Hieronymus Squash

Ink has been spilled, thoughts tilled, and wishes willed (ne'er fulfilled) of the sight of the City of the Future. What, though, of its sound? When futuremen focus their sight-modules 'pon the futurpolis, what will slouch towards their sound-modules to be heard? Beeps? Squeeks? Bleeps? Creaks?

Not a creak, guesses this presentman, for the City of the Future got mad oil.