Overhead, a neon script sign hanging from the ceiling proclaimed that it was two klicks till the city customs inspection. Listening and watching, Emile saw that every quarter-klick he passed a band of discoloration spanning the entire floor. He knew those to be the tops of pressure bulkheads, veined barriers of thick resilient materials that would automatically activate if the tunnel lost pressure or became punctured. For an industrial installation, purely interested in the peaceful exploitation of the natural resources of the ocean depths, the dometown certainly seemed to be armored for war.