“They are molecular machines—nanites, as they are commonly called. Nanites, of course, may have the potential for self-replication, but we didn’t see evidence of that currently occurring. These appear to be inoperative.”

Nanites? How could nanites find their way into the bodies of a completely isolated tribe?

“I’m forwarding a copy of our report. Would you like us to return the sample to you?”

“Yes, please.” She hesitated, wondering if somehow the man could provide more answers. But he had done his job. “Thank you.”

Kate slumped back in her chair. Nanites. The infection that had eaten away the villagers’ brains was artificial. There was no new jungle virus that had to be contained. That was the good news.

It seemed small consolation compared to the bad news. Someone had programmed microscopic machines to invade the human brain and eat it from the inside out. They had infected the villagers with these machines, for what purpose she didn’t know.

Three hours later Kate watched as a familiar face emerged on her visiscreen.

“Kate! What a pleasant surprise!”

Dr. Rich Godwin, her advisor at the University of Washington School of Medicine, had always greeted her warmly. He does that to everyone, she told herself back in school. But Kate knew she was one of his favorites. She felt guilty that she hadn’t been in touch for three years and that now she was tapping only because she needed a referral. Whatever the circumstances, she was genuinely glad to be in touch. He seemed glad as well.

“I’ve thought about you so often since we last saw each other, Kate.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Rich. I wish I had been more faithful about keeping in touch.”

He shook his head. “No offense taken. We’re all busy. So what can I do for you today? I take it you didn’t tap just to chat.”

“I wish I could say I had. But I do need something—a recommendation from you.”

For a computer program, Alistair has the uncanny ability to read me like a book. When Alistair saw that the woman from Papua New Guinea had been scheduled to appear on Global Sunrise, he assumed I might be interested. He couldn’t have been more correct. This woman was potentially a gold mine of cultural research.

I sat in my living room recliner and accessed the Grid to watch. The program began with a brief background piece on the jungles of New Guinea. The host, Gabrielle Marshall, described Abigail Caldwell’s harrowing journey to civilization and the tragedy of her village’s dying. Then Marshall turned to Abby, seated next to her on the Global Sunrise set. She looked older than her thirty-four years, had an attractive, tanned face, unusually muscular arms, and straight, near-black hair.

“What a story. What a life,” Marshall commented. “Are you glad to finally come home to the United States?”

Abby stared at her with a classic deer-in-the-headlights look.