Bryson Nichols and Damien Cleary strode through the north wing of NTI’s neuroscience lab. It wasn’t often that Nichols made a physical appearance at the lab; less frequently were he and Cleary seen together there. But Nichols felt it was important to appear in person every once in a while, if only to show his support for their efforts. He shook hands with people in two research departments before he and Cleary walked down a long hall.

“What’s the latest sign-up figure for transplantation?” Nichols asked. He had reviewed the figure himself early that morning, but the question would gauge how closely Cleary was monitoring their progress.

Cleary strode quickly, trying to keep pace with the taller Nichols. “Fourteen hundred. And growing.”

They turned left and walked through a pair of swinging doors, then opened another door and walked into a chamber that served as a recovery room. A neurosurgeon was speaking to an elderly man in a hospital bed who, it appeared, had just received the transplant. They walked over to the surgeon, and Nichols stuck out his hand. “Dr. Dewitt. Good to see you again.” He turned to the patient. “And whose life have we forever changed today?”

Dewitt beamed. “This is Alston Randolph. Former patient at Boston Neurological. Terminal condition. Was given four months.”

Nichols shook the man’s hand. “How old are you, Mr. Randolph?”

“One hundred twenty-three next week.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“Could hardly feel better, except for some itching where they put the top half of my head back on. I challenged the doctor here to a game of chess, but he wouldn’t take me on.”

Nichols grinned. “I don’t blame him. We can reprogram your sensory input to help with your itch. Glad to see you’re doing so well.”

Nichols nodded at the doctor. He and Cleary walked into the operating room next door. Cleary sat on an examination table. Nichols sat on a swivel stool and started playing with some monitoring equipment. “The key question is whether our training regimen can keep up long term with the demand.”

Cleary nodded. “The program that Holographics put together is working even better than we expected. Our first physicians have flown through it. As you said, it doesn’t hurt that neurosurgeons typically have the best neural implants. It’s taking them only three weeks on average to develop full competency with the transplant procedure.”

“How many do we have performing actual procedures right now?”

“Six.”

“How many a day?”

“Two apiece, two days a week. A little more practice, and they’ll do three a day.”

“That’s almost two thousand a year, just with current staff.”

“Correct.”

Nichols swung around and placed his hands behind his head. “So, Doctor…”

Cleary shook his head. “Don’t call me ‘Doctor,’ Nichols. I just work here.”

Nichols smiled. “So how many of these things do you think we could actually do in a year?”

“Three million.”