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Henry held a screwdriver in one hand, a penlight clamped between his teeth, and worked in silence. If it weren't for this skill of his, would Greg ever have bothered teaching him trade secrets, or treated him so warmly?
It was only because so few people knew how to fix this antique mixer that Henry had this chance to get closer to him.
For someone who had studied audio equipment and even hand-built a home theater system in his rented apartment, repairing this vintage machine wasn't much trouble.
The wiring was a mess—not only because of the manufacturer's sloppy habits, but also thanks to years of modifications. Each new tinkerer seemed to resent the mess left by the last, and instead of cleaning it up, piled on even more chaos.
In that situation, Henry didn't dare recklessly snip all the wires and start over. Wire length, however minor the effect, did influence performance. Some people could hear even that.
Greg kept the old mixer not out of nostalgia, but practicality. The company couldn't afford to splurge on a brand-new, top-tier console. And in raw performance, this antique still held its own against newer, pricier models.
So the best option was to preserve its state as much as possible.
The malfunctioning knobs really were caused by poor contact—loose screws, aging wires, brittle plastic insulation. The fix was simple: tighten the screws, wrap worn insulation with electrical tape, make sure nothing shorted. Copper cores don't age much, after all.
As for interference between wires? With this spaghetti mess, magnetic fields had long since knotted together. Anyone who looked at it would lose their appetite.
When Henry finally emerged from under the console, it wasn't just Greg's ugly mug waiting—Audrey and Deborah were also watching the Kryptonian who had just revived their machine.
"Is it fixed?" Audrey Hepburn asked. "We need to get ready to record."
"Boss, it's fixed." Henry glanced at the engineer. "Greg, give it a test. If it's good, we're clear to start."
Greg, headphones on, adjusted the knobs that had been dead before. They responded smoothly now. He flashed Henry a big thumbs-up.
"Alright, we're good to go."
Henry screwed the panel back into place and slid into his assistant's seat. Audrey stepped into the booth, tested a few lines, and then the session began.
During recording, the engineer's job was simply to capture clean sound. The producer, however, had to stay alert, ready to respond to performance choices.
Even with an Oscar-winning actress, Deborah Raffin didn't dare relax. Not every "take" would be perfect.
After each segment, Audrey herself would listen back and discuss with Deborah whether the delivery worked.
For Deborah—still an active actress—this felt like a private masterclass with a legend. Not comprehensive acting lessons, no, but in terms of voice and psychology, the overlap was undeniable. She couldn't help but focus intently.
Henry, on the other hand, could have curled up with a book. During takes, he had no tasks.
Greg, though, liked to chat when things were calm. If he got too absorbed in his own tinkering instead, it would hurt the session's pace. So Henry usually humored him with quiet conversation.
Often, Henry wore a headset too—listening not only to Audrey's voice, but to Greg's murmured notes about levels and tweaks.
Today, though, Henry asked something different:
"Greg, do you know how Michael's side of things is going?"
Greg thought a moment. "Michael brought in Lalo Schifrin as conductor, booked a hall big enough for a full orchestra. That rental isn't cheap, and neither are the musicians. He's watching progress like a hawk.
"By the schedule, they should wrap in a day or two. And since Ms. Hepburn is recording her last story—Princess Laidronette—both sides should be finished around the same time. Then it's on to the next production phase."
Henry nodded. "Everything going smoothly—that's great news."
"Any plans after this?"
"Ms. Hepburn has to head to the West Coast for treatment in early November. If we finish smoothly here, she'll likely stay in New York until then, polishing the recordings if needed. But once November comes, she won't have the time."
"Do Michael and Deborah know?" Greg asked.
"They do," Henry explained. "When we started, there was over a month's cushion. Given her health, we didn't schedule too tightly.
"The real worry was some sudden complication delaying production and interfering with treatment. But now—everything's on track. Truly a blessing."
"The Lord protects the good," Greg said, crossing himself.
Henry blinked. "You're religious?"
"You're not?"
The counter-question froze Henry. Should he be? Believe in what god?
Faith is powerful because it is unknowable, untouchable, beyond profanity. Distance breeds awe.
But this was the Marvel universe. "Gods" here weren't always benevolent. Better to believe in your neighborhood dog than in some cosmic tyrant.
And given that he was, in all likelihood, built on a Kryptonian template—even if not a full "Man of Steel," at least a diluted version—what god could withstand even one of his punches?
But separating faith from god—wasn't it possible to still believe? Superman himself was devout, not in a deity, but in his ideals.
So what was Henry's faith—his conviction?
…Certainly not "world peace." If World War III broke out tomorrow, with nukes flying across the sky, Henry wouldn't lift a finger to stop it.
But what, then, would he actively pursue? He had no answer.
For the first time since arriving in this world, with his Kryptonian body, the traveler faced his own heart honestly.
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