"Five kilometers to the lab," the pilot said. "I’ll have you there in two minutes."

Langdon searched in vain for a seat belt. Why not make it three and get us there alive?

The car raced on.

"Do you like Reba?" the pilot asked, jamming a cassette into the tape deck.

A woman started singing.

No fear here, Langdon thought absently. His female colleagues often ribbed him that his collection of museum-quality artifacts was nothing more than a transparent attempt to fill an empty home, a home they insisted would benefit greatly from the presence of a woman. Langdon always laughed it off, reminding them he already had three loves in his life—symbology, water polo, and bachelorhood—the latter being a freedom that enabled him to travel the world, sleep as late as he wanted, and enjoy quiet nights at home with a brandy and a good book.

"We’re like a small city," the pilot said, pulling Langdon from his daydream. "Not just labs. We’ve got supermarkets, a hospital, even a cinema."

Langdon nodded blankly and looked out at the sprawling expanse of buildings rising before them.

"In fact," the pilot added, "we possess the largest machine on earth."

"Really?" Langdon scanned the countryside.

"You won’t see it out there, sir." The pilot smiled. "It’s buried six stories below the earth."

Langdon didn’t have time to ask. Without warning the pilot jammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop outside a reinforced sentry booth.

Langdon read the sign before them.

He suddenly felt a wave of panic, realizing where he was. "My God! I didn’t bring my passport!"

"Passports are unnecessary," the driver assured. "We have a standing arrangement with the Swiss government."