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Upon leaving the lab, Ken instinctively drove toward the coastal hills. So many times he had gone there in the past to wander in the woods and think tough problems through to a solution. This time, however, when he found himself on the winding mountain road that he knew so well, and facing the late-afternoon sun that was about to sink into the Pacific just beyond the range he was climbing, he could not remember how he’d gotten there. Nor could he remember—somewhere along the route—pushing James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James into the tape deck. Its nostalgic sounds blared at him from the quad stereo of his Mercedes SL-600.