The fog slowly congealed into a wall of rust, so vast and featureless 
that it might have been ten or a hundred feet distant. The helmsman waited 
until they were about to ram it, then cut the engines. The raft lost speed 
instantly and nuzzled the hull of the big ship. Chains, slimy and dripping, 
descended from the firmament, diverging in Hackworth's view like radiance 
emanating from some heavy-industrial demigod, clanking harbingers of iron that 
the crew, heads thrown back ecstatically, throats bared to this kinky 
revelation, received into their bosoms. They snapped the chains onto metal 
loops fixed into the floor of the boat. Shackled, the boat rose free of the 
water and began to ascend the wall of rust, which soared vaguely into the 
infinite fog. Suddenly there was a railing, an open deck beyond it, pools of 
light here and there, a few red cigar-coals reciprocating through space. The 
deck swung under and rose to shove at the hull of
the little boat. As they disembarked, they could see similar boats scattered 
about.