The shopkeeper, a man with glasses so thick they looked like bulletproof portholes, slid a catalog across the counter. "You looking for passive surveillance or active infiltration?"

He deployed the parabolic mic. Through the headset, he heard a low, rhythmic thumping. The heartbeat of a high-tech server! he thought. He leaned closer, his goggles snagging on a rosebush. The thumping grew louder. It was his own heart, echoing in the high-gain headphones.

He was about to pack it all away when he heard a faint click from his own window. He froze. He looked up and saw a tiny, black, round device no more than half an inch wide stuck to the outside of his glass.

"It's the latest fashion," Arthur squeaked. "Industrial-chic."

Mrs. Gable laughed, a sound that echoed digitally in his ears. "I'm a retired librarian, Arthur. But even librarians need to know why their neighbor is filming their potato salad."