The Dr. #3

Click here to read the first two.

A strange look appeared on the stranger’s face, and without a word, he began backing towards the window.
The doctor figured that if this fellow was inclined to silence, so much the better for him. Reflecting on the fellow’s plight, Dr. Batwinkler began to devise a scheme to help him, but one that would also lift out of his predicament.
“Well now, my good man, ah, you’ve come a long ways up and I don’t doubt it was healthy exercise, and seeing as we’re coming on noon, well –how about a fried egg?”
“An egg?” he asked bleakly. “Yes. I shall accept it as a last comfort before my impending doom.” Here the fellow buried his head in his arms in a posture highly resembling the Dr. Fritz’s stance several pages ago.
“Come! This way to my eating area.” Dr. Fritz beckoned cheerily, determined to rouse the spirits of his guest. Leading, he navigated out of the office, into the laboratory, past mountains of expensive-looking equipment, and through piles of shabby looking-artifacts. Pausing to switch on a Bunsen burner, he came to a stop in front of an apple crate rested on a stack of musty books. Inside was a large, blue hen.
Uttering the civility of “If I may, Henrietta,” the doctor reached into the nest and pulled out three eggs: two cobalt and one silver. With his left hand, he weighed the silver egg and promptly chucked it in a remote corner of the room.
“My Henrietta has funded many scientific discoveries!” he said proudly, “But those aren’t edible, you know!” Deftly, he buttered a frying pan and heated it, and when the butter began to pop, he cracked the eggs and tossed them in.
All through this, the stranger had remained mute, as passing from the sparse, professional office into the laboratory, a chaotic mixture of science and lore antiques, had astounded him. The large, rectangular room was broken into three-sided nooks by tall, chrome, book and display shelves. They were like houses on a street: all were connected by a long hallway. Everything was neatly labled. Reminiscent of Arabian nights, hundreds of oil lamps lit the room brightly. Another was entirely stocked with greatly varying jewelry catalogued “according to property”. A little ways in the hallway was a cardboard box, marked “No apparent ability” full of plain gold rings. Machinery, lavishly coated in buttons, was dotted here and there like islands. Labeled, “Trash,” an especially large nook was almost entirely filled with broomsticks and curiously pointed hats. *Like a library of the ancient world, parchments, tightly curled, were stored in glass jars. Cracked, worn, and dusty, books occupied every other available space.
As Fritz handed over the expertly-fried, blue egg, the guest noticed that something, on a shelf of musical instruments, was moving. It appeared to be twisted rope. Answering to the doctor’s whistle, the rope picked up speed and dropped neatly to the ground at their feet.
“This, my new friend, is Zither, of whom I mentioned previously. And speaking of introductions, my name is Batwinkler, Dr. Fritz Batwinkler.”
“P-p-p-pleased to meet you. I am Savvel Vastion.” Savvel’s voice and vocabulary lost its magnificent, despairing tone as he became more awed and less focused on awing. “What is this stuff?”
“It is my scientific collection. Which reminds me, I have something in the way of a… business proposition.

* Just so you know, I am not really into witches. Please note that that nook was labled, "Trash."

Critiques? Pointers? Anyone?