He spent the next day polishing the silver faceplates of his machines until they shone like mirrors. He didn't just maintain the network anymore; he groomed it. Because somewhere across the cold, black water, a general signal was the only thing keeping the world from being completely silent.
Arthur’s world was exactly twelve feet wide, lined with glowing vacuum tubes and the hum of cooling fans. For thirty years, he had been the sole keeper of the outpost on a jagged spire of rock in the North Atlantic. His job was simple: keep the "Radio General" network alive—a daisy-chain of signals that stitched together the isolated outposts of the northern territories.
"I've been broadcasting for six days," the voice replied, gaining a sliver of strength. "The winter storms took the main lines. I thought the network was dead."