He heaves a big sigh. "O.K., O.K. -- you want me to say it? I'll say it. You were right. I was wrong. You studied the right thing in college after all."

"I'm not worthless scum?"

"Not worthless scum. So. What do these crypto-anarchists want, anyway?"

For some reason I can't lie to my parents, but Joe's easy. "Nothing," I say.

"They just wanted to do us a favor, as a way of gaining some goodwill with us."

"And furthering the righteous cause of World Panarchy?"

"Something like that."

Which brings us to Super Bowl Sunday. We are sitting in a skybox high up in the Superdome, complete with wet bar, kitchen, waiters and big TV screens to watch the instant replays of what we've just seen with our own naked, pitiful, nondigital eyes.

The corporate officers of Simoleons are there. I start sounding them out on their cryptographic protocols, and it becomes clear that these people can't calculate their gas mileage without consulting Raster, much less navigate the subtle and dangerous currents of cutting-edge cryptography.

A Superdome security man comes in, looking uneasy. "Some, uh, gentlemen here," he says. "They have tickets that appear to be authentic."

It's three guys. The first one is a 300 pounder with hair down to his waist and a beard down to his navel. He must be a Bears fan because he has painted his face and bare torso blue and orange. The second one isn't quite as introverted as the first, and the third isn't quite the button-down conformist the other two are. Mr. Big is carrying an old milk crate. What's inside must be heavy, because it looks like it's about to pull his arms out of their sockets.