The Portable Veblen

7 RELEASING THE TOOL

Paul’s day started badly, and only got worse.

After a pretty much sleepless night thanks to squirrels, after taking a second shower to rinse out the dust, husks, and rodent shit that had rained on him when he benevolently went to check the goddamned humane and ineffective trap, Paul arrived at work and found a package on his desk, a white box with a label depicting a tea bag the size of a purse.

CorpsaireTM Sachet — Helps Eliminate Unpleasant Corpse Odors

Labs, morgues, autopsy rooms and funeral homes

are vulnerable to highly unpleasant odors

from decaying corpses and fluids

used for embalming.

Putrid decomposition vapors

can result in loss of morale

and create negative publicity

if they escape the building.

Veblen’s scorn for medical marketing had poisoned him. He called in Susan Hinks.

“What is this thing?”

“There they are! These have great reviews on Allegro. I thought we could give them a try.”

“On what?”

“The medical supply site. Lots of great stuff there.”

“A little bleach usually works fine.”

Hinks said, “Also thought you should know we’re a little behind in our cadaver count. I’m waiting for a call from the Anatomical Board and we should be able to scrape up a few more, but I took it upon myself to apply for MUPs.”

Susan Hinks was tone-deaf, missing some piece of humanity. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He conjured a childhood for her in which a martinet dad lined up the kids and inspected the shine on their shoes and the parts in their hair. As a sex partner, she’d probably play roles without any self-consciousness, which was kind of hot. But who needed it.

“And MUPs are—?”

“Multiple use privileges.”

“Oh. That’s quite a privilege.”

“We have thirty-four cadavers in stock. So if we get MUPs and use both sides of the skull, that will put us at sixty-eight procedures, and hopefully by that time we should have full inventory.”

Paul said, “Anything else I should know?”

“It’s a busy day but the families usually expect face time with the lead physician — maybe you could poke your head in and give them a pep talk?”

“A pep talk about what?”

“You can remind them how patriotic they are, thank them for their sacrifices. You could lead an informal prayer if you’d like. That type of thing goes over well.”

“I don’t want to sugarcoat anything about this trial.”

She sighed. “Dr. Vreeland. Morale is so important. Positive spin makes the world go round. Can I tell them you’ll stop in at ten?”

“All right,” Paul said sullenly.

“Wonderful. Let’s see, Jonathan Finger called to say the control panel has been installed, so the simulator should be up and running soon. And the simulator operator has been in touch, Robbie Frazier. Did you know he’s a sound technician from THX? And the medics are here today, Chen, Sadiq, and Vasquez. I’ve given them a general orientation. Can you meet with them at noon?”

He nodded, handed her the Corpsaire sachets, and watched her go.

Coffee came from the cart in front, prepared by a large woman in a white uniform with a large mole on her cheek, who behaved shyly with him. He beheld bright light at the edge of a headache. Back in his office, ibuprofen, three tabs. Heal thyself.

Paul was unexpectedly slammed by a traumatic memory from science class in middle school, where Mr. Poplick, a bearded young gun from the Bronx, began to scatter the word orgasm through his first lecture in the sex-ed division. Paul thought he was a douche for mispronouncing organism, and after determining that no one else was brave enough to correct him, he raised his hand. “It’s organism, not orgasm,” he said, his voice huffy with ridicule.

The room was a carbuncle ready to burst. Poplick sneered. “Um, class? What’s an organism?”

Hans Borg raised his hand, while others snickered. “Any kind of living thing.”

“Okay. Just curious, were we talking about organisms?”

“No!” everybody shouted.

“How many of you know what an orgasm is? Spare the details, please.”

Hoots and howls accompanied the raising of all hands, to Paul’s distress.

“Okay, Paul. Stay after class and we’ll have a man-to-man,” said Poplick, and the memory still had the power to make him burn with shame.

How he’d love to rub Poplick’s face in his career now, douche bag! Poplick the middle school teacher, the hick, the bumpkin!

He left a message for Jonathan Finger, the bright spot so far in his time at the VA. Shortly after being awarded the trial, during the planning stages in the fall, Paul had received a call from Finger, his project support representative from WOO. WOO was one of those things you’ve never heard of until you hear about it all the time — the Warfighter Outreach Office (a branch of the Program Executive Office for Simulation, Training, and Instrumentation [PEO STRI], a division of the United States Army, a division of the DOD). WOO was an organization that reached out across the army, the Department of Defense, and other U.S. departments and agencies to provide modeling and simulation, training and testing support. WOO provided interagency acquisitions support. WOO provided access to the full spectrum of instruments available. WOO was a really big deal.

Finger was someone Paul liked immediately. Short, balding, slightly paunchy, Finger nevertheless exuded the kind of charm that couldn’t be learned. Maybe because he seemed to struggle with his current incarnation as a company man against the backdrop of a wild and crazy past. A man who’d lived the extremes, who’d dodged bullets and lived to dish the dirt.

At their first meeting in the fall, at a steak house in Burlingame, they discussed the parameters of Paul’s trial over one of the most decadent meals of Paul’s life, during which he imbibed four vodka tonics, followed by a massive cross-section of prime rib, dollops of horseradish, a pie-sized Yorkshire pudding, and a mound of creamed spinach. Finger told him stories about his former job as an undercover courier in countries such as Venezuela, Estonia, and Thailand. After whetting Paul’s appetite with his stories, Finger dropped in the business at hand.

“First, Paul, I recommend you do a little PR training with, let’s see, is Hartman your CRO?”

Paul confirmed.

“You need it. You need to own this. They’ll bring you up to speed on your public persona, how to talk the talk.”

“A corporate makeover.”

“Then I’m going to recommend a state-of-the-art simulation system,” Jon said, three hours into the meal. “These are the ones we like.” He gave Paul the list, with its string of endorsements from decorated veterans such as Clarence Obadiah Thompson, who exhibited bravery in the Dinh Tuong Province of the Republic of Vietnam in 1968, saving the lives of five men in his battalion despite rocket fragments in the shoulder and wounds that immobilized his legs, causing him to drag himself with two men on his back through the mud, keeping them alive, once out of range, with tourniquets and jokes until they were evacuated seven hours later. Said Thompson: Simulation systems are the only way for the men and women of the armed forces to prepare for the difficult and dangerous work ahead.

Paul still couldn’t believe that he was now involved with the U.S. military and the Department of Defense. The affiliation made him feel heroic and serious, after growing up cosseted by peaceniks.

“Clarence Obadiah Thompson talks the talk,” Paul said.

“That’s no accident,” Jon said.

Paul was plastered, and found the WOO products list dizzying:

Additional Black Hawk Flight Simulator (ABHFS)

Advanced Gunnery Training System (AGTS)

Aerial Weapons Scoring System Integration with Longbow Apache Tactical Engagement Simulation System (AWSS-LBA TESS)

Air Defense Artillery (ADA) Targets

Armored Security Vehicle Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System (ASV MILES)

Aviation Combined Arms Tactical Trainer — Aviation Reconfigurable Manned Simulator (AVCATT)

Ballistic Aerial Target System (BATS)

Battle Command Training Capability — Equipment Support (BCTC-ES)

Battlefield Effects Simulator (BES)

Camouflage, Concealment, Deception, and Obscurants (CCD&O)

… and so on, all the way through the alphabet.

“What the hell is this stuff?” Paul belched, reaching capacity.

“Here’s the fun part,” said Finger, jiggling the ice in his glass. “Take your pick.”

“But all I need are some bangs and smoke,” Paul protested.

“You don’t finesse this kind of study with homemade campfires and popguns, Paul. This ain’t Boy Scouts! No, Paul, I’m outfitting bases and training sites all over the globe, I’m managing over two hundred contracts in twenty-eight countries,” said Finger, who twirled his Patek Philippe watch in a widening swath in his arm hair. Congealed with fat, their plates disappeared with the waitress, while Finger ordered them both Brandy Alexanders, and removed two cigars from the inner pocket of his jacket and offered one to Paul. “Close your eyes and take a poke anywhere on the page. You can’t go wrong.”

“You serious? This is crazy.”

But he did it. He closed his eyes and started laughing. He played government-sanctioned pin the tail on the donkey. Finger said, “Congratulations! You’re the proud new operator of a CURS!”

“What the hell is it?” Paul said.

“Confined Urban Rescue Simulator. Perfect.”

Finger looked at the part number and opened his satchel and removed his tablet, bringing up photos and blueprints of the CURS from every angle. The CURS was a set of prefabricated buildings simulating the urban landscape of modern warfare, complete with an elaborate sound and lighting system, real doors and locks, and mazelike passageways decked with sniper windows, smoke, explosions. The whole thing could be staged within the warehouse at the VA, the control panels mounted on a platform with a viewing window above. “Listen to this, Paul, customer choice of color!”

“I want orange!”

“With black stripes. Like a tiger. I’ll ask! Jesus, have I told you about my adventures in the tiger trade?”

Paul was about to burst with boyish respect. “No.”

“Let’s just say it ended in an airport, and involved a tiger pecker and a balloon.”

Since that epic meal, Finger had remembered Paul’s birthday, taken him to see a few welterweight championships and a tennis benefit featuring Roger Federer in San Francisco, sent Paul bottles of Ardbeg Corryvreckan Islay single malt Scotch whisky, 4 Copas Tequila Reposado, and Parker’s twenty-seven-year-old whiskey (“Jesus, Jon, this stuff is two hundred bucks a bottle!”), and even offered Paul some kind of vacation package to Cancun should he and Veblen wish to honeymoon there.

“Yuck!” Veblen said when he shared the bounty. “Are you allowed to accept this stuff?”

“We’re friends,” Paul said. “We genuinely like and respect each other. You can’t fake something like that.”

(His father would’ve attacked him for saying that. He loved that Veblen nodded respectfully and believed.)

At a recent meeting, Jon asked him: “So was it Cloris herself who brought you in?”

Paul delved, with unabashed pleasure, into his professional courtship by Cloris. Finger listened, a deplorable smirk growing on his face, which made Paul slow down like he’d entered a sand trap.

Finger said, “Yeah, she’s pretty good at that,” and Paul frowned.

• • •

AT TEN Paul dragged himself to the FDR (family day room), with its daytime television and rough plaid couches, stuffy with exhalations of abscessed teeth and old coffee, where at least twenty people had convened. Susan Hinks brightened at his arrival, and began making a herding gesture with her arms. “Everybody, Dr. Vreeland is here now. Please take a seat and we’ll get started.”

The faces in the room were neither padded in comfort nor forbidding. He saw chipped nail polish and worn vinyl bags, stubble and heavy cheekbones, thin hair, broad thighs.

“Good morning.” He stood stiffly just inside the doorway, telegraphing, he hoped, warmth and authority. “I’m Dr. Paul Vreeland, director of clinical trials at Greenslopes.” He cleared his throat, and noticed that James Shalev sat against the wall, clipboard in hand, jotting notes. “It’s — always a trial in itself to calibrate our personal expectations with the expected outcome of a medical procedure. Or trial. I’m sure this has been one of the most difficult times in your lives.” Murmurs of assent spread through the room, as he sought the proper notes to sound. “It’s come to my attention that some clarification on the nature of the trial might be helpful at this point.”

One man in the corner said, “Can’t hear you.”

“Sure. I’m here to answer your questions.”

A wide-hipped woman raised a small hand, like a schoolgirl. “Doctor, is it okay to bring our son’s pajamas and slippers and regular clothes so he can get out of that hospital gown?”

“Of course. That’s fine.”

“We tried to bring his pajamas but the nurses told us he had to stay in the gown.”

Paul said, “Then we’ll have a talk with the nurses.”

“He could wear his own pajamas and slippers at the VA in Bremerton,” said the woman.

Paul nodded. “There are always some loose ends at the start of a trial. Now, I’d like to explain that—”

A man with a thick, bristly neck raised his hand. “Doctor, can we wheel our son outside on nice days? It’s good for him to get some sunshine and fresh air.”

“Yes, by all means.”

A round-faced woman with long, shining black hair said, “Our daughter is the only woman in her row and we think women should have a room of their own.”

Paul cleared his throat again. “Let’s look into that.”

“It’s only right for women to have their own room, she’s sleeping in a room full of men,” said the woman.

“I take your point and we’ll look into it today,” Paul said, with pessimistic thoughts about the ability of anybody enrolled in the trial to know the difference between themselves and the opposite sex ever again.

“I’d like to know when you’ll get started, and how soon we’ll be made aware of the results,” said a man in a beige raincoat.

“That’s right,” agreed a few others.

“My husband’s getting bed sores. You need more physical therapists here.”

“I have a medicine skin for my husband. Do you know about those?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s sheepskin, and it helps keep the weight off.”

“I had a sheepskin for my son at our VA in Cleveland, and it was stolen right from under him,” said a woman.

Paul held up his hands. “How many of you understand what this trial is about?”

The room went silent.

“Would someone tell me what you were told?”

“We weren’t told anything!” called a man in the back. “We found out our son was coming here, that’s all. We’re from Oklahoma City. His doctor at the VA decided.”

“I was told my husband would be treated for his TBI,” said a redheaded woman holding the dense prospectus. “This is a clinical trial to help people with TBI, isn’t it?”

The people in the room began to talk, trading what they’d heard. As the volume rose, Paul shrank, his stomach bunched into a knot.

“People,” he said. “This is how it is. People!”

Two young women with pale skin and knitted brows were whispering to each other, and one raised her hand.

“Our dad’s here and we’ve read the papers,” she said. “And we know this trial is to test a device to be used within hours of brain injury. It’s not designed to help people who have already suffered TBI such as our dad and other members of this trial. Isn’t that true?”

Paul said, “That was well put. Did everybody hear that?”

The room fell quiet, mown down.

“We’re here because we know our dad wants to help any way he can, even if it doesn’t help him, because that’s the way he is,” she went on.

A woman in a heavy, rust-colored parka patched with duct tape raised her hand.

“We read the papers too. We understand all that. But for us it’s better to try something than nothing. It’s possible my husband could get some benefit from this procedure, isn’t it?”

More murmurs from the others. He heard someone say, “We thought so too.”

He was bulging with anger at their willful ignorance, stretching himself to hide it. He said, “I hope you’ll all take the time to read the prospectus again and understand that in this trial we do not expect—” The faces, from every side of the room, were tense, wrung out. “We don’t expect—” He felt the room closing in on him, every face trained on his. Hinks stared as if trying to cast a spell over his larynx. James Shalev scratched notes loudly onto his pad. Expectations were killing him! He couldn’t breathe.

“We don’t know what to expect until we’ve tried it,” he blurted out suddenly, and the room lightened many degrees.

“My husband was in a trial last year in Bethesda, for anticonvulsants, and another for tissue regeneration using progesterone,” said a young woman in a tight black sweater. “He woke up during the anticonvulsant therapy for about three hours and recognized me and asked about home and our dog, then he slipped back. It only happened once, but when everybody’s told you he’s never going to wake up, and something like that happens, it really gives you hope.”

“My daughter has a strong will, and we think she’ll pull through this,” said the woman who wanted her daughter in a different room.

“My husband too,” said another.

“Our son was told he might never walk after his injuries in ’05. He recovered and went back. He’ll make it through this if anyone can.”

“That’s right,” said someone.

Paul looked at his watch and nodded to Hinks. “Well, then, thanks, everyone, thank you again for your support.”

Someone clapped, and thanks came in murmurs. The woman with the son whose sheepskin was stolen came forward and shook his hand. Paul said, “Where was your son stationed?”

“Kirkuk.”

“Tough.”

“He was a runner, a bicyclist, a basketball player, an all-star Little League pitcher, and he loved to hike with his buddies in the Poconos. Summers, he was a camp counselor up at a place for disadvantaged kids. They loved him.”

To Paul’s surprise, his eyes misted over. Usually he hated hearing about beloved people, fearing no one ever talked that way about him. “You must be very proud of him.”

He turned to escape down the hall but the two young women came doggedly after him, surrounding him by the elevator.

“I’m Sarah Smith,” said one.

“I’m Alexa Smith,” said the other.

“That prospectus isn’t easy reading,” Paul said.

“We’ve been reading a lot of stuff like that since our dad was injured.”

“That’s not always a good idea,” Paul said, as the elevator doors parted. They followed him in.

Sarah Smith said, “But we’re the ones who care about him the most.”

He searched her face for signs of rancor, but there were none.

“We wanted to talk to you,” said Alexa Smith. “We’re worried he might be too aware of his surroundings to be in this trial.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Sarah Smith said, “He seems really agitated and emotional, worse than before we brought him here.”

“You’re free to take him out,” Paul said.

The other sister spoke. “We told him that, but then he gets mad like he thinks we’re underestimating him. We wondered your opinion if he’s suitable.”

The elevator opened, and they followed Paul down the corridor like ducklings.

“All right,” Paul said, opening the door to his office. “I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Vreeland. We really appreciate it. He’s been through a lot and we don’t want him to be stressed out.”

“Sergeant Major Warren Smith is his name,” said Sarah.

They were sweet-looking girls, and when they thanked him it was with a measure of grief, and after they left he felt appalled by the whole painful masquerade.

He was sweating all over. Just then came a knock on his door, and James Shalev stuck in his large, onion-shaped head.

“Hi, Dr. Vreeland — nice job. A reality check but with a magical Frisbee thrown in at the end.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Shalev extracted his head and shut the door.

Paul did some kicks and karate chops around the room, venting generalized unease. And then his cell rang, and it appeared to be the fourth time his father had called in the past hour.

“Hey, Dad. Everything okay?”

“Fine, son. You bearing up? How was the trip to Cobb?”

“Okay. I’m at work, by the way.”

“Want me to call later?”

“I can talk a minute. Her mother’s a nut job, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s a narcissist, a hypochondriac, a borderline personality, probably schizoid,” Paul said, sending his chair across the room with a violent punt.

“Whoa. So do we get some points now?”

“She calls Veblen every day, which is a drag.”

“Well, Marion’s mother called every day too. I didn’t like it, but it was important to her.”

“I have to live with it, huh?” Paul sank into his chair, expelling a stale gust of trapped gases from the cushioned seat.

“Oh, yes. Don’t try to tear a girl from her mother, she’ll hate you for it.”

“So what’s up, Dad? Anything else?”

There followed an awkward silence before Bill said, “We want to come down for your birthday. And, well, I hate to ask something like this right now, as I know how it really bugs the crap out of you. But your brother needs to hear something from you. We’re having a rough patch, and I know you can help.”

Paul slammed his coffee cup into the trash basket, sending angry streaks of latte up the wall.

“Dad, forget it. I have to go.”

“I’ll get him on the phone, and I want you to tell him that you’re marrying Veblen.”

“What, he’s worried it’s not going to happen?”

Bill cleared his throat. “It’s a little more complicated.”

“What, then?”

Bill said, “He claims he’s marrying Veblen.”

“Tell him yourself!” Paul yelled.

Bill began to speak in the drawl that historically made Paul’s chest constrict. “Son, we’ve tried. We’ve been talking about the wedding a lot because we’re so damned happy for you. He’s taking it all in, and this was just his way of joining into the spirit. We should have nipped it in the bud, but at first it seemed like a healthy dose of pretend. Take it from me, that night we met in the city, he saw right away what a terrific gal Veblen is.”

“Tell him the truth!”

“We’ve been trying.”

“Try harder!”

“We’ve backed ourselves into a corner. We don’t want anything going wrong at the wedding, you understand?”

“Couldn’t you assert my right to exist? For once?”

“Calm down, boy.”

“Can’t you see how lame and cowed you are?”

“The world is full of the cowed.” Bill’s voice trailed away. “He’s coming in right now with your mother,” he whispered. “He listens to you. Prevail where we’ve failed.”

All at once he heard Justin’s clammy breath smothering the phone, much as it had smothered his face when they were boys and Justin would lie on top of him to wake him up. “Pauly-wauly.”

“Hello, Justin.”

“Hello.”

“Looking forward to my wedding?”

After a pause, Justin said, “Yes.”

“It’ll be nice to have Veblen in the family.”

“Yes.” In a quiet voice he added, “I’m getting married too.”

“Ah, really. And who are you marrying?”

“Veblen,” said Justin.

“What a coincidence! Not my Veblen?”

Justin whispered, “A different one.”

“A different Veblen,” said Paul. “What’s your Veblen like?”

He could hear Justin fidget, the phone too close to his mouth. “She’s really little.”

“Ah. A really little Veblen. Good for you. Now I’m going to tell you something and you’d better listen. Stop fucking around with Mom and Dad and give them a chance to enjoy my wedding, which is my right, which is the only thing I’ve insisted on my whole life not be screwed up, do you get that?”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

“Then maybe, maybe it’s time to tell everyone about your special little connection with Caddie Fladeboe.”

“No, it’s not time for that, Paul, no.”

“I think it is!”

Justin said, “I won’t say it again, Paul. I won’t.”

“Let me speak to Dad.”

Bill came back on the line.

“What happened?”

“I told him if he said it again I’d thrash him.”

“Jesus. Was that necessary?”

“It was,” Paul said. “Now that I’m done putting out your fires, I have to go perform surgery on cadavers, if you really want to know.”

“You do that,” said Bill. “I’m sorry we lean on you sometimes.”

“If he makes any trouble at the wedding I’ll take him outside and beat—”

“Enough!”

“He’s a thirty-eight-year-old man.”

“This is your family. Get your priorities straight.”

“You too, Dad, you too.”

“You’ve managed to piss me off, son.”

“Like usual. Like since the day I was born. This isn’t about Justin, Dad. Don’t you get it? It’s about you and me and some grudge you have against me and everything I do.”

“Jesus Christ. How can you say that?”

“You make it easy,” Paul said, shaking.

“This won’t stand. We’re coming down and we’re going to hash this out. This is a new phase of your life and I don’t want these attitudes getting in the way. You’re going to screw things up with Veblen if you don’t have things squared away with your family first.”

“It’s about time you noticed,” Paul said, secretly touched.

And then the rest of the day — Paul met the first group of participating medics, Pvt. Donald Chen, Sgt. Nadir Sadiq, and SP5 Alex Vasquez. They had their notebooks and were up to date on the trial, eager to start. The medics scrubbed down and suited up and Paul led them to the small operating room. An orderly wheeled in a cadaver, and they peeled open the bag to reveal the body of a woman who could not have been very old when she died.

“This lady’s seen better days,” said Vasquez, allowing the bright light to expose unbleeding gashes on her torso, and the lack of one arm.

“Sure has,” said Chen.

Sadiq picked up the notes and read off the various studies the woman’s body had been used for to date, while Paul brought out his device and set about to demonstrate. To build their confidence, he told them that craniotomy, even performed on a living, breathing person, was a surprisingly safe procedure with no mortality or morbidity reported in reviews of thousands of patients. Then he showed them how his device was equipped with a light and a razor for removing hair from the area, and had an extendable nipple for applying a swath of iodine. He held the prototype to the woman’s skull, had them look closely at his hand while he lifted the safety latch, and then deployed the trigger, allowing the device to punch out a three-inch-diameter circle from the woman’s skull like a ballistic cookie cutter. The action was remarkably quiet, due to the pneumatic tool-muffler built into the small CO2 cylinder. The blade was extremely sharp and the device lifted out the skull fragment in one precise motion, exactly as Paul intended.

“This thing’s gonna work,” Sadiq said.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Paul said. “Let’s do it again.”

Next Sadiq tried, holding the cadaver’s head for leverage. He pressed the device to the shaved skull and activated. The cut was clean, and with a quick flip of the switch on the handle, the blade contracted around the fresh plug of bone and lifted it out. “The average skull is 6.5 millimeters thick. The blade is 6.3 millimeters, so it stops just short of the dura,” Paul said.

“Like shooting a gun,” Sadiq said, impressed.

Paul said, “That blade’s coming at 42.7 meters a second.”

“This thing’s your baby?” asked Vasquez.

“It is.”

It was Chen’s turn. He swabbed the skull on the other side, held it in position, and deployed. But this time something went wrong, the cut was incomplete. A 2-centimeter tag of skin and bone held the plug in place. Chen asked, “What should I do?”

Paul said, “Don’t worry. There’s a removable blade on the side, for trims.”

“Should I release the tool?”

“Release the tool.”

Chen released the tool from its faulty grip and the skull flap fell open and hung over the cadaver’s ear. Paul showed them where the removable blade was located and slipped it out, then grasped the skull flap with his gloved hand, but as he did, the short uncut section of skull broke off and the skin began to tear down the side of the cadaver’s head like a strip of paint.

“Now what?” Chen fretted.

“Give it a little cut, fast.”

When Chen applied pressure to the peeling skin, it peeled further, and Paul saw the flaw in his design, and that removable scissors would be better than a blade for their built-in leverage, and he told Chen to let go, and as Chen tried to let go, more skin peeled with the weight of the skull flap, all the way down the neck to the shoulder.

“My bad,” said Chen. “I didn’t make full contact. I want to try it again.”

Paul clipped the hanging flap of skin, and Chen tried again, this time successfully.

“Packs a punch, doesn’t it?” Paul said, and took some notes.

“My dad could use this in his business,” said Vasquez. “It would save a lot of time.”

“Huh?” Paul looked up and saw Vasquez holding the device to the wall.

“He’s an electrician. You need to make openings for wires and switches all the time, and we use saws—”

“Don’t,” Paul said, seeing Vasquez’s fingers touch the trigger, but too late.

The device sprang with a bang.

“Oh shit!” said Vasquez, coughing. “Man, that’s powerful!”

Paul grabbed his valuable prototype, covered in plaster dust. A circle had been punched in the drywall, not all the way through but almost, and Vasquez gave it a small poke, which caused the circle to detach and disappear down the inside of the wall, revealing a nest of wires.

“Oh crap!” Paul started to cough with surprise.

“Sorry, Doctor. It was an accident, seriously,” said Vasquez. “Look at that! I’m telling you, every electrician in the world would want one of these.”

“They’d probably like having a tank too, but they’re not going to get one.”

Vasquez laughed.

It was a three-hour session with the medics, who made a few intriguing suggestions (a glow-in-the-dark rubber grip on the handle, for instance). They completed thirteen procedures, counting the one in which skin ripped all the way to the clavicle.

Ouch. Definitely refine that before starting on the volunteers. He knew what had to be added: sensors that would create the circuit for the trigger only when contact was equally dispersed on the full circumference of the blade.