Drilling into the Aqueous Humour

The sappers assembled the drill, and the sergeant called on the mindlink for volunteers to pedal the pistons that, somehow, drove the drill. I didn’t volunteer, but I ended up on one of the pedal-frames anyway. Teach me to keep my big mind shut.

The frames were set up so that we could see the drill working as we pedaled. It was fascinating: six small drills bored pilot holes, and then the big beast came along behind, its shaft as big around as an oak. Sappers darted like mayflies, making small adjustments everywhere.

I pedaled till my legs ached, till my eyes were blind with sweat. The drill descended through the yielding tissue of the giant’s eye.

After an hour, when there wasn’t much left to see of the big drill, the sergeant ordered me off my frame. He held up an oblong metal tube and a clear mask. Done any scuba diving?

A little, I said.

Good. He handed the equipment to me. Glancing at the drill, nearly vanished in the eye: Windows to the soul, what a joke. All that’s in there is slime.

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