Winter has ended.
In the depths of Pinnacle Base, in a room with windows and doors tightly shut, a Magic Web Terminal was running.
The room was empty, with thick curtains blocking the already dim daylight, rendering the whole space mysteriously dark. The white noise projection from the running Magic Web Terminal cast flickering shadows on the furniture like a lamp of inadequate brightness.
On the only wooden table in the room, a printer connected to the Magic Web Terminal was producing a creaky operating sound. Sheets of white paper were fed into the machine, and information from afar was printed on them and sent to the output tray.
A small pile of printed materials had accumulated at the front of the machine.
Suddenly, the papers on the table floated up, as if lifted by invisible hands, and began to rustle and flip over.
