The mother put the glasses back on, viewing the metal floor through them. “Is there anything there, Mom?” asked the boy. “Do you see something?” Henry hovered over her. The woman threw him an irritated glare. “I don’t know what it is,” she said, turning back to the puzzle embedded in the earth, “but there are some numbers that look different.” She lowered the glasses, then raised them, toggling between her enhanced vision and her own. “They’re illuminated.” “What numbers?” asked Henry. “One, two, four, five, six, seven, eight, fifteen, and twenty-seven.” It took Henry half a second to recognize the digits: it was the same set of numbers the Faustus unit at the science fiction convention had spouted before meeting its demise. He stepped on the large tile labeled ONE. It depressed like a button. He applied his foot to the tile labeled TWO.
