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The pressure ridges in the old sea-ice about it go uncharted on the maps of any man. The mote of the
mother rock no longer lifts above the Arctic tides. But one day it stood there.

Above its glacial surface the midnight sun shone at minus 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Belowground,
sixteen hundred feet into the bowels of the gelid earth, the temperature was a constant balmy 75
degrees above zero.

The only sounds down there were those of electronic workbells pinging musically, warmed air sighing
benignly from the ventilator grills, pneumatic elevator lifts purring, tunnel locks opening and closing,
generators humming softly and, always, another one thousand feet below the last shaft level, the
ominous pulsing of the nuclear pile which was the thermal power source for the island's foul colony.

Upon the surface, given the endless cry of the Polar gale and the sucking rush of the induction pumps
taking the heated Arctic air to the hatching combs of the fifth swarm germinating those hundreds of feet below, there was but one other memorable sound. It was the eerie, almost incessant howling of the
mutant wolves of Tursk, the hellpack kept to feed upon the radioactive human waste which was the
monstrous byproduct of Genesis District Five and the evil, teeming Hives of Okatrai.

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