touch that dial

"Explain to me why you have a radio reciever wired into your brain?" Julian asked as he assessed the state of the device. He was essentially having two conversations at once, as both the former spy and the device itself explained their situation to him.

"It was experimental," the man explained in accented English. "a response to America's first use of psychics in counter-espionage. If they were going to intercept us anyway, might as well go back to radio, make all the field agents equal or something."

"Quite frankly, that's asinine," Julian answered, and quickly amended under his breath, "no, not you, the man who made you."

"What?" he asked.

"Just talking to your radio. Go on about your problem?"

"Well, twenty years, no serious problems with it. But since I defected, they've been playing Russian folk music over the wavelength nonstop. It's driving me insane."

Julian shook his head. "She's quite well-bonded with your neurons."

"She?"

"The radio. Removing her would require a more skilled doctor than I know the location of right now." Julian paused thoughtfully. "Tell me, are you planning to stay in New York?"

"I suppose so," the former spy answered. "I was thinking of being a cab driver."

Julian nodded. "Now, what sort of music do you like? Classical?"

He looked chagrined. "Actually, I am fond of the American rock and roll. Er… why do you ask?"

It was all Julian could do not to roll his eyes. Didn't anyone have taste these days? He called the secretary in the front office over the intercom and asked her what dreadful radio station she was always listening to. She answered and he had a brief conversation with the device.

"What does this have to do with anything?" the spy asked.

"Oh, as I told you, I can't remove it," Julian explained. "I'm just setting it to something you might find more tolerable." He could see when he'd gotten it right because the man lapsed suddenly into a grin. A minute later, he was bobbing his head in rhythm.

"Thank you so much, doctor! This is much better than Russian folk music!" The spy shook his hand forcefully, ignoring the grimace it brought from Julian, and headed for the door.

"Play that funky muuuusic white boy," he began singing as the door shut behind him. Julian winced and leaned back in his chair. Ah, the horrors men visit upon themselves, he thought, thought whether he meant radio brain implants or disco music was anyone's guess.