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body cannot deceive.
    Already they were light-years ahead of their competition in terms of accuracy of data, just because of the heart and blood reading. In another two years, they would be on par with the established mega-agencies.
    If their methodology didn’t leak that is, which was doubtful.
    If they
could
actually observe the areas of pleasure, or anxiety, or daydreaming; at exactly which instances the relevant parts of the brain started working more intensely…then advertisement and PR could finally really count on precise data from their partner: sociology.
    Natalie daydreamed of the possibilities for so long and they seemed so seductive that her throat would begin contracting when she dwelled on it too thoroughly.
    For instance, with a little basic photo doctoring one could determine scientifically which combination of haircut, suit, and smile, would win a politician the best brain wave reaction from the voters.
    That would certainly get rid of the fashion quacks.
    Even something simple, like the shape and colors of a soft drink bottle, or a chocolate bar, could be based, not on the guesswork of some pretentious marketing nitwit, but on solid scientific data, based on the brain and body reactions of a group of kids sitting in those chairs and being projected the various possible looks of the new product.

    * * * *

    The last version of the future newspaper appeared on the screen, the participants made the last twists on the ‘stop boxes’, and it was time for Natalie to wrap it up. She went out of the observation room and heard Bob lock the door behind her.
    This was standard practice. You wouldn’t want some of the participants to look for the toilet and wander into the room on the other side of the one-way glass.
    Although this was all perfectly acceptable sociological methodology for at least the last sixty years, still everyone knew that it was better if the participants were not unduly reminded of how things stood. No specific acts of deception occurred, that would be unethical, but a certain amount of subtle precautions was usually more than enough.
    Natalie entered the focus group room.
    Inside sat seven women and five men, more or less evenly representing the three age groups and the two levels of income. Racially, they were unrepresentative, too many whites and only one East Asian, but one had to make do with the available material.
    As Natalie opened the door, all eyes turned to her. She was pretty, black, five feet four, very thin, and dressed in a tight gray dress, with a thin plastic pink belt loosely hugging her hips, and dark flowery stockings covering her spindly legs.
    Her hair was in an authoritative bun, with half a dozen thin wavy strands hanging suggestively here and there, and her dark brown face was almost entirely free of makeup.
    â€œWell, everybody,” she said, clasping her hands in a finalizing manner, “thank you very much for participating in this research, and we hope you weren’t too bored.”
    As people popped the electrodes off themselves and began putting on their jackets. They made polite noises concerning how interesting the whole thing had been, and how curious they all were to check out the newspaper once it sees the light of day.
    Natalie nodded with a professional smile and reminded everyone that their cash awaited on the second floor of the building.
    Half an hour later, as she went into the office of Mister Blonksi. He met her with a jovial roar, “Ah, the young genius, Natalie. No brain scans available soon, I’m sorry to say, hur hur.”
    He chuckled good-naturedly, his plump, large-pored face flushing with the emotion, and although Natalie knew that he was not really making fun of her, she couldn’t help feeling attacked by the mention of the brain scans.
    She gave him a thin and cold polite smile. “I brought the preliminary notes that Bob and I took at the focus group, and the report will be ready by tomorrow