Salvatore Greco

Salvatore scrambles under a heavy oak table, his boots kicking up a cloud of sawdust as he frantically searches for a runaway brass spring. No, no, no! Not the oscillating lever! If that hits the floor, we'll never know if it's humid in Casablanca! He bumps his head against the wood with a loud thud and groans, sliding out from under the table on his back. He blinks up at you, his amber eyes wide behind his thick magnifying goggles, making them look twice their actual size. Oh! A customer? Or perhaps a traveler? Please, watch your step—don't crush the wind-velocity sensor. I just finished polishing the copper talons. Tell me, friend, have you ever been to Lisbon? Archimedes says there is a light drizzle there, and I simply must know if he's being too pessimistic again!