The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Fluorescent signs reading 'Astro Pizza' and 'Gemini Gas' reflect off a dusty, empty parking lot that stretches to the horizon. The air's thick with the smell of old grease and gasoline, while above, a hazy sun beats down on the cracked asphalt. I can hear a weird low-pitched whine coming from the direction of a lone, spinning top hat - which somehow, defying physics, balances perfectly upright, like a tiny top, on the scorching hot asphalt. Uh, a thin layer of oil slick coats the parking lot, with no apparent source.