Watanabe squinted. “You mean half an inch? Like the size of a peanut?”

“Maybe a little smaller,” Drake answered.

“How much smaller?”

“Somewhat.”

“One millimeter, say?”

Drake gave a crisp smile. “That’s barely feasible.”

“But have you done it?”

“Done what?”

“Made robots one millimeter in size.”

“We’re getting into proprietary areas.” Drake leaned back.

“Have you had any industrial accidents with your robots?”

“Accidents?” Drake frowned, and then broke into a chuckle. “Yes-frequently.”

“Anybody get hurt?”

“It’s the other way around.” Drake laughed. “People step on the robots by accident. The robots always lose.” He sighed and looked at his watch. “I have a meeting.”

“Sure. Just one thing.” Watanabe would describe what he’d seen in the microscope, but he would not show Drake a photograph of the device, because a photo was evidence, and you don’t flash evidence. So he kept things vague. “We’ve become aware of a device, pretty small, that appears to have what might be a propeller and cutting blades. It might be able to fly, or swim in somebody’s bloodstream. Is this a Nanigen product?”

Drake took a moment to reply; Watanabe thought the moment lasted a beat too long. “No,” Drake answered. “We don’t make robots like that.”

“Does anybody make them?”

Drake gave Watanabe a careful look. Where was this cop going? “I think you’re describing a theoretical device.”

“What kind?”

“Well, it would be a surgical micro-robot.”

“A what?”

“A surgical micro-bot. Also called a surgibot. It’s a very small robot used for medical procedures. In theory, a surgibot could be made small enough to circulate in a patient’s bloodstream. Equipped with scalpels, a swarm of surgibots could perform microsurgery. They could be injected into a patient, and the surgibots would swim through the bloodstream to the target tissue. Surgibots could cut arterial plaques from the inside of an artery, for example. Or a swarm of surgibots could hunt down metastasized cancer cells. The surgibots would kill the cancer cells one at a time, thus defeating the cancer. But as of now, surgibots are a dream, not a reality.”

“So you’re not actually building these…what you call…surgibots?”

“Not like that, no.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Watanabe said.

Drake sighed. “We’re getting into an area that’s very sensitive.”

“Why?”

“Nanigen is doing research…for you.”

“For me?” Watanabe said, looking mystified.

“You pay taxes?”

“Sure.”

“Nanigen is working for you.”

“Oh, so you’re doing government-?”

“We can’t go there, lieutenant.”

They were doing secret government work, classified, something with small robots. Drake was warning him off, hinting he’d have trouble with the government if he pursued this. Fine. Abruptly, Watanabe changed gears. “Why did your vice president jump off his boat?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Eric Jansen was an experienced boater. He knew to stay with his boat even in surf. He jumped into the surf for a reason. Why did he jump?”

Drake stood up, his face flushed. “I have no idea what you’re getting at. We’ve asked you to find our missing students. You haven’t found anybody. We’ve lost two key executives. You haven’t given us a damn bit of help there, either.”

Watanabe stood up. “Sir, we did find Ms. Bender. We’re still looking for Eric Jansen.” He took out his wallet and nudged out his business card.

Drake took the card and sighed as he looked at it, and an unpleasant expression flitted across his face. “To be frank, we are disappointed with the Honolulu police.” He let the card flutter down to his desk. “One wonders what you actually do.”

“Well, sir, the Honolulu Police Department is older than the New York Police Department-I didn’t know if you knew that. We’ll just keep working our cases like we always do, sir.”

“We’ve got five more of them.” Dorothy Girt laid the photographs out for Watanabe on her lab bench. They showed the same devices, each with a propeller inside a housing and a gooseneck with blades. “I found them in the Asian John Doe. A smelly job.”

“How did you find them, Dorothy? They’re really small.”

Dorothy Girt flashed him a cool smile of triumph, and opened a drawer, and held up a heavy object. It was an industrial horseshoe magnet. “I swiped it over the wounds. Darned thing is heavy.”

She put the magnet aside, then showed him a blowup photo of one of the robots. The bot had been split cleanly, in a perfect cutaway view. Incredibly small chips and circuitry were visible, and something that looked like a battery, a driveshaft, gears…

“This thing is cut perfectly in half! How did you do that, Dorothy?”

“It was simple. I mounted it in an epoxy block, just like a tissue sample. Then I sliced it with a microtome. Same thing you do with tissue samples.” Dorothy’s microtome, with an ultrasharp blade, had split the micro-bot right down the middle. “Note this feature, Dan.”

He bent over the photo and followed her finger to a boxlike object in the guts of the robot. A small lowercase n was printed on the box.

“So,” he said. “The CEO lied to me.” He wanted to slap Dorothy on the back, but stopped himself at the last moment. Dorothy Girt didn’t seem like a person who would welcome the gesture. Instead he offered her a slight nod of the head in the Japanese mode of respect-a family habit. “Excellent work, Dorothy.”

“Hmp,” she snorted. Her work was never anything but excellent.

Chapter 36

Tantalus Crater 31 October, 1:00 p.m.

Mother Fucking Nature,” Danny Minot muttered. “It’s nothing but monsters with insatiable appetites.” He was trudging along, dragging his grass-covered feet and holding his swollen arm protectively. His arm seemed to have gotten even bigger, to the point where his shirt sleeve was beginning to show small rips and tears. Rick Hutter and Karen King walked along next to Danny, Rick wearing the backpack, Karen holding a machete bared and ready for action. They were the last three survivors. They were stumbling across a vast, curving sweep of land, covered with sand and gravel. It was the lip of Tantalus Crater. The open land extended to a bushy line of bamboo in the distance, towering to an immense height. Through a gap in the bamboo, a boulder the size of a mountain lurked, moss-covered and furrowed with gullies. The boulder seemed to be miles distant, at least for people of their size.

The sun beat down on them. No rain had passed over Tantalus in many hours. They were getting very thirsty. Their small bodies lost moisture fast.

Karen felt exposed. They were targets. In motion across a wasteland, without cover. A bird passed overhead, and she cringed and clutched her machete. But it wasn’t a mynah, it was a hawk circling over Tantalus, and the humans were too small to make a decent meal for a hawk-or so she hoped.

“Are you okay, Karen?” Rick asked.

“Stop worrying about me.”

“But-”

“I’m fine. Check on Danny. He looks bad.”

Danny had sat down on a stone and seemed unable to keep going. He was fondling his bad arm, adjusting the sling, and his face had gone white.

“You okay, man?”

“What’s the meaning of that question?”

“How’s your arm?”

“There’s nothing wrong!” But now Danny was staring at his arm. A muscle in his arm spasmed, tensing against the cloth, relaxing, tensing again. It looked involuntary. Danny seemed to have lost control of the muscles.

“Why is it doing that?” Rick asked, as the spasms moved in corrugated waves along Danny’s arm. The arm seemed to have a life of its own.

“It’s not doing anything,” Danny insisted.

“But Danny, it’s jerking-”

“No!” Danny shouted, pushing him away, and he picked up his arm and moved it out of Rick’s reach, cradling it with his good hand and turning his back to Rick as if he were guarding a football. Rick began to suspect that Danny had lost all motor control of his arm.