"All right," the chief said, still uneasy. "Go downstairs and change into a regular uniform. You work with Rodriguez. He monitors the screens, in here, and you sit in the kitchen until she and her husband go to bed. Then you patrol the rooms once every half-hour. Check all the windows and doors. Except the master bedroom; just make sure their door's shut tight. Pay particular attention to the sliders that go out to the pool deck."

"Right.' Killifer nodded.

"Remember, she doesn't like to see us. Stay in the kitchen until they go up to the master bedroom."

"What about the butler?"

"He'll go to bed after they do," said the chief.

"Okay. Good."

Again the chief hesitated. Killifer could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears as he sat facing the man across the pathetic little metal desk.

At last the chief said, "All right. Go downstairs and get into your uniform."

Killifer got up from his chair slowly, turned and went to the office door.

"And thanks for filling in," the chief said. Reluctantly.

"Nothing to it," Killifer replied over his shoulder. He pulled the door open, then added, "I can use the extra plastic."

The bastard suspects something, Killifer said to himself as he stepped out into the hallway. Not enough to turn me down, but this doesn't sit right with him.

Then he grinned as he clattered down the metal spiral staircase. What the hell! Let him worry all he wants to. I'm in the house for two to three nights and she's home with her creaky old man. Once the butler goes to bed I'll scope out the house and figure out the best way to get to her and then get away. Shit, they'll be paying me to do it. Overtime.

NANOLAB

Keiji Inoguchi was surprised by Professor Zimmerman's call. He hurried to the nanolab, eager to accept Zimmerman's invitation before the crusty old man changed his mind.

"I am most honored that you have asked me to visit your laboratory once again," he said, after he had bowed to the professor.

Zimmerman dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "I am asking for more than a visit, my friend. I need your help."

Inoguchi sucked in his breath. "My help? In what way can I help you?"

Zimmerman led the Japanese scientist back into the bowels of his lab. They walked past rows of computer screens and gray, bulky cryogenic tanks beaded with moisture, Zimmerman in his usual gray suit, grossly overweight, dishevelled, looking distracted and unhappy; Inoguchi in an immaculate white turtleneck shirt and sharply-creased slacks, lean and eager, his eyes snapping up every piece of equipment as if they were cameras.

Hands jammed in his trouser pockets, Zimmerman said heavily, "I am relegated to assisting my former student, Professor Cardenas."

"Yes?"

"She has asked me to prepare nanomachines capable of repairing wounds inflicted by gunshot or shrapnel—flying metal from explosions."

"And you want me to assist you in this?" Inoguchi asked.