The descent was slow, the car rattling, until it came to a grinding halt. The doors sighed open to reveal another faded corridor. It was worn and old, but this one had at least been scrubbed clean and stank of disinfectant. The ceiling opened to expose a raw concrete frame above white lights hung from red wires, halide fire-suppression nozzles glued alongside. The power cable snaked past him to enter an open door. Someone had taped a handwritten note to its outside: Cortex Intelligent Machines. Voices floated from within, both male. One with an educated East Coast accent; the other more clipped and precise, argumentative, like Alice’s jacket crossed with a lawyer.