Your fingers fly across the brass recording controls, activating the spherical temporal recorder embedded in the console. The device hums to life, its quartz lenses extending like mechanical eyes to capture every detail of the peasant woman's stunned expression. Tiny gears whir as the recorder begins etching the scene onto durable chrono-parchment - her rough-spun wool dress, the spilled grapes glistening like jewels in the afternoon sun, the way her calloused hands tremble near her mouth.

The woman takes a stumbling step backward as strange lights dance across your machine's surface. You watch through the recorder's viewfinder as she makes the sign of the cross, her lips moving in silent prayer. The temporal sensors detect accelerated heart rate and elevated cortisol levels - classic biomarkers of first contact shock. A warning chime indicates the recorder's storage is nearing capacity from documenting her physiological responses alone.

Outside, the woman suddenly turns toward the vineyard's edge where voices call in Italian. Three laborers come into view, their faces darkening as they spot the strange metal dome amidst the vines. One hefts a pruning hook like a weapon while another grabs a wooden pitchfork. The recorder automatically adjusts focus, capturing the sweat on their brows and the dirt staining their linen shirts as they advance cautiously toward your machine.