The final test Henry Yamada was running was for calibration purposes. The last complete diagnostic check before the actual event, but in this case, much more complex.
The Machine was the result of the most sophisticated microengineering project in medical history. Long and cylindrical, it was mathematically shaped, based on meticulous calculations, and lined with high-density elastomers for maximum absorbency—polymers and rubberlike solids carefully designed to reduce electromagnetic radiation emitted by the 1,024 tiny transmitters spaced perfectly throughout the device’s interior.
Surrounding each transmitter like a two-dimensional halo were small circular diode sensors that detected the faintest changes in microwave strength and modulation while passing through its intended target from every conceivable angle, and were able to adjust the signaling almost instantly to ensure near-perfect uniform exposure. They measured signal strength, vibration, and temperature in real time, all of which lay at the heart of the heating process, by very, very carefully causing molecules to vibrate.
After just a few minutes, the final test was successfully completed, if a bit anticlimactic. Rachel watched from an observation booth, standing behind the others.
Below them, inside the main laboratory itself, Yamada and two other technicians sat in front of a comprehensive digital panel hosting dozens of connected monitors and controls. They typed away on their keyboards, paused to validate another result, and continued on.
On the main screen, an infrared image of the Machine was displayed, glowing in various auras of yellow, orange, and red. A similar image was displayed on an adjacent screen, this one in 3D and overlaid with more than a thousand tiny green circles representing the internal transmitters and diode sensors.
After several long minutes and dozens of output tests, Yamada finally swiveled in his chair and faced the booth overhead, including the three people standing in front of Rachel.
Yamada looked at the figure in the front and center, Robert Masten, the man in charge, and gave a thumbs-up. He and his technicians then rose from their seats and circled the giant device as its cover automatically released and slid back, exposing its interior.
Through a plume of gentle steam, the three surrounded the opening and reached inside with handheld instruments. Over and over, inserting, waiting, and reading aloud each result.
When finished, they conferred and nodded again. Prompting Yamada to look back up at the glass window with a final thumbs-up.
On the opposite side of the floor-to-ceiling window, in his dark blue slacks and dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, Robert Masten leaned to the side and pressed the intercom button. “And?”
Yamada stepped back to the console and spoke through his microphone. “Everything looks good. All transmitters are firing perfectly. All within twelve degrees.”
Masten turned to the woman on his right.
“Still well within range,” she said.
The director then turned to the man on his left, who wore a stern expression through neatly combed white hair and a mustache, and was nodding in agreement.
Satisfied, Masten pressed the button again.
“Time for the final prep.”
Rachel was still looking through the glass after the room had emptied, watching Yamada and his assistants conclude the test and finally, together, reach in and carefully extract the test subject. It was heavy; all three were required in order to lift the 120-pound slab of beef from inside the Machine. It was several feet long, and oozing droplets of liquid blood as they hefted it out.
Rachel had to remind herself that this final test was only meant to be an integrity check. The monstrous slab of dead cow was, of course, in no way representative of the final subject.