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THE POLYGRAPH INTERVIEW The machine quotes me by taking my pulse. Now I know where my lies are stored--my blood. All along they were there in my blood, dormant in their microscopic thousands like a self-inflicted virus. Sending signals out through the leads of my veins, wrist throbs, pressure flow, invisible sweating, my body offers them for confession by saying the opposite of my mouth. The woman who clips cold steel to my finger becomes biographer of my sudden past. Her squiggly graphs take dictation from my heart until I'm rendered undishonest. I've only come for employment. This test is to prove I'm fit for The Company. But here's a mind-reading, ...