Bowler hats hung in clusters from poles and wall hooks all over the room, 
like great bunches of black grapes. A lot of engineers and artifexes seemed to 
come to this place. They hunched over pints of beer at the bar and delved into 
steak-and-kidney pies at the little tables, chatting and chuckling.
There was nothing prepossessing about the place or its patrons, but Hackworth 
knew that the odds and ends of nanotechnological lore collected in the heads of 
these middle-class artisans was what ultimately kept New Atlantis wealthy and 
secure. He had to ask himself why he hadn't been satisfied with simply being 
one of them. John Percival Hackworth projected his thoughts into matter and did 
it better than anyone else in this place. But he had felt the need to go beyond 
that—he had wanted to reach beyond mere matter and into someone's 
soul.