The flugelbinder on the main sprocket had begun to whirr with a most peculiar insistence. It wasn't the standard, rhythmic thrumming one would expect from a well-oiled sprocket, but more of a gurgling, melodic whine, as if it were trying to recite forgotten poetry through a mouthful of marbles. Archibald tapped the glass casing with a spanner, which only seemed to encourage it. The dials, instead of settling, began to spin wildly, their needles pointing in sequence to a series of hieroglyphs that strongly resembled dancing teapots. It was, he concluded, a perfect time for a sandwich, and perhaps a firm, confident poyo

13