“Your career is almost at an end, Mr. Mann. I don’t believe you’re imprudent enough to deny that. My sources inform me you do enjoy playing the game of football very much. So this is my proposition. Let IBC give your career new life. Let IBC regain for you all the glories of your best years. At little or no risk to your own life.”

T.K. sinks into his sofa, plants his legs in a wide V in front of him on the coffee table. He hangs one arm carelessly over the sofa’s back, not so much for comfort as to conceal the involuntary way his hand has compressed into a tightly rolled fist. “You’re offering to implant one of those gadgets in me.”

Senator Barin drops to a chair across from him and leans forward, sincere, persuasive, the consummate salesman. “A short, painless operation, done in a top rate hospital by qualified surgeons. Of course, performed entirely at IBC expense. In addition, you’ll be given a very handsome initial payment plus a lucrative monetary compensation linked to your on street performance.”

T.K. sets his drink down and throws his other hand over the sofa. Both hands are now fisted. “I’m not a puppet. I live by my wits, not by the manipulation of somebody sitting off somewhere punching my buttons. My answer to your offer is no.”

It doesn’t seem to come as a surprise to Barin. “As I assumed it would be, Mr. Mann.” With a great deal of flair, he drains his glass and sets it out on the table in front of him, as if to signify the end to his sociability. “Now I’m afraid we must go into our less pleasant alternatives. As you are undoubtedly aware, your popularity has decreased markedly in the past few weeks.”

T.K. has noticed it in many obvious ways. In the almost complete petering out of his fan mail, in the decrease of requests for his autograph and his photo. Even, somewhat, in the attitude of his fellow players.

“I can assure you that if you persist in your ill-advised course of action, your popularity will continue to decrease. Except from here on it will do so logarithmically. To use a somewhat colorful metaphor, you will be disemboweled by the press, your bones will be bleached white from the glare of bad exposure and left to rot in the media desert. On the other hand, agree to maintain your silence, and you have my word your reputation will be restored to its formerly high held level.”

T.K.’s answer isn’t long in coming, or long once it arrives. “No deal.”