The spinning hive. Bees on the comb. A dynamo, powering the sun (for which they get a fat fee, every day at midnight); an anti-compass defense system, whose flat and fluctuating magnetic fields tend send travelers running around and around, looking for the true north (mapping out their round path later, the travelers guess that they should look for North within, somewhere under the last rib... with this realization, an alert door to the Hyperspace Toll Road opens, offering to take a credit card).