Placing pens in left or right pockets, the philosophical women walk down the harvest path, heading back to the lab. Their brothers are there, in helmets, slaving away, turning numbers into letters, letters into corn, corn into music, and music into coins that can be used to buy the electricity that keeps this word in action.     My research is paid for by my dead grandfather, James Hive- Maker, who moved here from Kansas in the forties, with his half-sister Ella Spiralum.