A robotic sensory security system met them as they entered a totally featureless, glaringly lit white-painted room. The floor was empty of all furniture and the walls barren of signs or pictures. The door they entered from seemed to be the only entrance and exit.
“State your business,” the robot demanded in mechanical Japanese.
Mancuso hesitated. He was told to expect robot sentry machines, but not something that looked like a trash can on wheels that spouted orders. “Fiber optic communications section to modify and inspect system,” he complied, trying to hide his awkwardness at interacting with artificial intelligence.
“Your job order and pass code.”
“Emergency order forty-six-R for communications inspection and test program.” Then he brought his open hands together, touching the fingertips lightly, and repeated the word “sha” three times.
Mancuso could only hope the British operative had supplied them with the correct pass sign and code word and had programmed their genetic codes into the robotic security memories.
“In sequence, press your right hands against my sensing screen,” ordered the roboguard.
All three dutifully took turns placing their hands on a small blinking blue screen recessed in the barrel-round chest. The robot stood mute for a few moments, processing the data from its computer and comparing facial features and body size against the names and description in its memory disks—a remarkable advance, thought Weatherhill. He’d never seen a computer that could put into memory the data fed to it by a television camera and process the images in real time.
They stood composed and businesslike, knowing from their briefing the robot was programmed to spot the slightest measure of nervousness. They also kept their eyes trained on him. Wandering, avoiding eyes would have invited suspicion. Weatherhill managed a bored yawn while their genetic codes and finger and hand prints were matched up.
“Clearance confirmed,” the roboguard said at last. Then the entire wall at the opposite end of the barren room swung inward and he rolled aside. “You may enter. If you remain beyond twelve hours, you must notify security force number six.”
The British operative had come through. They had passed the obstacle with flying colors. They walked through the door into a carpeted passageway that led to the main tunnel. They exited onto a boarding platform as a buzzer sounded and red and white strobe lights flashed. A work train loaded with construction materials was pulling away from an expansive underground rail yard with the tracks converging at the main tunnel entrance that Mancuso judged was four meters in diameter.
After three eerie minutes of complete silence, an aluminum car with a glass bubble top that could seat ten people approached the platform on a single rail. The interior was empty, the controls unmanned. A door slid open with a slight hiss and they entered.
“A Maglev,” Weatherhill said quietly.
“A what?” Stacy asked.
“Maglev, for ‘magnetic levitation.’ It’s the concept based on the repulsion and attraction between two magnets. The interaction between powerful magnets mounted under the train with others lining a single rail raised in the center moves the cars on a field of electromagnetism. That’s why it’s usually referred to as a floating train.”
“The Japs have developed the most advanced system in the world,” Mancuso added. “Once they mastered the cooling of the on-board electromagnetic superconductors, they had a vehicle that literally flies inches above its track at aircraft speeds.”
The doors closed and the little car paused as its computerized sensors waited for the all-clear-ahead. A green light blinked on above the track, and they glided into the main tube soundlessly, picking up speed until the sodium vapor lamps embedded in the roof of the tunnel merged into an eye-dazzling yellow blur.
“How fast are we going?” Stacy wondered.
“A wild guess would be three hundred and twenty kilometers an hour,” Weatherhill replied.
Mancuso nodded. “At this rate the trip should only take about five minutes.”
It seemed the floating train had no sooner reached its cruising speed than it began to slow. With the smoothness of a skyscraper elevator, it slid to a quiet stop. They stepped out onto another deserted platform. Once they were clear, the car came about on a turntable, aligned itself on the opposite rail, and accelerated back to Edo City.
“The end of the line,” Mancuso said softly. He turned and led the way through the only door on the platform. It opened into another carpeted passageway that stretched thirty meters before ending at an elevator.
Inside, Weatherhill nodded at the Arabic numerals on the control buttons. “Up or down?”
“How many floors and which one are we on?” inquired Stacy.
“Twelve. We’re on two.”
“Hanamura’s sketches only indicated four,” said Mancuso.
“They must have been preliminary drawings that were altered later.”
Stacy stared at the lighted panel pensively. “So much for the hub and spoke layout.”
“Without exact directions to the computerized electronics section,” said Weatherhill, “we’ll have to scratch our original plan and go for the power generating station.”
“If we can find it before arousing suspicion,” complained Mancuso.
“It’s all we’ve got going. Tracing electrical wiring to the source will take less time than trying to stumble onto the control center.”
“Twelve floors of rooms and passageways,” murmured Stacy uneasily. “We could wander around lost for hours.”
“We’re here and we have no alternatives,” said Mancuso, glancing at his watch. “If Pitt and Giordino were successful in landing on the island’s surface and diverting Suma’s security systems, we should have time enough to plant the plastic and escape back through the tunnel to Edo City.”
Weatherhill looked at Stacy and Mancuso, then looked at the elevator panel. He knew exactly how they felt—nerves tense, minds alert, their bodies honed and ready to act. They had come this far and now it all depended on their decisions in the next few minutes. He punched the button marked 6.
“Might as well try the middle floor,” he said with practical logic.
Mancuso raised the briefcase that camouflaged two automatic weapons and clutched it under his arm. Immobile, he and Stacy and Weatherhill stood quietly in uneasy apprehension. A few seconds later there was an audible bong, the digital light for the sixth floor flashed, and the doors spread apart.
Mancuso went through with Stacy and Weatherhill at his heels. When he stopped dead after two steps, he hardly felt the others bump into him. They all stood and stared like village idiots on a space journey to Mars.
Everywhere inside a vast domed gallery there was a bustling purposeful confusion one would expect from an army of efficient assembly line workers, except there were no spoken orders or shouts or group conversations. All of the specialists, technicians, and engineers working on a great semicircle of computers and instrument consoles were robots in myriad different sizes and shapes.
They’d struck gold on the first try. Weatherhill had unwittingly pushed the floor button that took them directly to the electronic brains of Suma’s nuclear command center. There were no human helpers anywhere in the complex. The entire work force was totally automated and made up of sophisticated high-tech machines that worked twenty-four hours a day without coffee breaks, lunch, or sick leave. An operation inconceivable to an American union leader.