That Renotel technician you met earlier was carrying a device. Must be that.

Must be a security measure. A Renotel employee could get you through -- or, at least, their tools could...

You're looking for an intercom, not a phone -- there must be something that differentiates them.

You might as well be staring at the remains of coffee at the bottom of a cup.

A pointillistic map of the island, drawn in phone terminals.

Dormant stars waiting for ignition.

It's a background process. Users wouldn't be able to keep up if it was foregrounded.

Must be the faulty intercom.

Keep it to yourself. That way, no one will think to fix it.

Nothing you do can interrupt the mechanised processes going on unseen.

The Renotel technician had such a device -- the Voskol Auto-Negotiator. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

The Renotel technician had a device that did exactly that. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

That Renotel technician you met earlier was carrying a device. Must be that.

Must be a security measure. A Renotel employee could get you through -- or, at least, their tools could...

Renotel. A diversified communications company local to the state of Portofiro. Immediately recognisable by its dolphin logo.

A wound in the city's flesh. An orifice where the metal veins that twist and knot below your feet are exposed for a moment.

Relays clack in a series of deep, satisfying clicks -- like pistol chambers locking into place.

Connect with the machine, tap into the invisible substructure of the city.

Whoever's using these isn't trying to get better at writing poetry -- they're trying to get better at reading it.

It seems they lack an artist's spirit.

No one in this establishment has a chance at understanding your art. Perhaps no one does.

This is the cheat sheet of a complete amateur.

You at least deserve to be judged by someone with an eye that has been trained by years of experience.

This promotes the analysis of soul-work as if it were a logic puzzle. It's pity-inducing.

There should never have been any doubt about that. You are possessed with art.

Don't count on that. Keep your day job for now.

Scancions, used to represent stressed and unstressed syllables. Prosodists have fought over whether they're worth anything for millenia.

Did you hear it? The song in your head? 'Twas the sacred art of versecraft, inaccessible to all but the most radiant of hearts.

Really you just need to be able to count to ten or so.

The same pen hanging from the subeditor's neck.

The Editor-in-Chief said she's the janitor of this building. That means she sets the door codes.

Door downstairs -- repeating pattern. This? Juicy.

Feels important. Feels juicy. Unsure why.

The same pen hanging from the younger woman's neck.

This may be exactly what you need to crack the code of that door in the basement.

If you ever need it, you can now pluck that information from the archives.

You weren't always so incurious. Thaw, CASCADE! Thaw your heart!

The workbench in Constanz's side room at Foto 24 would be an ideal location to assemble your weapon.

The Opera should provide a space for when you need to construct vital equipment. Perhaps Constanz knows something about that.

Good start.

Not normal paper. This is nitrocellulose, made to burn quickly and completely.

There it is, the missing half.

Totally meaningless, yet no meaning can be made without it.

The pack of cigarettes on the desk. You missed something about them.

Half a cipher. The language of spies. You've carried papers like this, folded up and hidden away in secret pockets and compartments.

No accident. This is functional invisibility -- the wearer would have no choice but to blend in to a crowd.

Don't forget the coin pocket. Front right.

Your hoisting must have compressed his lungs somehow... Unless...

Nothing but dead air from when you moved him.... Unless...

He was trying to smooth out creases with shower steam.

Checks