It took Oliver very little time to transform his living quarters into something that was, essentially, a mess.  There was no other word for it.  A well-ordered mess, perhaps: one that showed signs of industry, of activity, of things being built, being modified, being turned into other things, or perhaps dissassembled back into component parts to see where he went wrong in the first place.  But it was a mess.<br/>When she found him, Oliver was sitting backwards on a chair, his coat off, vest undone, shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his necktie loosened.  He had a strange sort of bronze headband on his head, to which was attached some sort of extending arm to which, in turn, was attached a large glass lens, and it was through this that he was intently focusing on something on his desk.  He had a screwdriver in one hand, a pair of calipers in the other, and when she called on him he looked up, the lens giving him the appearance of having one huge eyeball.<br/><br/>"What? Yes, yes, I'll just be one moment," he insisted, showing up ten minutes later in a state of hastily-prepared composure in the parlor room,<em>sans</em>headwear.  Hurriedly fixing his collar, he smiled nervously at Mr. Orlando and Ms. Murray.