"Welcome to Switzerland," the pilot said, yelling over the roar of the X-33's misted-fuel HEDM engines winding down behind them.

I'm dreaming, he told himself. Any minute now I'll be waking up.

Sixty-four minutes had passed when an incredulous and slightly air-sick Robert Langdon stepped down the gangplank onto the sun-drenched runway. A crisp breeze rustled the lapels of his tweed jacket. The open space felt wonderful. He squinted out at the lush green valley rising to snowcapped peaks all around them.

Langdon reset his watch.

Langdon checked his watch. It read 7:07 A. M.

"You just crossed six time zones," the pilot offered. "It's a little past 1 P. M. here."

"How do you feel?"

He rubbed his stomach. "Like I've been eating Styrofoam."

Langdon gave a wan nod and counted himself lucky. All things considered, the flight had been remarkably ordinary. Aside from a bone-crushing acceleration during take off, the plane's motion had been fairly typical -- occasional minor turbulence, a few pressure changes as they'd climbed, but nothing at all to suggest they had been hurtling through space at the mind-numbing speed of 11,000 miles per hour.

The pilot nodded. "Altitude sickness. We were at sixty thousand feet. You're thirty percent lighter up there. Lucky we only did a puddle jump. If we'd gone to Tokyo I'd have taken her all the way up -- a hundred miles. Now that'll get your insides rolling."

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

A handful of technicians scurried onto the runway to tend to the X-33. The pilot escorted Langdon to a black Peugeot sedan in a parking area beside the control tower. Moments later they were speeding down a paved road that stretched out across the valley floor. A faint cluster of buildings rose in the distance. Outside, the grassy plains tore by in a blur.

Langdon watched in disbelief as the pilot pushed the speedometer up around 170 kilometers an hour -- over 100 miles per hour. What is it with this guy and speed? he wondered.

The car raced on.

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

A woman started singing. "It's just the fear of being alone…"

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

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."

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

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

"Really?" Langdon scanned the countryside.

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.

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

Langdon read the sign before them. SECURITE. ARRETEZ. He suddenly felt a wave of panic, realizing where he was. "My God! I didn't bring my passport!"

Langdon watched dumbfounded as his driver gave the guard an ID. The sentry ran it through an electronic authentication device. The machine flashed green.

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

"Passenger name?"

"Robert Langdon," the driver replied.

"Guest of?"

The car shot off again, accelerating another 200 yards around a sweeping rotary that led to the facility's main entrance. Looming before them was a rectangular, ultramodern structure of glass and steel. Langdon was amazed by the building's striking transparent design. He had always had a fond love of architecture.

The sentry arched his eyebrows. He turned and checked a computer printout, verifying it against the data on his computer screen. Then he returned to the window. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Langdon."

"A church?"

"The Glass Cathedral," the escort offered.

"Hell, no. A church is the one thing we don't have. Physics is the religion around here. Use the Lord's name in vain all you like," he laughed, "just don't slander any quarks or mesons."

"The director."

Langdon sat bewildered as the driver swung the car around and brought it to a stop in front of the glass building. Quarks and mesons? No border control? Mach 15 jets? Who the hell ARE these guys? The engraved granite slab in front of the building bore the answer:

Recherche Nucléaire

Conseil Européen pour la

"Is that him?" Langdon asked.

"Nuclear Research?" Langdon asked, fairly certain his translation was correct.

(CERN)

Langdon noted a man in a wheelchair exiting the building. He looked to be in his early sixties. Gaunt and totally bald with a sternly set jaw, he wore a white lab coat and dress shoes propped firmly on the wheelchair's footrest. Even at a distance his eyes looked lifeless -- like two gray stones.

The driver did not answer. He was leaning forward, busily adjusting the car's cassette player. "This is your stop. The director will meet you at this entrance."

The man in the wheelchair accelerated toward Langdon and offered a clammy hand. "Mr. Langdon? We spoke on the phone. My name is Maximilian Kohler."

Uncertain what to expect, Langdon stepped from the vehicle.

The driver looked up. "Well, I'll be." He turned and gave Langdon an ominous smile. "Speak of the devil."