T'Pol has found evidence of an "impact crater," which seems to explain where the radiation came from. On the bridge, T'Pol elucidates for Trip and the Captain that the crater, caused by an asteroid, is five hundred kilometers from the colony and that its depth is about two thousand meters. Coincidentally, T'Pol has learned that the impact of the asteroid occurred about seventy years ago. Sokath! His eyes open! "The poison rain," Quantum muses. "The geology was comprised primarily of beresium ore," T'Pol continues. "The thermo-shock would have created a radioactive cloud that probably covered the northern hemisphere for more than a year." Trip shakes his head: "They spent all those years getting here, and for what?"
Somewhere sub-terra firma, Reed is starting to feel the rock of the cavern walls pierce through his uniform, "That's an old MK-33, isn't it?" he asks his guard, "Or is it a 34?" Trust Reed to carpe ammo and talk about a subject close to his heart. Or leg. He's probably thrilled he got shot with such an old bullet in the first place. The guard doesn't say anything, so Reed tries again: "Impressive body armor you're wearing, did you make it yourself?" The guard looks suspiciously at this babbling, clean-faced Overside-dweller, but still says nothing. "Right," Reed says, shifting his weight on the rocks and wincing, "I don't suppose there's a lavatory on the premises, is there? I wouldn't mind freshening up a little." Still no response. "No, didn't think so," Reed says. The guard puts his weapon down, picks up a bowl of something, and starts eating with his fingers. Reed looks interested. "Is your belly hollow?" the guard asks. "That all depends," Reed says. "What's for dinner?" Four fried chickens and a coke. The guard hands him a cloth bowl of something. "Digger meat," he tells him. Reed picks up a squidgy white bit of something. "Looks a bit undercooked," he says. "Humans are like damp moss," the guard tells him. "They rot on the Underside." I guess that's a challenge of some sort. Reed shovels the Digger meat into his mouth and queases it down his gullet, mentally cursing Trip for getting to go on the away missions involving sex, drugs, and disco walls. "Not bad," he mutters. A low horn starts to play, and the guard looks up at one of his fellow Mud Morlocks serenading them. A few other Mud Morlocks join in, playing Digger skulls and Digger bones. Reed settles back, expecting to see Uhura appear to perform a feather dance in the sand at any moment.