The room stayed silent.
“I do think of that, and when I do, my biggest question is how we, humans, and AI are going to co-exist. Humans are the dominant species on Earth. We’re at the top of the food chain and, more importantly, we are the only ones. Ever wonder why? Take a quick look at human evolution. In the last million years, the Homo naledi, Homo erectus, Homo heidelbergensis, Homo neanderthalensis, and Homo sapiens at some point in time all co-existed next to each other. They all lived together, one big happy family. Or did they? One thing is for sure. Only one species survived: us, the Homo sapiens.” Jennifer paused to see if there was any connection in the room as to where she was going. She recognized mostly frowning, questioning faces, which she remembered from her early days studying. She looked at her watch and then pointed to the screen and read aloud. “Evolution equals extinction. Everything ends. Human evolution took place over millions of years. AI evolution is in its infancy, but is snowballing. I told you. In our time, we will see computers become more and more intelligent. We will place this intelligence into robots and then....” She paused for a long moment.
The room stayed silent, anticipating the climax.
“Then, we’ll need to learn to co-exist, as intelligent species. Something humanity hasn’t been able to do in millions of years.” She took a deep breath and gave a big smile in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension in the room. After a few seconds, she said, “Thank you for attending. I hope I made you curious and left you with enough questions to think about when you’re at home or maybe even come back someday and study anthropology. I have a few minutes left to answer some questions, so anyone?”
A young man rose from his chair. “You draw a glum ‘rise of the machines, Terminator-like’ future. Do you really believe robots will take over the Earth someday?” The boy sat down again.
“I don’t know what your Terminator-like future looks like, but what I’m sure of is that....” Jennifer fell silent. After a short moment, she shook her head.
“Are you okay?” a young woman in the front asked her.
Jennifer slowly bent her head down, her fair skin turning even paler.
After a moment, she spoke slowly. “Yes, thank you. Sorry. What I meant to say was that there’s one thing I know for sure. If we don’t find a way in which....”
From one moment to the next, she felt her head grow heavy, her eyesight blurred, sounds muffled and her knees grew weak, all immediately followed by a loud thump. In a fraction of a second, she realized it was the sound of her own body hitting the floor, which was followed by complete blackness.
“Dr. Porter. Hello?”
“Jennifer.”
“Can you hear me?”
“Someone call 911.”
Chapter 2 – Gone Fishing
Otter Creek, VT, The Present
Otter Creek, Vermont’s longest river, snaked its way from the Green Mountain National Forest to flow into Lake Champlain, 112 miles farther west, crossing Vermont’s state line with New York. As the sun rose over the tackle and bait store at the Hillcrest Campground and Cottage at the end of the river, a twenty-year-old blue Jeep Wrangler drove into the empty parking lot and parked close to the river.
“I love this car.” Matthew Bishop lovingly padded the doorknob.
“How did I let you talk me into this?” Walker James Monroe asked in his throaty British voice. The black curator of early books and manuscripts at Yale’s Beinecke Rare Book Library had been dragged out of his bed five hours ago by his friend, who had insisted on taking him on a fishing trip. “At four in the morning,” he whined. The usually well-clad conservative was forced out of his favorite suit and tie and forced into jeans, a sweater and sneakers, instead of his preferred Oxfords, Derbys or Bluchers.
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Bishop replied. “It took me a lot of years and energy to convince you to come with me on a fishing trip, so I strongly advise you to enjoy it. You know, when I was a boy, my father used to wake me up at three in the morning every other Saturday to go fishing with him and my uncles.”
“Nuts,” Monroe complained. “My father was kind enough to take me to the Knightsbridge National Art Library in the Victoria and Albert Museum. At three in the afternoon.”
Bishop and Monroe had been colleagues at Yale University for almost ten years now. As a professor of Mathematics and Philosophy, heading the department of Comparative Literature and Religious Studies, Bishop worked closely with Monroe a couple of times over the years. In his early forties now, the curly red-headed Bishop, always with his three-day beard, steel blue eyes and tall, slender posture, was still considered by his students one of the most attractive, eligible bachelors on campus. Unlike the bald, dark-eyed Monroe, Bishop preferred a more casual clothing style. When giving lectures, he usually wore a sweatshirt or turtleneck with cargo pants or straight jeans—occasionally with tears in it—and loose-fitting sneakers, preferably no socks.
“Do you have any idea how much ‘Otter Creek’ we passed on our way up here?” Monroe complained again while Bishop unloaded all kinds of gear out of the back of the Jeep.
“Here.” Bishop threw a beige piece of clothing at Monroe, who caught it against his chest with a loud ‘oomph.’
“What’s this?” Monroe asked, unfolding it.
“It’s a chest wader. Put it on. It will keep you warm and dry when we get into the water.”
Monroe held what looked like a bib and brace in front of him. “Flattering, no doubt.” His British accent sounded snooty. Of the two friends, Monroe was always dressed to the teeth. His tailored suits, handmade shoes and even jewelry and watches always matched
