It was snowing outside. Large clumps of snowflakes fell lazily through the night sky. That in itself was not very unusual. It always snowed on St-Alban’s. Sometimes there was a blizzard or even hail. On the rare days when the sky was clear the air was deathly cold, generously handing out frostbites to anyone foolish enough to go outdoors without a few extra layers of thick clothing.

Arguyle McCullough never saw any of it; blizzard, clear skies or otherwise. His world was constantly bathed in artificial light and artificial air. Deep in the bowels of one of the smaller and poorer mines on the planet it was more cost-effective to generate new air than to pump and heat the air from outside. Of course it also meant that someone had to keep an eye on the life support systems. That was Arguyle’s job. That and fixing just about anything else. The community that operated the mine was small and had to rely on it’s members when it came to dealing with problems. Life was not easy and everyday brought a new challenge.

Arguyle’s workshop was easily described with two words; cluttered and noisy. All sorts of things ended up there from toasters to complex mining equipment. There was little space that was not currently occupied, there were a few things hanging from the stone ceiling. The machines that did not work were quiet enough but those that were only there for regular maintenance or a quick fix created a veritable concert of hums, squeaks and rumbles. Arguyle’s sense of touch, when it came to vibrations, was quite acute. His hearing, however was not so good.

William Arney, the only dockhand permanently stationed at the small spacedock near the surface knew better than to try and shout over the din in hopes of getting the mechanic’s attention. Instead he picked a path carefully through the room until he reached a large machine that took up the better part of the floor at this end of the workshop. It was Arguyle’s pet project. The mechanic had named it the ‘’Mole’’ though it looked more like a giant screw with wh