Las Vegas is where you go for old-fashioned fun, but I’ve got an appointment with the future. It’s 7am and the sun is beginning to rise over faux Paris, New York, Venice and the Egyptian pyramids when a silver BMW pulls up on the Strip to pick me up. I’m going to take Frank Sinatra Drive to Interstate 15, but I won’t be driving. No one will. The car will do it itself.
I get into the “driver’s” seat, press the blue button on the steering column that “engages personal co-pilot” and take my hands off the wheel and my feet off the pedals. The car, a prototype, stays perfectly central in its lane and about 40 yards behind the truck in front, at a steady 55mph. It is — remarkably — not at all scary, so I set a course north for Seattle.
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