Swaths of saltwater glided up the sandy shore in the moonlight, frothed and hissed around the mote and the visitors' feet -- then retreated, translucent, back into the glinting ocean.

The blue glow from within the Mote brightened and dimmed ever so slightly -- almost like breathing, almost in time with the rise and fall of the water.

The tower of spinning refuse sometimes sparked in reflection of the moon and the stars -- a mirror, a bit of glass, a shoe-buckle -- it was almost beautiful in its silent swirl.

Until --

[i]whimper[/i]

A high-pitched whine emitted out of the thick tornado of trash. At first it might seem like the squeak of a hinge or something sharp against metal -- but then the detritus whimpered again.

Something struggled among the swirl of discarded bones and sticks: a paw, a tawny tail, a dejected little nose. The puppy had all but given up hope of rescue, but upon sight of new people approaching had redoubled its efforts to attract attention. The dog spun round and round with the refuse, pawing at it and twisting, spinning upside-down then tail to the sky, squeaking in a tired and dizzy and hopeful tone.