In a town called Westfield, at the end of Pinewood Road, there stood a once-magnificent manor house, peering down from its perch atop the hill. The house had steeply-pitched gable roofs that pierced the murky sky around them. More than a few shingles were missing, which made the roofs look speckled from a distance. The wrap-around porch was largely intact, but one of the ornately-carved ...

“Three minutes remaining,” The feminine, robotic voice hums sweetly.

Her words go straight into my brain. One of the great things about having a neural implant—I don’t use my ears much. Most of the time I keep external sounds muted. And believe me, in a place like Sector K, muting is a must-have feature. Between the construction, traffic, and disgusting sounds of the other billion people in this ...

I met Theodore Swingline in the autumn of 1931. I was seated on a bench in Central Park, enjoying the afternoon sun, when I noticed him strolling along a cobblestone path. Theodore—or Teddy, as he liked to be called—was dressed impeccably. He wore a grey wool suit with a perfectly centered pleat in the legs of his trousers. His herringbone-speckled jacket fit snug around his shoulders, and a crisp...