See, the timber is gone, and a city stands there instead.

What is that on the crest of the hill?
A steam-engine; nay, see, there are five of them, working night and day, fast and busy.

Their cranks gleam and flash under the same moon that grew red and lurid when old Mirngish vomited fire and smoke twenty thousand years ago.

As I listen I can hear the grinding of the busy quartz-mill.

What are they doing?
you ask.