrome-encased laptop computer sat on top, open and always running.   I sat down in a red leather camelback sofa with brass nailhead trim.
    The spot offered a good view of John’s prodigious ego gallery: framed and frequently autographed photos of himself posing with other famous people.   There he was at Sun Valley with fellow computer industry giants Bill Gates and Larry Ellison.   At Camden Yards with iron man Cal Ripken.   Dining with basketball’s Michael Jordan.   And shaking hands or hugging shoulders with every American president going back to Ronald Reagan.
    On the cushion beside me lay a strange bit of head gear.   I picked it up.   Lightweight and made of chrome and black-colored plastic, it looked like a pair of music headphones wedded to a fancy bicycle helmet’s rear-view mirror and stem.
    “It’s called a wearable computer,” John said, returning.   He seized it from me and strapped it on his head.   He reminded me of one of the Borg from Star Trek Next Generation.   “Got it from the MIT lab in Boston last month.   Experimental model.   The circular piece hanging in front of my left eye is the monitor.   It’s so small there’s no problem seeing past it.   You lose binocularity in only a seven or eight degree wedge, which is nothing at all.”
    I said, “What do you use it for?”
    “Instant access to information, mostly.   I do email with it too, and instant messaging, using voice commands.   But the best is yet to come.   I’m designing some special software for it.   Not too many people know about it, but I guess I can tell you, Argus.   You keep secrets for a living.   It’s lie detector software.”
    I stood.   “Come again?”
    “Lie detector software.   While wearing this thing, I’ll be able to test people for truthfulness without them ever knowing.   It’s my pet project, you might say.   Been working on the software for two years now.   I’ve put a whole development team in place.”
    “Why?” I said.
    “Edge, Argus, edge.   The secret to success.   And just think of what kind of edge I’ll have when I know when the people I deal with on a daily basis are being deceptive.   My suppliers, my competitors, my contractors, and my employees.   My wife—if I ever decide to divorce her.   One