Nanotechnology last night in the Red Room. Nanotechnology tonight in Jim Ferendelli's library. In Wyoming, Gabe had encountered the word maybe once every few years, Now, in Washington, twice in a day or so.

Gabe returned to the books.

At Carol Stoddard's urging, the president was on the verge of appointing Lily Sexton to a new cabinet post that would, in part at least, oversee the evolution of nanotechnology—protecting the world, in theory at least, from Drexler's Armageddon.

Two A.M.

The bellwether muscles at the base of Gabe's neck were screaming for the relief that only sleep could bring. He had sacrificed two codeines to the ache with little or no effect and pledged to use no more—at least not tonight. The caffeine was still punching away at his nervous system, but connecting less and less. It was time to stop. Still, what remained of his willpower refused to quit. The scope of the new science was mesmerizing, and although the future of nanotechnology was in many respects as vague and ill defined as gray goo, the present was already intensely fascinating—and, in some regards, quite profitable as well.

Gabe studied the photo of an early computer, nearly filling the room it was in. Thanks to microprocessors, his ultra-thin laptop probably had more power. Now nano-size computer transistors were making even the sleekest PCs seem clunky. Disinfectants for killing specific germs without generating any human toxicity, lightweight bulletproof armor, and nonallergic cosmetics were just a few of the products of nanotechnology already on the marketplace.

Gabe's eyelids drifted closed and refused to reopen until he promised them a trip to bed—no passing GO, no collecting $200. Once under the covers, he eased into sleep through swirling images of Drew Stoddard and Magnus Lattimore, of Ellis Wright and Alison, of Tom Cooper and LeMar Stoddard and Jim Ferendelli, and, finally, of the charcoal portrait of the woman he hoped to spend at least part of the day ahead with—the elegant, eccentric mistress of Lily Pad Stables, Lily Sexton, Ph.D.

CHAPTER 19

Even during the drinking years Gabe had never been a sound sleeper.

Later on in his life, the nurses at the hospital and the answering service operators at Tyler Connections knew that no matter what hour they called, he would answer before the second ring and would invariably sound as if he were sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee. Not even the Xanax he took when sleep simply wouldn't come at all kept him from going on instant alert.