Nichols stepped away from Caldwell’s sight, then reappeared. “I’m putting you back to sleep now, Ray. When you wake up, everything will be complete. Your misgivings, whatever they may be, will be alleviated. You’ll be everything we have worked toward. Everything humanity has dreamed of for millennia. Our friendship, our partnership in this grand endeavor, will continue. Shortly you’ll perform the procedure on me. The two of us will lead humanity into its greatest adventure.” He smiled broadly. “See you on the other side.”

With all his will Ray Caldwell commanded his arms to move, his legs to break free from the bands that held him to the surgical table. But it was no use. In a few moments he would lose consciousness. When he awoke, he would be missing the only thing that made life—existence itself, even—worthwhile.

Drowsiness stalked him. His mind began to swim.

Three hours and six minutes later Caldwell’s new brain powered up. He awoke. Electronic impulses coursed through the silicon mass that his cranium now housed.

Terror seized him. He bolted upright and scanned the room. His gaze landed upon the smiling face of Bryson Nichols standing four feet away.

“O brave new world that has such people in it, Ray. How do you feel, my friend?”

Past Nichols, in a glass jar, he spotted the three-pound mass of gray matter that had been extracted from him. His terror subsided into resigned grief. What he had feared most had come to pass.

It was gone. Utterly gone. He had lost his connection.

1

THREE WEEKS LATER

I always expected to teach history. I never expected to make it. Making history is the stuff of inventors and politicians and astronauts. Not professors. Especially not those with both feet in the past.

Visitors to my office—and they are few, since no one is on college campuses anymore—are always struck by what they regard as the antiques. The brass doorknob that requires a physical key. The mechanical clock. The metal nameplate with “Creighton Daniels” etched into it. The sea of books.

Meeting me in my virtual reality office (identical to my physical one), students are always surprised by two things: the books and the smell. They are one and the same, of course. Have enough old books on hand, and you get a musty smell. No one knows that anymore, because no one owns books.

With the exception of the door and a large window directly behind my desk, my office walls are covered by floor-to-ceiling wood bookcases filled to overflowing. “Where’d you get all these books?” students ask. The less polite ones add, “And why do you have them?”

I like being surrounded by books. Always have, even as a kid. I used to visit my grandparents’ house and climb up in the attic and dig through dusty boxes looking for old kids’ volumes. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Harry Potter, the Planet Nine series…the classics.