Martien Pontecorvo chewed his moustache a bit as he glowered at one of several half-done schematics before him.
He knew damn well that Flood never liked being parked behind a DJ booth when there was music to be played; she was convinced that ’twas better to be in the middle of things (where she could hear the no doubt thrilling remarks of the rabble) than standing behind a desk.
Nearly twisting her ankle on the exposed pipes behind the booth had helped her decision as well.
“Casing,” he mumbled, “I’ll need to work on casing.”
After all, the rabbit had informed him, there’s that shop of fancy player pianos and things, and they don’t have all their workings exposed do they?
“Prims,” he muttered in defeat, “Need to cut down the bloody prims.”
He pulled one of the more senior drawings out and regarded it. A skeletal arm rolled before several towers of gramophone records; the drawing was quickly scrunched and thrown into a makeshift trashcan. Miss Flood had made herself quite at home in the apartment he’d purchased for her as a Christmas present and the rest of the team as a changing room. Which is to say it was a mess. Neither he nor Maku dared to set foot in the bedroom.
Another drawing implied much the same thing, but this time with long rows of records on edge. “Too bloody cumbersome,” was the verdict as that too went into the trash.
That was the problem. Originally the DJ booth itself – not including the speaking horns – was meant to be an exposed rat’s nest of pipework, but it soared well over 150 prims alone. Currently it still exceeded that number with the horns, which was, he supposed, a sort of improvement.
The problem was the AutoDJ, as well as radio. It was more than a little immersion-breaking to have the platters unattended, let alone have the machine randomly playing by itself, as if haunted by a phantom of the turntables.
His hand fell on a stiff piece of card. He picked up the punch card – a promotional one from Eb’ Sidic’s Office Automaton Supplies – and turned it thoughtfully over.
“You’re overthinking it again, old man,” he finally informed himself, before scrapping his latest unborn design and dragging a fresh sheet before him.
“The World’s Largest, Most Powerful, Auxetophonic Jukebox,” he announced to the disinterested window and even more indifferent sky beyond.
He would have begun to delineate a structure impressive, commanding, and with slight Art Nouveau flourishes, but he tripped over one of Flood’s personal items. As mentioned, Miss Flood’s notion of making oneself at home involved making somewhat of a mess.