The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, sunlight's streaming in through some grimy windows, casting a pretty weak beam across a small, cluttered woodworking shop... There's like, old power tools all over the workbenches, a bunch of half-finished projects stacked up on shelves, and a thin layer of sawdust covering the whole floor. A pretty ordinary-looking lathe in the corner is somehow steadily producing a continuous length of perfectly straight, perfectly cylindrical wood, even though nobody's operating it, and a faint scent of wood polish hangs in the still air. The sun's probably high in the sky outside, judging by the brightness.