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Given the cultural impact and enormous franchise spawned by the original Star Trek series, it's hard to believe that the show lasted just three seasons -- 80 episodes -- and was canceled by NBC in 1969 because of low ratings.

But if network numbers-crunching and the short-sightedness of advertising sponsors doomed it, Star Trek's long-term survival, evidenced by its ongoing syndication, not to mention the numerous TV spinoffs and feature-length films it inspired, is both a vindication of and a tribute to its creator and executive producer, Gene Roddenberry.

And Roddenberry was a guy badly in need of vindication. His career began promisingly: Roddenberry wrote scripts for some popular 1950s TV shows like Naked City, Highway Patrol and Have Gun, Will Travel. But the original Star Trek TV series, as well as the first feature-length film, Star Trek: The Motion Picture, were conspicuous successes in an otherwise unremarkable and often problematic association with Hollywood.

The commercial success of the first Star Trek movie would spawn other films and a new TV series, Star Trek: The Next Generation, although Roddenberry's involvement with those projects was diminished. But if his relationship with the industry had its rough patches, his reputation as a futurist and visionary -- which begins and ends with Star Trek -- is assured.

The original show's most visionary aspects were social, not scientific, and that had everything to do with the times. The country was in turmoil, embroiled in Vietnam and the growing civil rights movement. Roddenberry said later that these events influenced many of the themes, as well as the multicultural makeup of the crew.

Roddenberry remained in demand on the lecture circuit to the end of his life, speaking not only at universities but at some other pretty significant places, too, including the Smithsonian Institution and NASA.

Star Trek's impact on popular culture is matched by only a handful of other television shows, and surpassed by precious few.

The original cast members on the USS Enterprise's 1966 flight deck became household names: Capt. James T. Kirk (William Shatner), First Officer Mr. Spock (Leonard Nimoy), Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy (DeForest Kelley), Chief Engineer Montgomery "Scotty" Scott (James Doohan), Communications Officer Nyota Uhura (Nichelle Nichols) and Helmsman Hikaru Sulu (George Takei). Navigator Pavel Chekov (Walter Koenig), who joined the cast in the second season to give the Russians their due in space, was also a popular character.

Phrases like "Beam me up, Scotty" and "Live long and prosper" and "to boldly go …" entered the lexicon, and the show's cult following, kept visibly alive by the numerous and rollicking Star Trek conventions, remains strong to this day. An 11-foot model of the starship Enterprise is on display at the Smithsonian.

On the tech front, the communicator used by Enterprise crew members is said to have been the inspiration for the flip-open cellphone.

The original pilot episode for the series, "The Cage," was filmed in 1964 but not aired in its entirety until 1988. After the original pilot was rejected by NBC, "The Cage" was chopped up and heavily edited, and eventually shown under the title "The Menagerie" during Star Trek's three-year run.

Nimoy's Mr. Spock was the only character from the pilot to later appear in the TV series, although he was most un-Spock like, showing a lot more emotion than your average Vulcan. In the pilot, the Enterprise was commanded by Capt. Christopher Pike (Jeffrey Hunter).

Because of all the spinoffs that resulted from it, Roddenberry's Star Trek is often referred to as The Original Series. For a lot of us who came of age watching Shatner chewing on all that alien scenery and nibbling on all those alien necks, it was The Only Series.

Have some favorite Star Trek moments you'd like to share with us? Wired.com wants to hear about your favorite Star Trek series, episode and feature film. Have a copy of the Animated Series on Laserdisc? Please, do share.

Imagine you're in charge of infiltrating sleeper agents into the United States. The year is 1983, and the proliferation of identity databases is making it increasingly difficult to create fake credentials. Ten years ago, someone could have just shown up in the country and gotten a driver's license, Social Security card and bank account -- possibly using the identity of someone roughly the same age who died as a young child -- but it's getting harder. And you know that trend will only continue. So you decide to grow your own identities.

Call it "identity farming." You invent a handful of infants. You apply for Social Security numbers for them. Eventually, you open bank accounts for them, file tax returns for them, register them to vote, and apply for credit cards in their name. And now, 25 years later, you have a handful of identities ready and waiting for some real people to step into them.

There are some complications, of course. Maybe you need people to sign their name as parents -- or, at least, mothers. Maybe you need to doctors to fill out birth certificates. Maybe you need to fill out paperwork certifying that you're home-schooling these children. You'll certainly want to exercise their financial identity: depositing money into their bank accounts and withdrawing it from ATMs, using their credit cards and paying the bills, and so on. And you'll need to establish some sort of addresses for them, even if it is just a mail drop.

You won't be able to get driver's licenses or photo IDs on their name. That isn't critical, though; in the U.S., more than 20 million adult citizens don't have photo IDs. But other than that, I can't think of any reason why identity farming wouldn't work.

Here's the real question: Do you actually have to show up for any part of your life?

Again, I made this all up. I have no evidence that anyone is actually doing this. It's not something a criminal organization is likely to do; twenty-five years is too distant a payoff horizon. The same logic holds true for terrorist organizations; it's not worth it. It might have been worth it to the KGB -- although perhaps harder to justify after the Soviet Union broke up in 1991 -- and might be an attractive option to existing intelligence adversaries like China.

Immortals could also use this trick to self-perpetuate themselves, inventing their own children and gradually assuming their identity, then killing their parents off. They could even show up for their own driver's license photos, wearing a beard as the father and blue spiked hair as the son. I’m told this is a common idea in Highlander fan fiction.

The point isn't to create another movie plot threat, but to point out the central role that data has taken on in our lives. Previously, I've said that we all have a data shadow that follows us around, and that more and more institutions interact with our data shadows instead of with us. We only intersect with our data shadows once in a while -- when we apply for a driver's license or passport, for example -- and those interactions are authenticated by older, less-secure interactions. The rest of the world assumes that our photo IDs glue us to our data shadows, ignoring the rather flimsy connection between us and our plastic cards. (And, no, REAL-ID won't help.)

It seems to me that our data shadows are becoming increasingly distinct from us, almost with a life of their own. What's important now is our shadows; we're secondary. And as our society relies more and more on these shadows, we might even become unnecessary.

Bruce Schneier is Chief Security Technology Officer of BT, and author of Beyond Fear: Thinking Sensibly About Security in an Uncertain World.

Six years after its official launch, the consumer electronics industry's high-definition successor to DVD still hasn't taken off.

That's got manufacturers concerned enough to take action. Fortunately for consumers, the action will include lowering prices, adding features and integrating players into "connected ecosystems" that let users take advantage of increasingly popular online media as well as content that comes on shiny plastic discs.

Three main factors contribute to the perception that the now-dominant high-definition Blu-ray disc standard is stagnating: high overall prices, a general satisfaction with the current DVD format and buyer confusion in the midst of competing and multiplying technologies.

"The [Blu-ray format] is being adopted in a similar pattern as previous technologies, but it is not being adopted at the same [rate]," says Paul Erickson, Director of DVD and HD Market Research for DisplaySearch. While DVD also took years to become popular, he says, the adoption curve for Blu-ray is even longer and is fraught with bumpy obstacles, such as a few DRM security code and playback problems.

The two-and-a-half-year standards war with a competing high-def format, HD DVD, certainly didn't help. The battle ended in early 2008 when HD DVD's last major supporter, Toshiba, threw in the towel, but consumer confusion lingers. A tough economy has also slowed consumers' acceptance of the format.

At next week's CEDIA 2008 conference, an annual gathering of television and home theater manufacturers, retailers and installers, expect to see an orgy of competing Blu-ray players. Some will focus on low prices (like Philips and Netlogic), and others will highlight features that integrate their physical content with wireless systems to download content from the internet (such as BD Live).

Still, not everyone is convinced that these measures will help Blu-ray. Josh Martin of the Yankee Group says there are still too many "unclear messages" surrounding the format (such as unconventional BD spec profiles, which offer different versions of a player's capabilities) that throw that ecosystem out of whack.

There's also a value disconnect: Most people can't justify purchasing a Blu-ray player that costs five times as much as a DVD player -- especially if it's not five times better. "The opportunity lies in creating a simple, mass-market device," says Martin. So far, that device hasn't arrived, despite tries by everyone from Sony to Magnavox.

Until that device arrives, Martin says, a small price change (like Sony's recent 25 percent drop announcement), or even a cool spec upgrade won't make a difference. "Blu-ray will continue to struggle towards the end of [2008] because the format adoption is driven by price," Martin concludes.

Andy Parsons, a senior vice president at Pioneer and chair of the Blu-ray Association, sees a different side. He points to the 8 million Blu-ray players already sold this year (on pace to triple last year's sales) as an example that people are excited about Blu-ray and HD technologies in general, and will respond to more aggressive features:

"People say [low Blu-ray sales last year] were because of a lack of demand but it was really a lack of supplies. The demand was high," Parsons says.

The shortage wasn't caused by the difficulty and expense of creating Blu-ray discs and players, which many critics of the format often cite, but because manufacturers simply didn't expect to sell that many players in the first place, Parsons says.

Given the state of change, companies at CEDIA 2008 are focusing on developing the technology, regardless of the price. Pioneer will release a new Elite player next week that the company says will surpass every other high-end player in quality, but it comes with a heart-stopping $2,000 price tag. Yamaha is coming out with its own high-end player, as is up-and-coming Sherwood. And, it seems, every big-time audio maker at CEDIA is preparing huge systems to blow up the high-end sound produced by these players.

But that relative excess is the heart of the problem, says Gartner analyst Steve Kleyhans. For him, the entertainment ecosystem is simply too expensive to keep up with. In order to fully realize the value of a Blu-ray player's high-definition features, families also need to buy new HDTVs, new speakers and who knows, maybe an extra fluffy couch. Watching an HD movie on the 14-inch analog TV just won't cut it.

That's why Kleyhans predicts that more HDTVs will be sold as more Blu-ray players and other high-def media proliferates.

What about the threat from downloadable or streaming internet video? Interestingly, most manufacturers and analysts we talked with do not believe that online media is an immediate threat to optical discs.

First, the national bandwidth infrastructure is incomplete and can't come close to delivering HD movies on a wide enough scale to compete with physical discs within the next five years. Second, the market for set-top boxes that display internet video on your TV offers too many options, and most services are still incomplete (for example, Roku's set-top box only provides access to 10 percent of the Netflix catalog). And third, as Martin concludes, the experience is "still not as simple as popping in a disc."

It looks like for the majority of people, popping a disc in a slot for entertainment is proving too hard of a compulsion to let go. It's just going to take awhile before that disc is a Blu-ray one.

Brian Rakowski walks to the whiteboard in a small conference room in Building 41 on Google's Mountain View campus. A lanky, gregarious man in his twenties, Rakowski is the product manager of a top-secret project that's been under way for more than two years. The weekly Monday meeting of managers — or "leads," as Google puts it in its nonhierarchical way — will be one of the last before the upcoming launch. Rakowski writes 12 items on the board with a black dry-erase marker. The first is "State of the Release." It's late August, and the release in question is called Chrome, Google's first Web browser. Since a browser is the linchpin of Web activity — the framework for our searching, reading, buying, banking, Facebooking, chatting, video watching, music appreciation, and porn consumption — this is huge for Google, a step that needed to wait until the company had, essentially, come of age. It is an explicit attempt to accelerate the movement of computing off the desktop and into the cloud — where Google holds advantage. And it's an aggressive move destined to put the company even more squarely in the crosshairs of its rival Microsoft, which long ago crushed the most fabled browser of all, Netscape Navigator.

A Google browser has been rumored for so long that most people have stopped talking about it. But the folks in this room know that the talking will soon begin again. Chrome is due to rock the Web just 16 days from this meeting.

It turns out the state of the release is ... not so bad. At Release Build Minus One — ideally, the last version before the public beta hits the streets — there are only five "blocking" bugs, all of which Rakowski and team deem fixable. "Things are looking good," says Mark Larson, one of the tech leads.

"What are we missing?" asks Sundar Pichai, Google's vice president of product management. "What's keeping you up at night?"

"It's not Chrome," says Darin Fisher, an engineer who coauthored the first prototype. That gets a laugh because everyone knows he's got a 10-week-old at home. Rakowski takes a red marker and puts an X next to the State of the Release item. The Google browser is one step closer to reality.

Why is google building a browser? A better question is, why did it take so long for Google to build a browser? After all, as Pichai says, "our entire business is people using a browser to access us and the Web."

"The browser matters," CEO Eric Schmidt says. He should know, because he was CTO of Sun Microsystems during the great browser wars of the 1990s. Google cofounders Larry Page and Sergey Brin know it, too. "When I joined Google in 2001, Larry and Sergey immediately said, 'We should build our own browser,'" Schmidt says. "And I said no."

It wasn't the right time, Schmidt told them. "I did not believe that the company was strong enough to withstand a browser war," he says. "It was important that our strategic aspirations be relatively under the radar." Nonetheless, the idea persisted — and rumors percolated. After a 2004 New York Times article quoted "a person who has detailed knowledge of the company's business" saying a browser was in the works, Schmidt had to publicly deny it.

But behind the scenes, the subject remained a running argument between Schmidt and the founders. As a kind of compromise, Google assembled a team to work on improvements for the open source browser Firefox, spearheaded by browser wizards Ben Goodger and Fisher. (Both had worked with Mozilla, the nonprofit organization behind Firefox.) Another hiring coup came when Linus Upson, a 37-year-old engineer whose pedigree includes a stint at NeXT, signed up as a director of engineering. "This was very clever on Larry and Sergey's part," Schmidt says, "because, of course, these people doing Firefox extensions are perfectly capable of doing a great browser."

Sure enough, in the spring of 2006, the Firefox group began talking among themselves about designing a new app. They loved Firefox — but they recognized a flaw in all current browsers.

When Microsoft's Internet Explorer and the codebase at the heart of Firefox were originally conceived, browsing was less complex. Now, however, functions that previously could be performed only on the desktop — email, spreadsheets, database management — are increasingly handled online. In the coming era of cloud computing, the Web will be much more than just a means of delivering content — it will be a platform in its own right. The problem with revamping existing browsers to accommodate this concept is that they have developed an ecology of add-on extensions (toolbars, RSS readers, etc.) that would be hopelessly disrupted by a radical upgrade. "As a Firefox developer, you love to innovate, but you're always worried that it means in the next version all the extensions will be broken," Fisher says. "And indeed, that's what happens." The conclusion was obvious: Only by building its own software could Google bring the browser into the cloud age and potentially trigger a spiral of innovation not seen since Microsoft and Netscape one-upped each other almost monthly.

One key change they had in mind was something called a multiprocess architecture, the system that helps the computer keep going when an application crashes or freezes. Why not extend that idea to browsers, so if something crashes in a tab, the other tabs are unperturbed? Also, for that matter, why not set things up so that you can drag an existing tab to create a new window? Starting from scratch had other advantages. You could design it to look cleaner and run faster, the twin dogmas of the Google corporate religion.

Around June 2006, Goodger, Fisher, and another former Mozillan named Brian Ryner cooked up a small prototype. Their first big decision involved the choice of a rendering engine, the software that processes the HTML code of a Web page into the stuff that appears on your screen. The two major open source options were Gecko, used by Firefox, and WebKit, which powers Apple's Safari browser. The word was that WebKit (which had already been adopted by the group developing Google's Android mobile operating system) could be nasty fast — three times as fast as Gecko, in one example.

In a few weeks, they had a simple application running WebKit on Windows that kept going even when a Web page crashed a tab. Early on, Goodger recalls, "our prototypes had a picture of a little tab that was unhappy, and if a tab died you'd see that. It was the first piece of personality in the product."

Not long after that, Brin and Page came by to check in on the furtive beginnings of their browser. "I remember sitting at my desk, which at the time had a stuffed snake running along the back of it," says Pam Greene, an engineer on the team. "Sergey was bouncing on one of those exercise balls, watching Darin give a demo, and petting the snake."

No one will say exactly when the browser project got the official green light. Pichai recalls an executive meeting when Schmidt no longer seemed as opposed as he had been. If Google did go for it, the CEO said, the team had to produce something very different from Explorer and Firefox. In addition, a Google browser would have to be fast, and it would have to be open source. Which, of course, was exactly what the team already had in mind.

In any case, by the autumn of 2006 the line between unofficial concept and formal project had been crossed. "One Friday, there was a meeting called with like an hour's notice," engineer Brett Wilson says. "We were told, 'The management is thinking about doing our own browser — what do you think about that?' Everybody was a combination of excited and freaked out." Part of the freak-out was they knew full well that building a competitive browser was a massive undertaking. There were also mixed feelings because of the group's attachment to Firefox, an icon of open source development and a hedge against Microsoft's dominance. "The fear was that people were going to read this as sabotaging Firefox," says Erik Kay, an engineer who joined the team in October 2006. The Googlers were mollified by the fact that their browser would be 100 percent open source: Google's innovations could potentially find their way into the Mozilla codebase. "We really want to make Firefox successful, as well as other open source browsers," Upson says.

As part of Google's Firefox effort, Pichai had been meeting with Mozilla head Mitchell Baker, and at some point he told her about Google's project. Baker now says a Google browser is a mixed bag for Mozilla and Firefox. She sees the effort as a vindication of Mozilla's belief that browser choice is essential. "If Google comes up with some good new ideas, that's really great for users," she says. "Competition spurs the best in us." But she also understands that many of her users will download Google's app. "We expect people will try it and come back," she says. "Mozilla exists because independence is important."

A less weighty issue was what to dub the product. After considering some ridiculous codenames (Upson says they were so awful that he took the un-Googly step of a top-down veto), the project borrowed its moniker from the term used to describe the frame, toolbars, and menus bordering a browser window: chrome.

One more hire was key. Because Chrome was supposed to be optimized to run Web applications, a crucial element would be the JavaScript engine, a "virtual machine" that runs Web application code. The ideal person to construct this was a Danish computer scientist named Lars Bak. In September 2006, after more than 20 years of nonstop labor designing virtual machines, Bak had been planning to take some time off to work on his farm outside Århus. Then Google called.

Bak set up a small team that originally worked from the farm, then moved to some offices at the local university. He understood that his mission was to provide a faster engine than in any previous browser. He called his team's part of the project "V8." "We decided we wanted to speed up JavaScript by a factor of 10, and we gave ourselves four months to do it," he says. A typical day for the Denmark team began between 7 and 8 am; they programmed constantly until 6 or 7 at night. The only break was for lunch, when they would wolf down food in five minutes and spend 20 minutes at the game console. "We are pretty damn good at Wii Tennis," Bak says.

They were also pretty good at writing a JavaScript engine. "We just did some benchmark runs today," Bak says a couple of weeks before the launch. Indeed, V8 processes JavaScript 10 times faster than Firefox or Safari. And how does it compare in those same benchmarks to the market-share leader, Microsoft's IE 7? Fifty-six times faster. "We sort of underestimated what we could do," Bak says.

Speed may be Chrome's most significant advance. When you improve things by an order of magnitude, you haven't made something better — you've made something new. "As soon as developers get the taste for this kind of speed, they'll start doing more amazing new Web applications and be more creative in doing them," Bak says. Google hopes to kick-start a new generation of Web-based applications that will truly make Microsoft's worst nightmare a reality: The browser will become the equivalent of an operating system.

Google also brought in reinforcements to implement the multiprocess architecture that allowed each open tab to run like a separate, self-contained program. In May 2007, it acquired GreenBorder Technologies, a software security firm whose technology was designed to isolate IE and Firefox activities into virtual sessions, or "sandboxes," where malware intrusions couldn't mess with other activities or data on your computer. When the deal was announced publicly, tech pundits wondered whether it meant that Google was going into the antivirus business. Only after the acquisition did GreenBorder's engineers learn that their job was to construct sandboxes for the tabs of a new browser. "It was confusing," says Carlos Pizano, one of the GreenBorder hires. "They would not say what they wanted to sandbox."

The team was growing, but the process never got bogged down in bureaucracy. In the project's early stages, Chromers would all have lunch together at a table in one of the Google cafés. Soon even the largest table couldn't accommodate them all. Working in an open source spirit, every engineer was free to check out any piece of code and tweak or improve it. Rakowski always tried to keep things light, one day awarding tins of chrome polish to the best bug catchers.

As the plumbing aspects of the product fell into place, activity focused on user interface. From the beginning, the Chrome team hoped that its visual presentation would be so understated that people wouldn't even think they were using a browser. The mantra became "Content, not chrome," which is sort of weird given the name of the browser. ("We've learned to live with the irony," Mark Larson says.) The clearest expression of this comes when you drag a tab containing a Web application like Gmail to its own separate window and specify that you want an "app shortcut." At that point, the tabs, buttons, and address bars fall away and the Web app looks pretty much like a desktop app. Welcome to the cloud era.

When deciding what buttons and features to include, the team began with the mental exercise of eliminating everything, then figuring out what to restore. The back button? No-brainer. The forward button? Less essential, but it survived. But if you're a big fan of the browser status bar — that meter that tells you what percent of a page has loaded — you're out of luck with Chrome.

And then there was the bookmarks bar. At first, engineers thought they could kill it. Chrome introduces several new navigation methods, including one where the browser figures out where you want to go next with no typing required. And when you do type something in, you use the "omnibox," a combination of address bar and search box: Just tell it what you're thinking and it delivers a Web address, search results, or popular destinations that fit your query, all in non-intrusive text underneath the box. It's a bulked-up version of "I'm Feeling Lucky." Still, user tests showed that some people just love to navigate by clicking on the bookmark bar. The compromise: If the user has previously configured the bar in IE or Firefox, Chrome will import the setup. Otherwise, users won't have a bookmark bar unless they choose to.

It's incredible that something as potentially game-changing as a Google browser has stayed under wraps for two years. It wasn't until mid-2007, about a year into the project, that the team let employees outside the group even see what they were doing. At the first of a series of Tech Talks featuring the current prototype (events designed, in part, as a way of recruiting internally for the ever-growing team) the reaction was volcanic. Googlers broke into spontaneous applause when various features, like dragging a tab into a new window, were demo'd. As the number of people who knew about Chrome increased, the inevitable occurred — word did leak out to a blog or two, yet nothing came of those stray items. No reporter put it all together. "I think it was because rumors about Google browsers have been around so long — it's like sightings of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster," Upson says.

On the eve of the launch, Pichai shares some of his ambitions for Chrome. How many people will use it? "Many millions," he says. "I want my mom to use it. I want my dad to use it." The Google imprimatur doesn't assure success, but Pichai believes that even if Chrome doesn't snare huge market share, its innovations will improve the landscape. "We benefit directly if the Web gets better," he says.

As launch approaches, the team has just moved into new space in a freshly renovated building on the Google campus, and there's another all-hands gathering in the biggest conference room available. It's standing room only. Milk and cookies are provided. After some initial business, Rakowski hands the floor over to Goodger. The rumpled engineer talks about the benefits of making Chrome an open source product — the code will be publicly released and a community will emerge to determine the browser's evolution. "We'll be able to scale our testing efforts," he says. "It'll enable people to do things we haven't thought of. And it'll generate trust that we're not doing something evil."

As the meeting breaks up, the energy level is over the top, and not just because of the sugar rush. The Chrome team is close to unleashing the product that Google was destined to create. First, though, there are five bugs to swat.

Senior writer Steven Levy (steven_levy@wired.com) also writes about Jay Walker's in the October issue of Wired.

Controller innovations have allowed aspiring tennis stars to swing a Wiimote like Federer and music fans to strum a fake guitar like their favorite rock god. Now, a new game lets couch-bound generals command a virtual army by voice. Tom Clancy's EndWar from Ubisoft, out this fall for Xbox 360 and PlayStation 3, is like a CG version of the board game Risk, with players micromanaging thousands of variables for victory.

EndWar Trailer

For more, visit video.wired.com.

Traditionally, this kind of gameplay required a keyboard and mouse for meticulous troop arrangement. But EndWar gives players the option of ditching all the point and click for scream and shout. Just don a headset that's compatible with your console and a voice-recognition app kicks in that understands thousands of command combinations. Patton wannabes can order their two forward-most infantry units to flank attackers while calling in air support from bombers.

EndWar Walkthrough

For more, visit video.wired.com.

The developers carefully chose an arsenal of words that the system can parse regardless of accent or delivery style. "We went back and forth five times over whether it should be 'reticule,' 'crosshair,' or 'cursor,'" says Ubisoft creative director Michael de Plater. Whatever. As long as it understands "Fire!"

SEATTLE, Washington -- The Penny Arcade Expo is quickly becoming the Woodstock of videogames, and even meatspace games are gaining ground in the halls of the convention center as rooms fill with Warmachine and Dungeons & Dragons players.

Left: On Saturday, the creators of the Penny Arcade comic strip Mike "Gabe" Krahulik and Jerry "Tycho" Holkins gave thousands of fans a rare treat -- they created Monday's edition of the webcomic live on stage. Artist Krahulik inked and colored the strip while writer Holkins, his job done, entertained the crowd and answered questions.

Adriana Griffin of Sacramento, California, came to PAX costumed as a Medic from the game Team Fortress 2, a strategic shooter game in which players can be a variety of different characters. While the Engineer and Pyro are her favorites, Griffin chose the medic because other costumes from the game were too hard to create -- but she still wanted have a "big gun."

Remember the fictitious energy drink "Brawndo," from the movie Idiocracy? (Motto: "It's got what plants crave!") It's now a very real energy drink, and PAX attendees could chug an oversized can for free. Well, until mid-Saturday, anway, when the booth ran out of their over 50 cases of the stuff, leaving only a sad array of empties and green spillage for the final days of PAX.

Brian Milne, left, of Vancouver, British Columbia, dressed up as Dante from Devil May Cry 4, while girlfriend Melissa Franklin dressed up as Nero from the same game. Franklin, a big fan of the Devil May Cry series, converted Milne to the series. For other gamers who wanted to get their girlfriends involved in their hobby of choice, women in the gaming industry held a (heavily-attended) panel discussion on Sunday discussing that very topic.

Jake Vincent, right, of Seattle, and Tyrone Powell of Edmonton, Alberta, play Call of Duty 4 at the Razer booth, where the company showed off its high-end gaming keyboards and mice.

Fans of the tabletop miniatures game Warmachine assembled at PAX in some of the most elaborate costumes on the floor. From left, Jarnigan Cook, dressed up as Asphyxious; Tosha Stephens, dressed up as Skarre; and Ashley Cooks, dressed up as Deneghra. The trio, from Eugene, Oregon, where the Cooks own a game store, spent several hours getting into their costumes. Stephens' costume included chain mail.

If a game exists, it's likely you can find it somewhere at PAX. Dan Gallardo, left, of Calgary, Alberta, carefully places a block while playing Bausack, a German game in which players win by building the longest standing stack, as Ashley Alto of Calgary watches.

Josie Stephens of Vancouver, British Columbia, dressed up as an Advent, a race with psionic and telepathic powers, from the game Sins of a Solar Empire. Stephens is co-owner of Ironclad Games, the company developing the game.

The "Omegathon" competition, in which twenty top gamers compete for a trip to Tokyo Game Show, continued on in the final days of PAX. Thomas Chan of Chicago, right, and Jo Ubransky of Litchfield, Ohio, celebrated winning the Rock Band Omegathon round on the main stage.

Penny Arcade writer Jerry "Tycho" Holkins is silhouetted as he and his band, the Sex Generals, perform on the main stage prior to the Omegathon Rock Band round.

BLACK ROCK CITY, Nevada -- It's hot in the desert, but not too hot to set something on fire.

Amid other activities, Burning Man attendees spit flames and gaze at fiery art installations as the annual festival's iconic Man awaits his inevitable fate.

Left: In the biggest harshed mellow at Burning Man so far this year, the sun decides to come up again. Early risers and those who have not slept wallow confusedly in the solar judgment.

The streets of Black Rock City hustle and bustle with activity as a swarthy unknown by the name of Swearengen arrives seeking wealth and power by any means necessary.

The Cheshire Cat makes its way across the desert and sheds a tear for the old, more wholesome, wonderland.

Burners walk far out on the playa to experience a light and music show created by a team of 20 with weather balloons, off-the-shelf Christmas tree hardware and software, and various insulation and irrigation pipes. This year's decorations are sooo going to one-up the more perfect and WASP-y anarchist festival across the street, Flaming Dude.

A huge ship sails burners across the night desert until the 8-year-old who drew it thinks it looks crappy and throws it away.

Mutopia -- a tech piece of interactive, flame-throwing art depicting a mutant alien life form going through its stages of development -- delights burners. The piece was created by a San Francisco Bay Area group known as the Flaming Lotus Girls.

Flames shoot from the mouth of a literal burner who just shotgunned a can of lamp oil. This has to be the coolest thing someone can be able to do and still be poor somehow.

OK, we'll admit it. Some of us are drawn to dangerous gear like bears to a picnic basket. There's just something devilishly appealing about mixing a few of our favorite things (tech toys) with one of our least (a ride in the back of a squad car).

Although we'd never condone breaking the law with these five gadgets, we can't deny our morbid fascination with them. Just remember: If misused, these gizmos could get you slapped with a set of handcuffs along with a criminal record.

1. The WASP Knife

A vicious double-whammy of sharpened steel and freezing gas menaces watermelons everywhere.

Image: Courtesy of WASP Knife

Designed to quickly dispatch marauding undersea predators, this 5.25-inch hunting/tactical blade conceals a catastrophic one-two punch. After you shank say, a Great White Shark, a flick of a button injects the beast with an 800-psi blast of compressed air. This basketball-sized sphere of freezing gas decimates the interior of whatever it's injected into; whatever's left simply floats to the surface. It works great on watermelons, too.

Stabbing random objects on dry land (and then making them explode) is the fast track to a vandalism charge. Turning the WASP Knife on an innocent creature for non-defense purposes, though? Depending on the state, you're looking at aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, animal cruelty or even the rarely used "mayhem" charge.

The Sonar II can burn through garbage bags and retinas with equal aplomb.

Image: Courtesy of Wicked Lasers

Look, everyone wants a lightsaber. But we can't have them because: A) midi-chlorians don't exist and, B) law enforcement agencies are already less-than-enthused over high-power handheld lasers. Consider for a moment, Wicked Lasers' Sonar II Burner. Essentially a more powerful version of the lasers found in Blu-ray players, this six-inch tool doesn't have to compensate for anything; it can light matches, burn holes through paper and melt plastic.

Where to begin? At 60mW, the Sonar II is totally capable of starting fires (arson), burning retinas (assault) and disorienting airline pilots (Gitmo).

Fires 30 rounds per second. Fully automated. Illegal in virtually all forms of competitive paintball.

Image: Courtesy of Evolution Model Technology

May the Flying Spaghetti Monster's noodley appendage help the poor schmoe who ends up in the cross hairs of the Sentry Turret. This remote-controlled, tripod-mounted paintball cannon unleashes oil-based vengeance at 30 rounds per second on full-auto. And all you paint-balling pros take note: The EMT is not some glorified sloppy-shot Brass Eagle. Integrated-vibration dampeners plus rotation/tilt mechanisms make rounds fired from this gadget highly accurate.

With the amount of paint the Sentry is capable of unloading, you'd definitely be facing accusations of assault, disturbing the peace and any other charges your welt-covered victims care to press.

It may not look menacing, but this portable laser can sear images into rock, glass and metal.

Image: Courtesy of Laser Photonics

If you're going to deface public property, you might as well get an assist from technology. Laser Photonic's unintentional contribution to this practice is the "Handheld Fiber Laser Marking System." This portable, high-power laser was originally designed for etching graphics into industrial surfaces like metal, glass and stone. Sure, it lacks the DIY charm of spray paint. But it makes up for this by running off a car battery, and being able to etch almost any graphic you can load on a multimedia card.

Tagging public property with such creativity and zeal is likely to bump up the charge. A number of states reserve the right to boost vandalism charges to the felonious level if the damage exceeds $400, is especially malicious or is performed by a repeat offender.

Don’t let the name fool you; this gadget is not your friend … if you get caught illegally tapping a phone line with it.

Image: Courtesy of Test-Um

You don't have to work for the NSA to listen to other people's phone calls. A nifty lineman's handset like the Lil' Buttie LB110 is enough to do the trick. This cheap, easy-to-find gadget is the cornerstone of tapping a phone line. All it really takes is hooking the handset's alligator clamps to a set of exposed telephone wires and syncing up the handset. Once you're on the line, you can snoop on conversations, record them or even dial out at your leisure.

Despite what you may think, owning a "butt set" isn't illegal. Don't be fooled though -- unless you're using it for running diagnostics on your own phone line, someone's bound to drop the hammer. Getting caught using (or even installing) an unauthorized line is the express lane to a felonious wiretapping charge, and/or a lifetime of government scrutiny. Trust us on this one.

Autopia's Picks for Back-to-School Cars Kelly Blue Book, MSM and everyone else with an opinion has a list of cars to send your kids back to school in. We take a look at what kids are really driving.

Tonight's subject at the History Book Club: the Vikings. This is primo stuff for the men who gather once a month in Seattle to gab about some long-gone era or icon, from early Romans to Frederick the Great. You really can't beat tales of merciless Scandinavian pirate forays and bloody ninth-century clashes. To complement the evening's topic, one clubber is bringing mead. The dinner, of course, is meat cooked over fire. "Damp will be the weather, yet hot the pyre in my backyard," read the email invite, written by host Njall Mildew-Beard.

That's Neal Stephenson, best-selling novelist, cult science fictionist, and literary channeler of the hacker mindset. For Stephenson, whose books mash up past, present, and future—and whose hotly awaited new work imagines an entire planet, with 7,000 years of its own history—the HBC is a way to mix background reading and socializing. "Neal was already doing the research," says computer graphics pioneer Alvy Ray Smith, who used to host the club until he moved from a house to a less convenient downtown apartment. "So why not read the books and talk about them, too?"

With his shaved head and (mildewless) beard, Stephenson could cut something of an imposing figure. But his demeanor is gentle, his comments droll and understated. ("He's on the shy side," Smith says. "A strong ego, but nicely hidden.") The session moves out of his kitchen, and a half dozen HBCers—including a litigator, a commercial real estate agent, and a chef/barkeep/PR guy—pull up chairs around the dining room table to talk and compare notes. Harald Bluetooth, Erik Bloodaxe, and Halfdan the Black are dispatched in a couple of hours. But before the members split for the night, they detour to the basement to see Stephenson's workshop, where he has an impressive assortment of metalworking tools to help him on his current DIY project: a scary-looking steel helmet to protect the shiny Stephenson noggin from accidental scalp removal while indulging in his recent passion, Western martial arts. This is the polite term for going medieval with swords and daggers. It's a hobby the author picked up during research for the Baroque Cycle, his three-volume, 2,688-page tribute to 18th-century science, philosophy, and swordplay. (Stephenson owns 12 swords.) He proudly demonstrates his welding setup—a bossing mallet to pound steel sheets and a 5-foot-high metal-shaping device called an English wheel. That particular tool once cost thousands of dollars but, thanks to Asian manufacturing, is now available at Harbor Freight hardware stores for less than $300.

Unmentioned is the other work performed in Njall Mildew-Beard's basement, the work involving intense eruptions of imagination that result in books the size of cinder blocks. These have made Stephenson the most avidly followed science fiction writer of his generation. His breakthrough 1992 novel, Snow Crash, has served as a blueprint for real computer scientists attempting the creation of virtual worlds. His deep understanding of not only computers but the people who go nuts over them has made him a god among the geek set. Salon called him the "poet laureate of hacker culture." Fanboys track his movements on blogs and try to top one another with praise on Amazon.com reviews. But Stephenson's sprawling, Pynchon-esque works transcend his cult status and are having an impact on the mainstream literary world. His last four books have all hit the New York Times best-seller list.

Only a few months ago, another epic bubbled up from his basement. Anathem, Stephenson's ninth novel, is set for release on September 9. The Nealosphere, of course, is over the top with anticipation. This time, Stephenson has given himself the broadest stage yet: a world of his own creation, including a new language. Though he's been consistently ambitious in his work, this latest effort marks a high point in his risk-taking, daring to blend the elements of a barn-burner space opera with heavy dollops of philosophical dialog. It's got elements of Dune, The Name of the Rose, and Michael Frayn's quantum-physics talkathon, Copenhagen. Befitting a novel written by a founding member of the History Book Club, its leitmotif is time—and its message couldn't be more timely.

Set on a planet called Arbe (pronounced "arb"), Anathem documents a civilization split between two cultures: an indulgent Saecular general population (hooked on casinos, shopping in megastores, trashing the environment—sound familiar?) and the super-educated cohort known as the avaunt, or "auts," who live a monastic existence defined by intellectual activity and circumscribed rituals. Freed from the pressures of pedestrian life, the avaunt view time differently. Their society—the "mathic" world—is clustered in walled-off areas known as concents built around giant clocks designed to last for centuries. The avaunt are separated into four groups, distinguished by the amount of time they are isolated from the outside world and each other. Unarians stay inside the wall for a year. Decenarians can venture outside only once a decade. Centenarians are locked in for a hundred years, and Millennarians—long-lifespanners who are endowed with Yoda-esque wisdom—emerge only in years ending in triple zeros. Stephenson centers his narrative around a crisis that jars this system—a crisis that allows him to introduce action scenes worthy of Buck Rogers and even a bit of martial arts. It's a rather complicated setup; fortunately, there's a detailed timeline and 20-page glossary to help the reader decode things.

Stephenson says the story was inspired by the real-life Millennium Clock, a project thought up by inventor Danny Hillis and developed by the Long Now Foundation. The nub of the endeavor is the construction of a clock that has the mother of all warranties: It's built to last 10,000 years. Hillis conceived it to mitigate the mega-rapidity of the digital world. He was working on a massively parallel supercomputer, the Connection Machine, designed to scale to a million processors, and found himself obsessed with speed, slicing seconds into billions of pieces. "I was going for faster, faster, faster. But something in me was rejecting that," Hillis explained to me back in 1999, when he launched the project. "It wasn't clear that the world needed faster, faster, faster. So I began thinking about the opposite. Working on the fastest machine in the world got me thinking about the slowest." How slow? Hillis' timepiece would tick once a year, its insides would bong once a century, and the cuckoo would appear once a millennium.

Building the clock, it turns out, has been an antidote to the toxic fixation on short-term thinking that permeates our culture. Hillis and the friends who joined him—like fellow Long Now cofounders Stewart Brand (who wrote a book about the project) and Brian Eno (who composed a CD of chimes inspired by the clock)—found that its design and construction required recalibrating one's own mental clock to envision what things would be like in the distant future. Ideally, that mindset encourages behavior that tends to preserve the environment for clock customers in the year 12000, instead of gobbling up resources and leaving behind trash that tends to mess things up for those folks. Or so goes the thinking of the project's goofily optimistic supporters. Back at the launch, Brand marveled at the notion of looking so far beyond the temporal horizon. "It's the only 10,000-year-forward thing I know of," he said, "outside of science fiction, where it's fairly common."

Enter Neal Stephenson. He first heard about the clock from Hillis and Brand at the annual Hackers Conference, and in 1999 the Long Now asked him and a few others to share some thoughts for its Web site. "In my little back-of-the-napkin sketch, I drew a picture showing a clock with concentric walls around it," he says over lunch in downtown Seattle the day after the book club meeting. "I proposed that you could have a system of gates where it was open for a while at a certain time of year, or decade, or whatever, when you could go in and out freely. But if you were inside it when the gate closed, you'd be making a commitment to stay in until it opened again. And I talked about clock monks who would tend the clock. I put that idea in cold storage because I was working on the Baroque Cycle. When I recovered, I decided, what the hell, I'm just going to try writing this."

Stephenson measures his novels not by word count but by visually assessing the printout. "You've got manuscripts that are relatively short, and then you've got manuscripts that are taller than they are wide, and then you've got ones that are taller than they are long." Anathem falls into category three. "I was thinking shorter, but once you've done all the work to build the project and get the reader into it, there's the temptation to keep it going," he says.

In a sense, the length of Anathem, as well as its challenges to the reader, are part of its theme. Despite the monastic trappings of the clock-tenders, the avaunt are not driven by faith. What binds them is a commitment to logic and rationality. The robes and rituals, Stephenson says, are not religion but "their way of glorifying and expressing respect for ideas and thinkers that are important to them." Outside the walls ("extramuros," as the term goes—by the time you're a couple of hundred pages in, this language thing begins to fall in place), people zip around in an ADD haze of fast-food joints, persistent gadgets (instead of CrackBerry, they are addicted to handheld "jeejahs"), and evangelical religion. Stephenson sees a parallel to the George W. Bush-era wars between science and religion, made possible because the general population is either indifferent or hostile to extended rational thought. "I could never get that idea, the notion that society in general is becoming aliterate, out of my head," he says. "People who write books, people who work in universities, who work on big projects for a long time, are on a diverging course from the rest of society. Slowly, the two cultures just get further and further apart."

Hillis is thrilled about Stephenson's choice of subject matter. "One of the more interesting things about the project has been what anybody adds to it," he says. "Clearly, Neal's imagination is extraordinary. He creates a whole world in his mind; he's got every building imagined in more detail than it's described in the book." Long Now executive director Alexander Rose is also delighted but makes it clear that Stephenson's ideas aren't exactly in sync with the foundation's plans, which include construction of the clock inside a mountain in eastern Nevada, where it will draw power from temperature changes and visitors stopping by to wind it. "We're not planning on locking up people for thousands of years," he says.

In every Neal Stephenson novel, there are characters who regard the world with an insatiable yet bemused curiosity; they are fascinated with the way things work and are forever eager to lay on hands, tinker, tweak, and obsess. In other words, they're hackers. In Anathem, the narrator, Erasmas, though not a techie, shares this trait. So does the author. Stephenson was born in 1959 in Fort Meade, Maryland, a son of academics (his dad taught electrical engineering; his mother was a biochemistry researcher). He grew up in the college town of Ames, Iowa, a self-described theater geek who also had a streak of the hacker in him. "I played the role of Mephistopheles in Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus and on the technical side made a full-size mechanical Kong hand that, at one point in the play, reaches through a window and drags somebody offstage," he says. He graduated from Boston University in 1981 and moved to Seattle with his wife, Ellen, who did her medical residency there.

His early books, a satire about big universities and an eco-thriller, were well received but not huge sellers. In search of big sales and big bucks, he collaborated with an uncle on a couple of political potboilers. "We heard that Tom Clancy had made something like $17 million the previous year and thought if we could snag 1 percent of that, we'd still be OK." They didn't come close, and in 1991, Stephenson says, his career "was moving along at low rpms." Then he wrote Snow Crash, a book that postulated the Metaverse, an exquisitely fleshed-out vision of a digital alternative world, and Stephenson found himself at the front ranks of cyberpunk authors. "I was sort of going for broke with Snow Crash," he told me a few years back. "I had tried to write stuff that was more conventional and that would be appealing to a large audience, and it didn't work. I figured I would just go for broke, write something really weird, and not be so worried about whether it was a good career move or not."

Other triumphs followed—The Diamond Age, a near-future chronicle set in Shanghai in which a young woman owns a nanotech book that puts the Kindle to shame; Cryptonomicon, a multithreaded excursion into the wonders of cryptography; and the ultimate steampunker, the Baroque Cycle, which rocketed the mathematical conflicts between Newton and Leibniz to best-sellerdom.

Stephenson spends his mornings cloistered in the basement, writing longhand in fountain pen and reworking the pages on a Mac version of the Emacs text editor. This intensity cannot be sustained all day—"It's part of my personality that I have to mess with stuff," he says—so after the writing sessions, he likes to get his hands on something real or hack stuff on the computer. (He's particularly adept at Mathematica, the equation-crunching software of choice for mathematicians and engineers.) For six years, he was an adviser to Jeff Bezos' space-flight startup, Blue Origin. He left amicably in 2006. Last year, he went to work for another Northwest tech icon, Nathan Myhrvold, who heads Intellectual Ventures, an invention factory that churns out patents and prototypes of high-risk, high-reward ideas. Stephenson and two partners spend most afternoons across Lake Washington in the IV lab, a low-slung building with an exotic array of tools and machines to make physical manifestations of the fancies that flow from the big thinkers on call there.

"In Neal's books, he's been fantastically good at creating scenarios and technologies that are purely imaginary," Myhrvold says. "But they're much easier imagined than built. So we spend a certain amount of our time imagining them but the rest of our time building them. It's also very cool but different to say, 'Let's come up with new ways of doing brain surgery.'"

That's right—brain surgery is one of the things Stephenson is tinkering with. He and his team are helping refine some mechanical aspects of a new tool, a helical needle for operating on brain tumors. It's the kind of cool job one of his characters might have.

Which indicates that Stephenson's afternoon job, besides letting him get his hands dirty on weird machines, is maybe not so different from the activity he undertakes in his basement. Myhrvold, while making sure his company is decidedly commercial, is still a sucker for big ideas from big brains. He's also a major funder of the Long Now and even has a prototype of the 10,000-year clock in his home.

It makes sense that people like Stephenson and Myhrvold are drawn to the Long Now's cosmically improbable but cerebrally galvanizing effort. "It's an insanely ambitious project; it is a total folly," Brand says of the clock effort. "It presents itself as rational, but that's like presenting the pyramids as rational. You can argue with it, but if you put it out there as this gonzo, over-the-top-crazy but weirdly plausible, adventurous thing to do, then people want to be part of it. About two out of 10 light up, and the other eight are going, 'Don't you have something better to do with your time?'"

This fall, Stephenson will reluctantly break from his cherished routines to promote Anathem. "If I had to do a book tour every day it would kill me. But four weeks every four years isn't too much to ask," he says. The tinkerer in him has stuffed some extra elements into the final package. The book includes three appendices consisting of passages that didn't make it into the text—fascinating digressions involving puzzle-like conundrums (sort of the hard-copy equivalent of the bonus deleted scenes on a DVD). Another subsidiary project is a CD that re-creates the spooky a cappella hymns, based on mathematical proofs and behavior of cellular automata, sung by the clock-tenders inside the concents. David Stutz, a former Microsoft techie now involved in earl

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