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his pocket (no, not the pocket the mouse came from—mice gnaw on phones), it blorps again. Once more, he raises it to the side of his head. “Yes?”
    â€œDad!” Archie sounds reproachful, not firm. That may be even worse. “Fix it, will you please? Kate’ll be fine as soon as the ceremony’s over and the pressure’s off. C’mon!”
    So much for Make sure they can’t trace it back to you . His family sure doesn’t have any trouble. The police and fire department don’t know him as well. Even so … How much damage can a real Bridezilla do in a mall? How expensive will that damage be? Tesla Kidder is a mad scientist, but he isn’t a stupid scientist. No way, José.
    His calculations take but a moment. “Oh, all right,” he says, and, if he sounds a trifle sulky, it’s only because he is. Back into the pocket goes the phone.
    He recalibrates the long-range genetic recodifier. The police don’t call. The fire department doesn’t, either. No one pounds on the laboratory door. (Remembering Moscow nights, even Moscow nights under perestroika and glasnost , Igor is relieved.) No reporters show up asking for comments. They’re all too busy trying to sound blasé about this Mesozoic irruption into the bastion of modern American capitalism.
    Prof Kidder pushes the button on his device again. No annoying extraneous beam of light this time. Tesla Kidder beams himself. He’s fixed that, anyhow.
    We return, then, to the mall to await developments. The Kateosaurus­ with the flashy engagement ring has just flamed a Cadillac­ Escalade in the parking lot. The SUV’s fuel tank, a reservoir containing the essence of Lord knows how many dinosaurs, sends a column of greasy black smoke into the sky to mark their final return to the environment.
    After a roar of triumph, the Creature from the Lime Soap Lagoon advances purposefully on a van even bigger than the Escalade (and they said it couldn’t be done!). On the side of the van is blazoned EYEWITLESS­ NEWS. Another burbling roar. Another blast of flame. But—disappointingly, at least to Prof Kidder—only a small one. The news van gets scorched, but does not become as one with Nineveh and Tyre and the unmourned Escalade.
    Kidder sighs. “I should have waited another minute or two. Oh, well.”
    For Bridezilla is undergoing another transformation—another recodification, if you will. Not from real-estate whiz and investment banker’s kid to fire-breathing monster, but the reverse. To Tesla Kidder, who is thinking about Archie, going this way may be the more frightening. With a fire-breathing monster, at least, you know ahead of time what you’re getting. You don’t have to find out later, the hard way.
    In the Northridge parking lot, Kate—yes, she’s Kate again—looks vaguely confused. She doesn’t remember a whole lot of what just happened. As Bridezilla, she had a brain about the size of a walnut. Most MBA candidates come with a little more cranial capacity than that.
    Most reporters? It’s an open question. Anyone watching the subsequent interview between the TV guy and the recently ex-dinosaur would doubt that the intelligence level of the planet’s dominant species has changed much over the past 65,000,000 years.
    Professor Tesla Kidder puts the long-range genetic recodifier back on the shelf. Maybe he’ll need it again one of these days. “Well, Igor,” he says, “what shall we work on next?”
    Igor is still watching the aftermath of chaos on TV. Maybe staying in Moscow would have been better than this, or at least less wearing. But maybe not, too. That may be the scariest thought of all.
    The wedding is a great success. If everything smells a bit too strongly of lime, well, you can live with lime. After the vows, before the minister tells Archie he may kiss the bride, he beats the guy to the punch. “Kiss me,