The Synapse Gel that Tiffany was daubing on my forehead and temples looked and felt, but did not smell, like hand lotion. It carried with it the crisp and dainty musk of Science: a sterile, singeing pong that induced the slightest of nose-wrinkles and conjured up images of aseptic test tubes. I sniffed and glanced around nervously. Though the New Orleans Ernest N. Morial Convention Center’s exhibit hall appeared to be properly ventilated (not that I actually had any conception of proper ventilation), the scalp massage seemed a bit risqué for public. And yet nobody in the masses around the Intific tradeshow booth seemed to notice the quasi-sensual temple massage Tiffany was administering to an unsuspecting undergraduate interested in her company’s neurotechnology.



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