Far below the city streets, Rosie's drilling machine lit up: its time had come. It extended its drilling head and started to chew through the rock, brick, concrete, and gravel that for hundreds of years had been accumulating on top of the city's sewers, utility tunnels, and catacombs.
The machine had not been equipped with curiosity or the means to satisfy it. So it had no idea that among the things it was drilling through there were interesting deposits from many years of urban growth: there were the remains of bottles, books, pipes, and cellars; there were several layers of soot, followed by several layers of plastic bags, which might have tangled the works of anything that had not been built by Rosie. There were the remnants of cemeteries and their inhabitants; there was flotsam, there was jetsam, and there were bits and there were bobs. There was a mug imprinted "World's Greatest Megalomaniac". There was, inexplicably, one dinosaur.
The drilling machine did not know and did not care. It was built to drill. This was its finest hour.
It kept right on drilling until it reached a point exactly one quarter inch below the floor of the building above when, well satisfied with its life, it stopped. The drilling head retracted. At the top of its flexible chute the cradle opened up like a flowe
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