“Feel this door!”
Your humble narrator blinked in bewilderment at Martien Pontecorvo, and went to tilt the narrow wooden door with its decorative panel and six glass panes carefully. The thrill of an owner-centric script tingled in my pawpads as I felt its weight.
Not helping was the fact that earlier Martien had shut off the steam engine that drove the compressor which powered the Bombastophone. The only sound now was a steady hiss of escaping air as the system depressurised; after all, attempting to move tanks of high-pressure gas isn’t all that safe. Especially when you’re dismantling the accompanying pipework.
“Well…” I hummed, “It’s about eleven prims, all told, a little Z-fighting in the corners, some sort of scripting… a bit heavy though.”
“This one, yes. This is the template, sir. Imagine!”
Martien turned in a swirl of scarf and coat-tails and rapped his knuckles against one of the pillars that support the upstairs offices.
“The entire south wall will be demolished, sir, the bricks to be recycled, and that wall, along with part of the sides, sir, will be comprised of these french doors, and fine window work above. So visitors can see out and the inquisitive can see in, y’see? Ha ha.”
This humble one did some quick arithmetic in his head, and came to a very ugly number. “And where will you, O master of our fate, find the nigh two hundred primitives to support these doors?”
Did your narrator roll his eyes? Well, yes.
“Not this one,” Martien just grinned, and hefted a second door as though it was nothing. “Try this for weight!”
When I caught the door, I staggered solely because it was lighter than I expected! The item, on closer inspection, was all one piece, but not a hide nor hair of texture boundary, the bane of sculpted prims, could be found. Indeed, I felt the edges where two textures met.
“Mesh?” was all this one could ask.
Martien just smirked and brandished a rather squashed cardboard box from his coat. “Remember I was investigating Mesh Studio?” he asked rhetorically.
What could this one do but stare at him in astonishment?
“We’ll need to redo the roof as well,” he was saying, “makes sense to have a grand entrance. And knock a service door into the new machine room. Not to mention wall in this part – knock out that blasted courtyard – never blinking used it! Make it a boulevard sort of thing. Dancing and swannitude up top – and there you all are fishing down below – what’s happening with your fish, by the way? I’ll see about getting a few workmen in tomorrow or the day after – move everything around. Gas pipes need moving you know. When that’s all done – talking with glaziers and a metalwright – Oh, these damn things. Got an axe or something?”
This one did not answer. Instead, this humble scribe was observing a sheet of paper, depicting a sort of conservatory business seemingly grafted onto the existing factory building. The exuberantly bouncing handwriting betrayed Martien’s current state of mania.
Yes, I did consider a therapeutic conking of Martien’s noggin, but as he apparently wished to turn everything around first, I decided against it. No, this one would locate Miss Flood and inform her as soon as possible.