Having been given the run of the facility (perhaps in Douruba's hope that while doing so they might run afoul of some fatal encounter and save him the trouble of further bargaining), Toombs and his copilot had just entered the control room. Immediately aware something of importance was taking place, he and Logan moved off to one side. Out of the way, they kept themselves and watched. All information, Toombs knew, was potentially useful information.
     Certainly the slam boss and the guard techs in the control room where sufficiently preoccupied with what they were doing to ignore the visitors. The chief tech was monitoring a dozen different readouts. One supplied, among other stats, the external temperature. Presently, it was minus one hundred and rising fast. Toombs's pilot eyed it with interest. The only other place he had ever been that showed such numbers was out in deep space itself, and there they didn't fluctuate as rapidly was this.
     "Terminator approaching," the chief guard tech was reporting methodically. Throughout the control room, readouts changed by the second, screens flared, and alarms began to beep for attention.
     "Clocks running, people. Let's pop the cork."

     Another tech moved hands over console. Toombs and his colleagues grabbed for the nearest unmoving object as the whole control room shuddered slightly. But it was a light tremor. What was unusual was that it continued, a steady vibration in the floor, in the walls.
     The control room was rising out of its hole, as slow mechanical mole preparing to peek out at the surface. It ascended on massive, solid alloy screws. The mechanics seemed primitive, but even sealed hydraulics couldn't survive long on Crematoria. If the control room happened to get stuck topside when the sun came up, simple screw mechanisms would behave a lot better than hydraulics, and presumably survive. That was the theory, anyway, tested and verified through computer simulation.
     By technicians and designers who had never actually set foot on Crematoria, the prison staff knew. None of them had any desire to test the validity of that particular mechanical thesis.
     This morning, like every other morning, everything worked as intended, however. Simple in design but sound in practice, the screw and lift system elevated the control room until it was well above the surface. Equally rudimentary, the huge vents on the lower, uninhabited sides of the control room louvered open. Multiple fan-powered exchangers whirred to life and began the vital process of swapping the old sulfur-impregnated air inside the prison with recently chilled fresh air from outside.
     Along with meals, it was one of few eagerly anticipated moments of the day. Prisoners back in their cells moved to doors and bars to suck in as much of the fresh outside as possible. Concealed oxygen generators supplemented the nitrogen and argon that dominated the planet's atmosphere. That was the reason for the hellhound-policed cull. With the control center evaluated, it was theoretically possible for a wily prisoner to slip beneath it and gain access to the outside. Why any fool would want to do so, no one could imagine. But rules were rules. Even futile escapes would mess with the count and despite what Toombs might think, Douruba prided himself on his bookkeeping.

--

     Vents began to close and seal as it grew lighter out on the surface. Exchangers shut down and locked in position. As rapidly as it had ascended, the control room began to lower on its support screws. Through the ports, the sun-shattered terrain outside began to vanish from sight, giving way to smooth-sided walls of solid rock. Moments later, there came a slight jolt as the room docked into its home position. Latches secured room and screws. Their work done for another day, unseen engines and their backups went dormant. Having followed the entire procedure with interest, Toombs nodded appreciatively.
     "One way to clean house…"
     He eyed the largest of the temperature gauges. The control room had only been docked for minutes when the readout broke two hundred and kept rising. It would level out somewhere around four hundred F, he knew. Anything more than that, and the atmosphere would boil off into space. Satisfied he had acquired another fragment of potentially useful knowledge, he and his team members turned to leave.

     A sound made them halt. It started as a low vibration in the soles of their boots, rising steadily until they could hear it clearly even within the sealed confines of the room. Continuing to increase in intensity, it made the pilot think of a runaway drive on a long-range starship. The mercenaries stood as if frozen. Though there was no reason to think anything dangerous passing above them, they eyed the ceiling instinctively. A sound as of a million hoofed animals stampeding in panic directly over their heads caused the pilot to flinch.
     Toombs and the copilot thought to recheck the temperature readout. It number was an even three hundred F and still rising.
     Raising her voice in order to make herself heard, the dazed copilot bawled aloud, "Jesus--what is that?"
     No one answered her. Maybe, despite her effort, no one heard. Or maybe, despite their familiarity with the incredible winds driven by the pressure differential between the hot side and the dark side, none of the guard techs wanted to take the time to look up from their instruments. Not until it had passed.

Foster, Alan Dean (2007-12-18). The Chronicles of Riddick (pp. 207-209, 211-212). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.