[ WP ] The population is separated with the rich living above surface and the poor living underground .

Yusuf Al'eyda watches the incandescent light paint sun-like patterns on the drab interior of his living cell. Amid the clangor of machines, he hears the distant call of the *muezzin*. 
 
 A thin white chalkline marks the general location of Mecca, and he kneels to face it. Ideally, he would wash his hands and feet before prayer, but water has become scarce in the Underground. Yusuf mimes the act of cleansing, and is painfully aware of how pathetic it seems. 
 
 *God is great. * He murmurs, but the words are hard to believe here. 
 
 The *muezzin* is cut short by the screech of the working bell. The Masters are calling. 
 
 Up now, through the winding tunnels of the Underground, out into the piercing blue sky of the Master's world. Yusuf's eyes, accustomed to dim incandescence, start to water immediately. 
 
 *E-tuuna ala-hona! * the foreman beckons. Like ants streaming from little cracks in the earth, a small crowd of workers gather at his feet. The foreman herds them skillfully towards a humming truck. 
 
 *You. * grunts the foreman. *You. And you. * 
 
 His finger rests directly before Yusuf Al'eyda. 
 
 Another day's work, then. There are pipes to be fixed, pools to be polished, gas mains to be hammered back into working order. Today, he will eat. God willing, he will be as lucky tomorrow. 
 
 ``... In today's news,'' says the truck radio, `` president Obama has once again denied accusations that drone strikes are now being flown against civilian targets...'' 
 
 A *muezzin* sounds in the distance -- not the pre-recorded tin can sound of the Underground mosques, but instead the throaty, rich call of a trained herald. 
 
 *God is great, * Yusuf mouths once more, and swallows the lie in a deep dark place in his stomach. He dons his pitted helmet at a low angle and steps off into the shadow of the Burj Dubai.
