The control panel—though it's more of a control room, with the levers and valves spread all over the place—is located in what seems to be a former study. There are remnants of bookshelves near the walls, and a lonely globe with faded yellow lines of continents in the corner. What other items were there, now mostly gone, and only their traces on the old wood of the floor remain.
The freed space is overtaken by machinery. There are no pumps—those are down below, I know. Instead, the room is consumed by a complex web of pipes, metal bars, softly humming crystals and flasks made by a mad glassblower. The latter are full of things that glow, boil, steam and change colors, often more than one at a time.
"I really hope you know how to turn that thing off safely," I say to Zeke. "Simply smashing something like this sounds like a recipe for disaster. Though as a last-resort option…"
