At the end of a road was a wooden gate with a laughably primitive latch 
consisting of a sliding plank, glossy with use. Past the gate, the road became 
a very rough mosaic of flagstones with grass growing between them. It wound 
between undulating pastures where horses and the occasional dairy cow grazed 
and eventually terminated at a great three-story stone
building perched on the bank of a river that ran down the mountain from the New 
Atlantis Clave. A giant wheel grew out of the side of the building and spun 
slowly as the river pushed on it. A man stood outside before a large 
chopping-block, using a hatchet with an exceptionally wide blade to split thin 
wedges of red wood from a log. These were piled into a wicker basket that was 
hauled up on a rope by a man who stood on the roof, replacing some of the old 
gray shingles with these new red ones.