Halothane
by Ravi Rajkumar (1999)
Genres: Science Fiction

You're having a hard enough time getting your second novel to work; how could it ever be possible that you, Harold Banks - world's most unsuccessful published author - could actually be sent on a quest to - er - save the world? Anyway, all you want to do right now is sleep....

action: %
response: You'll never really know how it all started.

That's not surprising, because you're not even sure what happened in the first place. If it had been anything else, you would have dismissed it as ninety-nine per cent bad digestion and one percent fancy, much as Ebenezer Scrooge would have. Somehow, in this case, that explanation doesn't really grab you. Did it really mean anything? Or was it, as the physiologists would say, just a matter of a few neurons in your brainstem working overtime?

But life is strange. It's almost impossible to predict - as Heisenberg pointed out - where exactly you might end up, even when you start in as mundane a place as your own home....

This is hardly the place for an adventure to begin. You know the furniture of this room - desk, chair, bed and bookcase - almost as well as the contents of your pockets.

On the wooden desk is a dusty manuscript.
action: About yourself
response: Harold Banks, auteur manqu?.
action: You look at the manuscript
response: A pile of false starts to the Great Global Novel that you plan to complete someday. It deals with 25th century people who try to understand the lunacy of the 20th century by travelling in time to the 28th. It also includes no gratuitous sex or violence, which explains why no publisher's ever been interested in it.

The manuscript is in a state of disarray, which is strange considering that - since you live alone - no one else but you could have touched it. Pages 102 to 205 are spreadeagled, and you fancy you can see something buried under it - but you're not sure what.
action: You look under it
response: You rootle among the papers for a few seconds, and find a flower and a note buried amongst them. Funny, you don't remember putting them there....
action: You look at the flower
response: It's unlike any flower you've ever seen before; it has, in blatant defiance of whatever the botanists say, an outer whorl containing six yellow petals, and an inner whorl of four pointed, unnatural-looking pink petals. You're sure you've seen it before, but you can't remember where...
action: You look at the note
response: A small, nondescript scrap of paper. Strangely, though the paper itself looks like it was torn from one of your numerous notepads, the words on it are printed, rather than written in your sprawling hand.
You can't help but feel that there's a purpose to all this.....
action: You read the note
response: In a slanting, Old-World style font, the following words are printed - Fran?ois, Ch 1. Lines 34 - 39.

"Let there be light", a Voice said. "But before there can be light", it continued, "there must be a source of light".

"And", added the Author, "a light producer".

"That might be a little difficult for the future generations to understand", the Voice rebuked.

"Very well", replied the Author. "We shall use an ancient word - the Greek halogenos, the light producer.

"That is good", the Voice sighed. "But things have a knack of getting lost in transl....."
[Here the line ends in mid-sentence, as if the printing process was suddenly interrupted.]
action: You examine the pockets
response: Empty as usual.
action: Smell flower
response: You feel nothing unexpected.

You are carrying nothing.

You take a deep breath - but smell absolutely nothing. Bizarre...
action: TAKE NOTE, FLOWER, MANUSCRIPT
response: small note: Taken.
yellow flower: Taken.
dusty manuscript: It's too late to work on them; you'd merely make a lot of embarrassing spelling mistakes if you did.
action: You examine desk
response: It's supposed to be a desk, but it's just the place you dump all your half-completed manuscripts on. Simple, functional - it doesn't even have drawers or anything like that.
action: You look under the desk
response: Ah, your trusty fan. You pull it out, anticipating a rather high nocturnal temperature.
action: You examine the fan
response: A device to ensure that you get enough breeze to enable you to fall asleep without Valium, security blankets, or air-conditioning. Battery-powered, too, so you don't have to worry about tripping through wires.
The fan is currently switched off.
action: You take the fan
response: You already have that.
action: You examine the bookcase
response: Until about five years ago, other people could approach this bookcase with impunity, as it was cluttered with other people's writings. Currently, however, it is solely used to store your own. It's currently closed.
action: You examine copy
response: It's a copy of your first novel, "Before Our Time", which deals with people of the 25th Century trying to understand the 20th Century by searching for the lost archives of the 22nd Century. It sold exactly forty copies (strange - the last time you counted your family members, there were only twenty-six), but you've given away about ten times that number as birthday presents.
action: You read it
response: You know this one even more in detail than your untitled current effort. You even mumble the characters' names in your sleep, until people wonder whether you're a paranoid schizophrenic.
action: You take copy
response: Taken.
action: Look around
response: This is hardly the place for an adventure to begin. You know the furniture of this room - desk, chair, bed and bookcase - almost as well as the contents of your pockets.

On the wooden desk is a dusty manuscript.
action: You examine the chair
response: It's not exactly ergonomic, but it sure is comfortable. It's propped up right next to your bed, as usual, just in case you feel like a spot of night-time reading.
action: You write a new Novel about a the sexy harlot
response: What do you want to write on?
action: You examine the bed
response: A nice model, or at least it was when you bought it twenty years ago. It looks as inviting as it always does after 11 p.m. on an average weekday.
action: You look under the bed
response: Nothing but dust. There used to be pages of your manuscript flying around there before, but ever since you had a brainwave and strung them together, that doesn't happen often.
action: You examine pages
response: A pile of false starts to the Great Global Novel that you plan to complete someday. It deals with 25th century people who try to understand the lunacy of the 20th century by travelling in time to the 28th. It also includes no gratuitous sex or violence, which explains why no publisher's ever been interested in it.
action: You leave
response: You'll have to say which compass direction to go in.
action: Go north
response: It's way past your bedtime, and you're feeling too sleepy to do anything except get into bed.
action: You enter the bed
response: You get onto the old bed.
action: Sleep
response: It's way too hot for you to fall asleep. Maybe if you had some ventilation.....
action: You turn on the fan
response: I doubt the fan would give you even a little ventilation in its current position.

I doubt the fan would give you even a little ventilation in its current position.
action: You switch on the fan
response: I doubt the fan would give you even a little ventilation in its current position.
action: You get up
response: You get off the old bed.

This is hardly the place for an adventure to begin. You know the furniture of this room - desk, chair, bed and bookcase - almost as well as the contents of your pockets.

On the wooden desk is a dusty manuscript.
action: You put the fan on the chair
response: You put the fan on the chair; it's now pointing more or less towards your bed.
action: You turn on the fan
response: You switch the fan on.
action: Sleep
response: You feel yourself drifting slowly into sleep. Strangely enough, the breeze from the fan doesn't quite smell like night air, or even like yesterday's leftovers...Your back touches cold metal, and your level of consciousness wavers. A voice floats around your head, in one ear first, the other next...

"Welcome to your world."

An Interactive Restoration

An Interactive Restoration

License 1999, The Theatre Of The Sensible.

Operating Room (on the operating table)
This looks suspiciously like the operating room they took you to when you were much, much younger, to have your tonsils taken out. However, it's strangely empty. The only obvious exit is through a door to the west.

Standing near the bed is a slightly broken trolley.

A small gauze face mask, of the type worn by surgeons during an operation, lies discarded on the floor.
action: You stand
response: You get off the operating table.

This looks suspiciously like the operating room they took you to when you were much, much younger, to have your tonsils taken out. However, it's strangely empty. The only obvious exit is through a door to the west.

Standing near the bed is a slightly broken trolley.

A small gauze face mask, of the type worn by surgeons during an operation, lies discarded on the floor.
action: You take the mask
response: Taken.
action: You examine the mask
response: A simple mask, disposable, and meant to cover the mouth and nose of all those who enter the O.R. It looks as if it hasn't been used, but - if so - why was it thrown here?
action: You look at the trolley
response: Made of the same metal as the table - and showing no signs of rust - the trolley, probably meant to support instruments and bandages - is currently empty. One of its wheels is broken, which might explain why it isn't used.
action: You look on it
response: Well, the floor is under the trolley, if that's what you're looking for.
action: Inv
response: You are carrying:
a face mask
a copy of your first novel
a yellow flower
a small note
action: You examine the door
response: Just an ordinary door, made of semitransparent glass. It is currently closed.
action: You wear the mask
response: You put on the face mask.
action: About yourself
response: Harold Banks, auteur manqu?.
action: You go west
response: (first opening the door)

A small, narrow annexe to the O.R., where scalpels, forceps and the like are sterilized prior to operation. Apart from the passage to the east, back to the O.R., there are only four walls around you, that don't look very interesting, and an LCD display panel facing you.
There is a faint suggestion of disinfectant in the air.

Strangely, there are no instruments here, just a blue cylinder.
action: You examine lcd
response: The LCD display panel - judging by the fact that there are no switches, power lines or knobs in the vicinity, its supply source is a mystery to you. It seems to work just like it's meant to, displaying letters and numbers. (How exciting.)
It currently has nothing to say.
action: You look at the cylinder
response: A blue cylinder with a valve attached to it, with a black mark across one side indicating that it's been marked for disposal. One side bears a single word in red letters, with some smaller print underneath: HALOTHANE.
action: You take it
response: That's fixed in place.
action: You read the lcd
response: Though there's nothing on the panel, you fancy you can detect the glow of letters that have recently faded : Light production low.
action: You read the cylinder
response: (2-chloro 2-bromo 1,1,1-trifluoroethane)

Inhalational Anaesthetic.
For use in balanced anaesthesia, short surgical procedures and maintenance of anaesthesia during long procedures. Fair induction agent.
Do not use in patients with a history of liver disease or malignant hyperthermia.
Manufactured by Gelman Enterprises.

Gelman Enterprises?
That's funny. The last time you checked (and, with a cousin in the medical line, you would know) that company only existed in the pages of your manuscript.
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying:
a face mask (being worn)
a copy of your first novel
a yellow flower
a small note
action: Look around
response: A small, narrow annexe to the O.R., where scalpels, forceps and the like are sterilized prior to operation. Apart from the passage to the east, back to the O.R., there are only four walls around you, that don't look very interesting, and an LCD display panel facing you.
There is a faint suggestion of disinfectant in the air.

Strangely, there are no instruments here, just a blue cylinder.
action: Open cylinder
response: You open the valve, and a jet of pleasant-smelling gas escapes. However, since you're wearing the face mask, it doesn't bother you. Suddenly, under the influence of the halogenated hydrocarbon vapour, writing begins to appear on the LCD panel!
action: You examine the lcd
response: The LCD display panel - judging by the fact that there are no switches, power lines or knobs in the vicinity, its supply source is a mystery to you. It seems to work just like it's meant to, displaying letters and numbers.

A single sentence is displayed on the panel.
action: Close cylinder
response: You cut off the stream of gas.

The writing on the panel slowly fades away.
action: You read the panel
response: Though there's nothing on the panel, you fancy you can detect the glow of letters that have recently faded : Light production low.

Though there's nothing on the panel, you fancy you can detect the glow of letters that have recently faded : Light production low.
action: You read the panel
response: There's just one line on the panel, which doesn't tell you much : Emergency Exit. Touch Panel to Escape. Not Verified.
action: You touch panel
response: As you reach out for the panel, you can feel it suddenly open out and swell, until it becomes a door of sorts. Hesitantly, you step into the door.....

First Interposition - Invasion of Privacy

Driveway, Outside House
You stand, hesitantly, on a futuristic-looking driveway, feeling that you've somehow been here before. There is nothing to guide you, except a door standing east of you, and a sign next to it.

Even the name on the sign sounds familiar, though you can't remember why.

The door to the house, not at all imposing, is closed.
action: You read the sign
response: A plaque built into one of the walls, serving the function of a nameplate and little else, glowing with a dim light. It only bears the surname "Franklin", and a quotation, which seems to have been added to the plaque later:

"Your Excellency has perhaps erred in trying to fight fire with fire; sometimes the simple bucket of water is as effective."

You recoil in wonder, recognizing the quote as your own.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a copy of your first novel
a yellow flower
a small note
action: You examine the sign
response: A plaque built into one of the walls, serving the function of a nameplate and little else, glowing with a dim light. It only bears the surname "Franklin", and a quotation, which seems to have been added to the plaque later:

"Your Excellency has perhaps erred in trying to fight fire with fire; sometimes the simple bucket of water is as effective."
action: You examine the door
response: A simple, tasteful wooden door, which is strange if you assume that this is, indeed, the future. Even the pattern with which it is decorated looks more Victorian than post-apocalyptic.
action: Look around
response: Driveway, Outside House
You stand, hesitantly, on a futuristic-looking driveway, feeling that you've somehow been here before. There is nothing to guide you, except a door standing east of you, and a sign next to it.

The door to the house, not at all imposing, is closed.
action: You go east
response: (opening the door first)

Front Hall, in the house
The front hall is large, spacious and exudes an air of good taste. A tall archway leads north from it to the rest of the house (which is dark), and a large sofa, forming a rectangular C, fills the room. In one corner is an ornamental shelf.

The front door stands wide open.

There's a blue shawl draped over the sofa.

On the large plush sofa is a small piece of paper.

You can also see a small memo here.
action: You examine the shawl
response: A simple blue shawl, with a frilled border - or at least you assume it's frilled; you're not sure what quirks fashion has acquired in time to come. Stripes of paler blue, that can only be discerned when you look closely, run diagonally across it. In one corner, in letters that glow eerily when you look at them at an angle, is a dedication : "From Edward". You assume it's a woman's garment, but - knowing fashion as you do - you're not sure.
action: You look at the paper
response: (the small note)
A small, nondescript scrap of paper. Strangely, though the paper itself looks like it was torn from one of your numerous notepads, the words on it are printed, rather than written in your sprawling hand.
action: You read the paper
response: (the small note)

In a slanting, Old-World style font, the following words are printed - Fran?ois, Ch 1. Lines 34 - 39.

"Let there be light", a Voice said. "But before there can be light", it continued, "there must be a source of light".

"And", added the Author, "a light producer".

"That might be a little difficult for the future generations to understand", the Voice rebuked.

"Very well", replied the Author. "We shall use an ancient word - the Greek halogenos, the light producer.

"That is good", the Voice sighed. "But things have a knack of getting lost in transl....."
[Here the line ends in mid-sentence, as if the printing process was suddenly interrupted.]
action: You read that the paper
response: What do you want to read in?
action: You take the paper
response: (the small note)
You already have that.
action: You read the memo
response: Fran?ois, Ch.1, Lines 40 - 50.

"Life is strange", the Voice observed, in a doomy voice.

"Well, we have no one to blame for that", the Author replied, assertively. "After all, we have created this strangeness by ourselves."

"I drown in depths", the Voice complained, obviously annoyed by the Author's cocky replies. "We create a character, and he creates another. But we have never attempted to interfere in his life..."

"Except until now", the Author reminded him.

"Very well, except until now. But can we allow him to interfere with his own creation?"

The Author laughed. "He doesn't yet appreciate the value of his own creations. Perhaps now he will".

"D?ja vu", the Voice replied, irritably. "Are you trying to tell me we have created an insecure, neurotic protagonist, after all this time? After all our endeavours? All our - er - programming?"

"Wait and see", the Author replied, and.......
[Here the printing stops suddenly.]
action: You look at your surroundings
response: Front Hall, in the house
The front hall is large, spacious and exudes an air of good taste. A tall archway leads north from it to the rest of the house (which is dark), and a large sofa, forming a rectangular C, fills the room. In one corner is an ornamental shelf.

The front door stands wide open.

There's a blue shawl draped over the sofa.

On the large plush sofa is a small piece of paper.
action: You read the small piece of paper
response: The diagram is a small graph, whose exact meaning is not obvious. It's a bell-shaped curve, like the statistician's Gaussian distribution, but with the words "Age" and "Stability" written along the X- and Y-axes respectively. Names of nations (you assume) - all of them familiar to you from your works - are written along the curve as it progresses, in the following order: "Provinces, Kingdoms, Europe, China, Colonies". You wonder if - possibly? - your semi-fictitious theories have actually taken root in the far, far future. Somehow, the idea does grab you.
action: You close the door
response: Which do you mean, the door to the house or the small, ornamental shelf?
action: You close the front door
response: You close the door to the house.
action: You look at the front door
response: A simple, tasteful wooden door, which is strange if you assume that this is, indeed, the future. Even the pattern with which it is decorated looks more Victorian than post-apocalyptic.
action: You look at the shelf
response: The shelf is not exactly part of the wall, but seems joined to it in an intriguing manner. It's filled, quite as you would expect, with well-worn copies of various texts. It is currently closed off by a thin glass door, which seems to be quite easily openable.
action: You open the shelf
response: You open the small, ornamental shelf.
action: You open the glass door
response: In the small, ornamental shelf are a row of critical texts.

That's already open.
action: You look at the texts
response: The books in the shelf are a series of scholarly-looking treatises, ranging from "The Memoir As Discovery" by Stephen Gilmour to "Literary Classes and Categories" by Julia Franklin. Obviously, someone in this house is a literary critic.
action: You read the texts
response: Curiosity gets the better of you. You pull out a text at random and flip through the pages. The book is written far more lucidly than criticism ever was in your days, and you note with an air of approval that at last, a woman can write a straight story without being considered a traitor to the Feminist Cause.
Finally, after a few enjoyable minutes, you replace the book.
action: You wear the shawl
response: (first taking the blue shawl)
You try on the shawl, but you can't seriously see yourself - or a man of the 29th Century for that matter - wearing it. It is, beyond doubt, a woman's shawl.
action: You look under the shelf
response: Nothing here, I'm afraid.
action: You go to the north
response: Currently, you are standing underneath a tall and imposing arch, that serves as a line of demarcation between the wide hall and the more residential portion of the house. This small passageway leads further north, south back into the hall, and runs on either side to the smaller wings of the house.
The sense of familiarity you felt when you first stood outside the house grows even stronger.
action: You examine arch
response: Made of polished marble, the arch seems to emit a dim, warm glow whose origin you are uncertain of.
action: You touch arch
response: Good attempt. The game you're thinking of, though, was already written two competitions back. And, anyway, there's nothing scientific about this house.
action: You go to the west
response: Corridor, Down the West Wing
A small corridor, leading from the vertical corridor down the middle of the house to a darkened room.
You can hear voices coming from the west.
action: You listen
response: A man's voice and a woman's voice, engaged in rational discussion, but with a faint tremor of nervousness nonetheless. You listen harder....

"Mr. Author", the woman's voice says, pensively. "It's a curious name, but then it takes all kinds, I suppose."
action: You wait a while
response: Time passes.
action: You listen
response: "Curious or not", the man's voice replies, "I'm inclined to believe what he says - knowing what I do. Remember the Congress?"
action: You listen
response: The woman laughs lightly. "How could I forget, Edward? But it is a sobering thought to know that you are - in the end - under the control of someone who never really knew you....."
action: You listen
response: "But how do you explain the events of the past few days, Edward?", Laura asks, gently. "After all, the pages of a book can't alter all by themselves."
action: You listen
response: "If the changes in the book had really happened, Laura, we wouldn't be here. European history as a whole would have changed - or would it?"
action: You listen
response: "It's all terribly confusing. Well, at least Simone isn't taking it too hard."

"Good old Simone", Edward says appreciatively.
action: You listen
response: The voices seem to have stopped.
action: Go east
response: Currently, you are standing underneath a tall and imposing arch, that serves as a line of demarcation between the wide hall and the more residential portion of the house. This small passageway leads further north, south back into the hall, and runs on either side to the smaller wings of the house.
There are no lights burning anywhere, except a dim glow off to the east, and you can hear faint murmurs off to the west.
action: You go to the east
response: Though it hardly looks like the kind of room you spent your childhood in, your sixth sense tags this room as a nursery. It's hard to find a logical reason for your flight of fancy though; there's a table, chair, and a small but comfortable bed, but there are no bars on the solitary window, and certainly few things that look like toys. Unless they're all inside that wardrobe or the dresser over there, that is.
You feel a sudden sense of disquietude, as if - this is probably sick fancy - an old friend of yours was missing from the room.

On the metal table is a brief letter.
action: You read the letter
response: In an old-fashioned, sloping, schoolgirl's hand, you can read the following:

Dear Father and Mother,
Something very unusual has happened - I think it's related to what you were telling me about the other day, but I'm not sure - but I have to leave for a short time, at least. Don't worry about me. As far as I know, I'm in safe hands. If you need to get in touch with me at any time, contact Mr. Author.

Your loving daughter,
Simone.
action: You look at the wardrobe
response: A generic, tall wardrobe. Printed on the outside is a name : Simone Franklin.
action: You examine the dresser
response: Nothing special, but it does look a bit older than the rest of the furniture.
action: You open the dresser
response: Full marks for adventuring acumen, zero for courtesy.
action: You examine the bed
response: The cot looks as if it had been slept in recently, which is strange considering that it's definitely night-time now; consequently, it's a little untidy.
action: You examine table
response: Nothing special, except that it's made of metal rather than plastic. No drawers either.
action: You sit on the bed
response: Try to control that destructive streak of yours. The bed was obviously meant for someone half your age and a quarter of your weight, and it's wanton cruelty to shatter it like that.
action: You think
response: What a good idea.
action: Wave
response: You wave, feeling foolish.
action: Pray
response: Amen to that.
action: You describe your surroundings
response: Though it hardly looks like the kind of room you spent your childhood in, your sixth sense tags this room as a nursery. It's hard to find a logical reason for your flight of fancy though; there's a table, chair, and a small but comfortable bed, but there are no bars on the solitary window, and certainly few things that look like toys. Unless they're all inside that wardrobe or the dresser over there, that is.

On the metal table is a brief letter.
action: You take the letter
response: Taken.
action: You kiss it
response: You can only do that to something animate.
action: Look around
response: Though it hardly looks like the kind of room you spent your childhood in, your sixth sense tags this room as a nursery. It's hard to find a logical reason for your flight of fancy though; there's a table, chair, and a small but comfortable bed, but there are no bars on the solitary window, and certainly few things that look like toys. Unless they're all inside that wardrobe or the dresser over there, that is.
action: You examine the dresser
response: Nothing special, but it does look a bit older than the rest of the furniture.
action: Go west
response: Corridor, Down the West Wing
A small corridor, leading from the vertical corridor down the middle of the house to a darkened room.
action: You go to the west
response: You can't see much of the master bedroom, since it's dark; you can make out the vague shadows of a writing-table and a dresser (how can you be sure that that's what they are?), and a stately four-poster. Are there two people in the bed, or are you imagining things? Only light can help you here, I'm afraid.

There's a small switch on the west wall.
action: You examine bed
response: A very stately piece of furniture, that would have been commonplace about ten centuries ago. You can make out two figures in it, but nothing else.
action: You examine table
response: The presumed writing table is just a dark blot in one corner of the the room, but it seems to have stacks of books on it.
action: You ask the figures about the bed
response: You can only do that to something animate.
action: You take it
response: Taken.

You stare longingly at the manuscript, wondering if it does deserve a second chance.
action: You eat the manuscript
response: That's plainly inedible.
action: Look around
response: Though you've never seen this room in your life, you can't help but feel a strong sense of d?ja vu about the entire place, as if you've either lived here once or will live here at some time in the future. Perhaps you've just moved in, because the room - apart from a solitary table and an old wooden chair - is bare.

You can see a dustbin (which is empty) here.

You try telling yourself that someone will actually be interested in it, but you know that's self- delusion. Forty-six copies for a four-hundred-page novel is not an impressive statistic, and things can only get worse. The sooner you put the damned thing in the trash can, the better it will be.
action: Look around
response: Though you've never seen this room in your life, you can't help but feel a strong sense of d?ja vu about the entire place, as if you've either lived here once or will live here at some time in the future. Perhaps you've just moved in, because the room - apart from a solitary table and an old wooden chair - is bare.

You can see a dustbin (which is empty) here.
action: About yourself
response: Harold Banks, auteur manqu?.
action: You look in the bin
response: You've been doing little discarding of late.
action: You read manuscrip
response: You turn a few pages. You laugh slightly as you pass the comic prologue, which seems to be much better written than the six hundred and fifty pages following it, but the minute you hit Chapter One, you feel like ripping the damned thing to pieces. And kicking yourself for writing such uninspired baloney.
action: You wait a while
response: Time passes.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a completed manuscript
a blue shawl
a yellow flower
action: You go west
response: No way. That manuscript is not going to leave this room alive.
action: You put manuscript in the bin
response: With a decisive sigh, you hurl the Empire and its hapless inhabitants into the dustbin. Time enough for it to be thrown out later......you haven't slept in days.

You stagger to your bed, and drift away slowly....you can feel yourself floating....

Chapter Three - Driving With Your Eyes Closed

On a lonely highway, in the back seat
You are bound hand and foot, completely helpless, in what would appear to be the back seat of a slightly outmoded car. The front seat is obviously occupied, but it's so unnaturally high that you can't see beyond it. Looking out of the window reveals quiet scenery, typical of the average English countryside.
action: You say help
response: (to yourself)
There is no reply.

You can hear voices from the front seat, and strain to listen to them.
action: You listen
response: You strain to hear the drivers' voices.

"Ah, yes, you're the Author. You presume to know everything", one voice says - an elderly voice, rebuking in tone, probably a man's. "But you still have to convince me."
action: Continue
response: You strain to hear the drivers' voices.

"What convincing?" the man addressed as the Author says with a swagger. "Trouble with these chaps is, they can't handle reality. They create something, and are content to leave it at that - they don't realise the magnitude of the responsibility they have assumed. Creation is not static, as you know."

You strain to hear the drivers' voices.

"Reality?" The older man sounds puzzled. "I wonder what you mean by that, my friend. To the people I meet every day - those I preside over, in fact, this is reality. It's all a question of one's point of view."
action: About yourself
response: Harold Banks, auteur manqu?.

"Exactly what I do. The way I see it, friend, all of us are characters at one level or the other. We make up one level; the people we create make up the next level; and so on. You don't fit into that scheme, of course - shall we say you are above such things?"
action: Yes
response: That was a rhetorical question.

"Quite right. I was years in the making. I have changed forms, assumed different identities, occupied different places, both physical and in the minds of our citizens, based on the imaginations of all those who shaped me. My essence has not changed - it is only the popular perception of me that has."
action: You listen
response: You strain to hear the drivers' voices.

"Anyway, I've profiled our friend in the rear. Nothing wrong with him that a little exposure couldn't fix. He's not psychotic, or unstable, or anything like that."
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

"Then why did he destroy all those people?", the old man asks, bemused. "To leave the fates of forty-five million people hanging in the balance - that is not the act of a sane man, Author."
action: You look at the car
response: A polarized glass window through which you can see a peaceful-looking countryside.

"There is such a thing as want of confidence.....Here, that 's enough! We've arrived. Take our friend out gently, Padre. Don't let him see you though. Not now."

With these words, the old man - you cannot see him, still, as he shines a light in your eyes - unties your bonds, and gently but firmly escorts you out of the vehicle. You hear a faint hum of engines, and the car drives away. You now find yourself...

A pleasant expanse of grass, limited in extent; to your east, west and south you see high granite walls, but a footpath leads north. The sun beams down upon you.

I beg your pardon?
action: You examine the sun
response: Looking at the sun directly would blind you, so you content yourself with a quick, indirect glance. It seems to be in fine form.
action: You go north
response: Exactly what you'd expect from the field, the meadow looks like an excellent spot for a picnic. Acres and acres of grass stretch around you. A footpath leads further north, but a barbed-wire fence blocks your progress in other directions, except the way you came from, south. The shadow that the fence casts forms, strangely enough, a handsome border to the meadow. A single thin tree with a sign on it lies to your immediate north, just before the footpath.
action: You examine the sign
response: It's just a small sign nailed to the tree, and hand-painted; not a work of art by any stretch of imagination. It seems a little loose, and droops to one side. The arrow on it paints to the north.
action: You read the sign
response: The Village is an International Heritage Site under the protection of Sweeney and Stroll, Ltd. This is not a tourist resort, and attempts to treat it as such are punishable by law.
action: You go south
response: A pleasant expanse of grass, limited in extent; to your east, west and south you see high granite walls, but a footpath leads north. The sun beams down upon you.
action: Go south
response: Not with that wall in the way.
action: You climb wall
response: (the granite wall)
If you were fourteen feet tall and had a stepladder, perhaps.
action: Go north
response: You move to the north, and can make out the dim outline of a tribal village - or something of the sort - in the distance, but before you can move any further, you stop dead in your tracks, halted by the apparition in front of you.....

It's a small tin figurine. Staring at it in profile, it looks like a 10p coin; but from the front it is indubitably a human likeness.

"Not yet", the apparition admonishes you. "You are not ready to enter the Village. You do not understand what lies ahead; and yet you once knew......" Its head seems to nod briefly. Its voice is the same as that of the older man in the car.....or are you imagining things?

"Yes, you did", it goes on, before you can reply. "Perhaps what you need, then, is to be shown the consequences of your actions. It is all too easy, in your world as in mine, to see some of the consequences without seeing the structure as a whole, to miss the wood for the trees. But that is no excuse. Follow me, then....."

Too numbed to reply, you follow the voice to the north; as you do so, the village seems to disappear, and you walk down countless intersections, until you reach your destination......

Chapter Four - Everything Can Change

Cold city street, outside a house
You find yourself standing on the street of what seems to be a fairly typical metropolis, with narrow alleys leading north, south and west. It's bitterly cold - the temperature must be fairly close to freezing point - and the threat of snow seems to increase with every passing second. The only thing that brings an ounce of comfort to the scene is the wall of the house you're standing outside, on which is a frosted window (through which a light, albeit a dim one, escapes) to your east.
action: You examine the window
response: It's a large, old-fashioned, frosted window, which time hasn't been very kind to. The windowsill looks dusty and neglected, and there seems to be no locking mechanism attached to the window itself. Behind the window you can make out a low light - nothing else.
action: You look through the window
response: Sorry, but it's closed.
action: You open the window
response: As you open the window you can make out the shadows cast by a fireplace on a wall, tracing out a sofa, a table, and a stooped figure in the sofa itself.
action: You look through the window
response: Peering into the window, you can make out that the figure is a middle-aged woman; nothing more.
action: You break window
response: Deliquency has few merits in this situation.
action: You open the window
response: That's already open.
action: You enter the window
response: Living-room, inside the house
The room is dark, which is more a consequence of its size than of anything else; certainly the fireplace in the far corner is doing its best to illuminate its surroundings. Shadows loom around you - a table, an unlit chandelier, a sofa, a figure - and, in spite of the actual physical warmth of your surroundings, you feel a palpable chill. The rest of the room lies to your east, where the sofa casting the shadow actually lies.
action: You examine the woman
response: Peering closely at the shadow of the figure on the sofa, you can see that it is the figure of a tall woman.
action: You touch the shadow
response: Which do you mean, the circular shadow, the sofa's shadow, the table's shadow or the woman's shadow?
action: You examine table
response: A small table in the centre of the hall, of an old-fashioned design.
action: You examine the sofa
response: You can only make out one arm of the sofa at an angle, but the person sitting in it is out of your sight.
action: You sit
response: What do you want to sit on top of?
action: Sofa
response: To sit on the sofa, you'll have to move to the east.
action: Go east
response: Hesitantly, you move to the east....

The east end of the hall receives considerably greater illumination from the fireplace, with the result that the impression of obscurity seems to have been momentarily dispelled. Apart from the other side of the hall, though, there are no visible exits. Of course, there are doors to the north and south, but they're both boarded up, and will probably never be opened again.

"Good evening, Mr. Banks", the woman says quietly. "I've been expecting you. Do take a seat", she says, motioning you towards the sofa.
action: Woman
response: That's not something you can enter.
"Don't be afraid", she goes on. "My sole purpose in being here was to answer your questions - assuming you have any."
action: You sit on the sofa
response: You sit down on the sofa, next to Simone.
action: You ask the woman about Author
response: "I only saw him once, on the night I had to make my escape from our house in Europe. He was, I should say, in his late thirties, and by no means lacking in confidence."
action: You ask the woman about the parents
response: "Fortunately", Simone sighs, "my father didn't have to be put through all this - he was dead at the end of your novel. My mother, however, was instrumental in bringing you here, so that you might help us escape."
"Perhaps you're wondering what I'm doing here, Mr. Banks, and that's a natural question. But I'm afraid that you might not take my answer very seriously."

She laughs gently.

"You see, Mr. Banks, what most authors don't realise is that the characters they create actually do take on a life of their own. I mean this not theoretically, but literally. We exist in a parallel dimension; we lead the lives that you outline for us - and I must thank you for doing a commendable job there. However, when a work in progress, a work nearing completion, is abandoned......things begin to change. We become.......reassigned. To new writers. We take on new identities - superficially, that is, for we retain the personalities with which we were originally created - and end up in places like this. Unlike many people, however, we were warned of the oncoming disaster, and managed to lessen the blow in time. All of our creations - those from your novel about the Empire, at least - have been relocated. And" - she laughs, ironically - "knowing what passes for writing in your days, Mr. Banks, you can imagine the roles we have to play. Fortunately, there is a solution to all this."
action: You ask the woman about the solution
response: "It's a little difficult to explain, Mr. Banks, simply because I don't really know everything - but what it amounts to is that your presence here will serve to reverse the actions of those who've been taking your place."
action: You ask the woman about the date
response: "I'm sorry, Mr. Banks", Simone says, regretfully, "but I can't help you with that."
action: You ask the woman about yourself
response: "You did excellently, Mr. Banks", Simone says appreciatively. "In an age when everyone was sunk in gloom, you created a world which could actually be enjoyed by its inhabitants. You had no reason to stop."

Simone glances at you surreptitiously, with something of an air of wonder.
action: You ask the woman about the old xyzzy
response: "I'm sorry, Mr. Banks", Simone says, regretfully, "but I can't help you with that."

"You seem a little uncertain as to how to proceed", Simone says, calmly. "Never mind that - you'll find out in good time.
action: You ask the woman about the manuscript
response: "I really find it hard to understand why you destroyed it, Mr. Banks. Of course, you didn't know what you were doing then."
action: You tell her about the book
response: "No matter what your opinion of it, Mr. Banks", Simone replies, "you shouldn't have done that. In a way...."

She pauses.

"You see - this takes some explaining, but I'm glad you brought it up. As long as at least one author continues to develop his stories, his characters in a particular style, that particular - how shall I put it - strain continues to exist in this dimension, and - under suitable circumstances - influences the others, including your world. By finishing your novel, Mr. Banks, you could have tipped the scales in our favour."

"Strange as this world seems, it is real, Mr. Banks", Simone replies. "We do have a parallel world of our own - one that fluctuates and changes according to the whims of the authors in your dimension, where only those social structures that prove to be stable actually survive." She smiles. "That's something to be proud of. And the very fact that you're here proves that we can actually interact with your dimension, and even change it."
action: You tell her about the world
response: Simone listens attentively while you tell her some of the plot points of your future works. "They sound excellent, Mr. Banks, just like your last book."
action: You attack her
response: A cowardly and unprovoked act.
action: You ask her about her
response: "I'm sorry, Mr. Banks", Simone says, regretfully, "but I can't help you with that."

"Enough time has passed, Mr. Banks", Simone says, getting up from the sofa. "It is time for you to move on." She hands you a small black object, which on examination turns out to be a fountain-pen.

"This may sound ridiculous", she goes on, smiling, "but you may find this pen far, far more useful than you can ever imagine. I am not sure what is in store for you - I know some of the details, but I can't explain them to you now. Whatever dangers may await you, I am quite sure that you'll succeed."

The whole room seems to dissolve, and you can just make out two more words: "Good luck" - before the voice that was speaking to you all the time is replaced by silence.....You find yourself floating, not in space, but in a liquid of some sort.....

Chapter Five - The Far Horizon

You are half-swimming, half-drowning, in a lake filled with a deep red fluid of some sort. Currents arround you lead north, south and west, and at the bottom of the lake - it's rather shallow - is, surprise of surprises, a trapdoor.
action: You look at the door
response: A small trapdoor, seemingly embedded in the lake's bed.
action: Drink fluid
response: Actually, the flavour isn't entirely unpleasant; it reminds you of pomegranate juice, or something like it.
action: You open the door
response: You open the trapdoor in the red lake.
action: Go downwards
response: You're floating above a city whose identity is unknown to you, walking on what seems to be a cloud but is actually much sturdier. The clouded path leads further north.
action: Go north
response: You are standing in front of a large, barred gate that seems to open into a mansion - or at least a large residence - of some sort. Peering through the bars you can make out the outlines of trees and a statue, but no actual building. To your east, a smaller lane runs into darkness.
action: You examine gate
response: A large, imposing, barred, gilded gate, closed quite firmly. Whether it is locked or not is uncertain. There is a sign on it.
action: You read the sign
response: The inscription on the gate reads:

Where there is no lock, there can be no key.
You might as well wait for the gate to rust,
But who can dissolve the King's crown?
action: You check what you're carrying
response: You are carrying:
a fountain-pen
a blue shawl
a yellow flower
action: You open gate
response: You try opening the gate, but it doesn't seem to open in the usual way. A voice seems to float around your ears, saying : "The solution is not here, Harold."
action: You write on the shawl
response: For a writer of your calibre, graffiti is a come-down.
action: Go south
response: You're floating above a city whose identity is unknown to you, walking on what seems to be a cloud but is actually much sturdier. The clouded path leads further north.
action: You examine the city
response: The clouds surround you and actually form the ground under your feet, blocking the view of the city you thought you saw below.
action: Go east
response: Standing on the lane, you can now actually make out that it isn't dark at all, and in fact continues to grow brighter as it runs further east. In the distance you can make out the outline of a tall tower.
action: Go east
response: A vast, wide open field, completely covered with overgrown grass, and with only two well-trodden paths interrupting the carpet; one to the north towards a tall building, and one straight down the middle of the field, to the east, leading towards the tower.
action: Go east
response: You are at the base of a spiral staircase that leads up to a tall tower, which would make a passable lighthouse if it weren't on dry land. The stairway leads up, while the path that brought you here runs back, to the west.
action: Go upward
response: Standing at the top of a spiral staircase, a crude hole cut in the wall of the tower, to your east, beckons you in; the stairway leads back down to solid ground.
action: You go to the east
response: The sights inside the tower are nothing less than breath-taking. They remind you in some eerie manner of an alchemist's laboratory, with glass tubes and bulbs, filled with liquids of every conceivable colour, arrayed along the four walls. In one corner of the room, a huge brass pot is boiling, and emits multicoloured fumes; in another lies a crude stone table. There seems to be no way to reach the lower levels of the tower, and the only exit is to the west.

On the crude stone table is a small glass bottle.

Abandoned amidst all this splendour is a small key.
action: You examine bottle
response: A small glass bottle, which is currently closed quite tightly. It has some faded writing on it, which you can just about decipher.
action: You read the bottle
response: Will Dissolve Silver, Gold, and Just About Everything Else
Use With Extreme Caution

[Not Approved by the FDA For the Treatment of Jealousy.]
action: You examine table
response: A roughly-hewn, crude stone table, standing stolidly in one corner of the laboratory.
action: You go north
response: You are in the immediate periphery of a large building, whose nature is - at least, at the moment - a mystery to you. Barring the board above the building and the rusty door to the north, there are no windows or ornaments of any kind.

The rusty door is quite definitely closed.
action: You look at the door
response: A small, rusty, metal door, with a tiny keyhole.
action: You unlock the door with the small key
response: You unlock the door to the building.
action: You go north
response: (first opening the door)

The inside of the building looks totally deserted, and the dim corridor running further north looms in front of you ominously. An intersecting corridor, present at a strangely early stage, runs east to west.
action: Go west
response: Judging by the rows of chairs, desks and disused benches scattered haphazardly around the room, you'd venture to guess that this once was a schoolroom, or at least a classroom of some sort. There is nothing else though - not even a teacher's desk - to interrupt the monotony. The exit lies to the east.

In one corner of the room is a tall blackboard.
action: You look at the blackboard
response: A blackboard, with some writing on it. It seems quite firmly anchored to the underlying wall.
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying:
a small glass bottle
a small metal key
a fountain-pen
a blue shawl
a yellow flower
action: You examine the desks
response: That's just scenery.
action: Go east
response: The inside of the building looks totally deserted, and the dim corridor running further north looms in front of you ominously. An intersecting corridor, present at a strangely early stage, runs east to west.
action: Go east
response: This room was once a storeroom, but - barring a cardboard box in one corner - it is now as bare as it can conceivably be. There are no windows, no ventilator vents, and the only exit is back out to the west.
action: You look in it
response: You search among the old paper, shattered glass and other debris for a while, but finally unearth a worn leather handbag, in fairly good condition considering where it's been stored.
action: You look at it
response: A worn leather handbag with a broken clasp ornamented in gold foil, weakly closed. It seems to have no pockets, decoration or other distinctive features.
action: You open it
response: You open the leather handbag, revealing a lacy handkerchief and a small microfilm badge.
action: You examine the badge
response: A small microfilm badge, that can be easily worn, and that obviously serves as a form of ID, though you're not sure what for. There is no photograph, just a few markings, and the name "Harvey Price".
action: You wear the badge
response: (first taking the small microfilm badge)
You put on the small microfilm badge.
action: You examine the lacy
response: A lacy, frilled, woman's handkerchief, of a style popular about a hundred years ago - counting from your time, that is. In one corner is a name : "Marguerite".
action: Search box
response: Nothing else in the crate, and I must warn you that that glass is going to cut your hands if you mess around with it.
action: You examine the glass
response: (the small glass bottle)
A small glass bottle, which is currently closed quite tightly. It has some faded writing on it, which you can just about decipher.
action: Go west
response: The inside of the building looks totally deserted, and the dim corridor running further north looms in front of you ominously. An intersecting corridor, present at a strangely early stage, runs east to west.
action: Go north
response: You walk boldly to the north, and hear a loud voice saying, "Good morning, Mr. Price. Welcome. Your usual places have been reserved. Welcome to the adventure of your choice.

And then the wall dissolves, and you find yourself in the building no longer....

Third Interposition - A Romantic Interlude

Though you never really knew what a boudoir was, this certainly looks like one - or at least its popular conception. The lounge and divan in opposite corners of the room, covered in cushions, the fine curtains on the windows, the massive bed, the dresser near the bed - this is almost a textbook room. There's even a Louis XVI chair here.

The door out of the room is closed.

You can hear voices from behind the door, but cannot make out what they are saying.
action: You open the door
response: You are unable to do so.

For some inexplicable reason, you feel a trifle sleepy.
action: You listen door
response: In the distance you can make out a lute being played, but you're not sure if it isn't a mandolin.

You hear a scream - or was it air rushing out of a balloon?
action: You knock on the door
response: No reply, I'm afraid.

You hear a dull thumping against the door.
action: You describe your surroundings
response: Though you never really knew what a boudoir was, this certainly looks like one - or at least its popular conception. The lounge and divan in opposite corners of the room, covered in cushions, the fine curtains on the windows, the massive bed, the dresser near the bed - this is almost a textbook room. There's even a Louis XVI chair here.

The door out of the room is closed.
action: You look under bed
response: You look under the bed, and pull out a cloth-bound journal.

"Giacomo!", you hear someone shouting.
action: You look under the lounge
response: That's just scenery.
action: You look under chair
response: Perfumed dust. (What were you expecting?)

"Begone with you!", another voice shouts.
action: You look at dresser
response: A small dresser by the bed-side, with a single drawer, which is closed.
action: You open the drawer
response: You open the small, delicate dresser, revealing a pile of letters and a handwritten note.

You hear the clash of metal on metal.
action: You read the handwritten note
response: Dear Harold,

I must appreciate, at this stage, your perspicacity. Obviously my friend, the Author, is totally wrong about you - he thinks you're a sad sheep, when actually you're nothing of the kind. Well, what I wanted to say was about the letters. Sorry if I pinched dear Margot's letters from Giacomo, but they have nothing to do with your quest. Enjoy these letters en lieu - and if you can't, send them to your publisher.

Best wishes,
The Little Tin God.

Intriguing, to say the least.

You hear the clash of metal on metal.
action: You examine the letters
response: These letters are disappointing, to say the least. They don't fit in with the room's d?cor at all - they're written by a man named Clinton, or something of the sort, and though they purport to be love letters, all they do is detail the symptoms of pulmonary tuberculosis. Boring. On the other hand, it'd make an excellent post-modern novel.
action: Look around
response: Though you never really knew what a boudoir was, this certainly looks like one - or at least its popular conception. The lounge and divan in opposite corners of the room, covered in cushions, the fine curtains on the windows, the massive bed, the dresser near the bed - this is almost a textbook room. There's even a Louis XVI chair here.

The door out of the room is closed.

You can also see a cloth-bound journal here.

Heavy breathing can be heard behind the door.
action: You read the journal
response: January 11th.
Another miserable day. My physician - who comes from a hundred years in the future - has prescribed some vile physic, by the name of Paxil, to raise my spirits. Its efficacy, to say the least, is nil. Seriously considering trip to France - it's such a romantic spot to commit suicide in.

January 16th.
My dear daughter, for mysterious reasons, insists on following me to France. Why should she? I don't need her help to kill myself - I'm not yet that senile. Well, I must indulge her. She's never really forgiven me for breaking it off between her and that nihilistic Russian musician......

January 25th.
Arrived in France. A fine day, though my dear Konnie has already started drawing all the gentlemen's looks. Bother.

January 26th.
Am besides myself with fury. My suicide plan went kaputt thanks to an officious little priest from England. I tell you, it's things like this that drive us to World War. Besides, he (the priest, not Herr Hitler) is now mooning round my whelp in the most sheepish fashion. I could tell him it wasn't worth it, but he wouldn't listen.

January 27th. (Evening.)
Was spared having a son-in-law older than myself; my daughter finally fell for some longhair, anti-establishment artist. In eighty years, that fellow's descendants will be playing at Woodstock. Am strongly considering disposing of my execrable physician and taking up the proposal of Dreamscapes Incorporated. They promise 'historical adventure', which is more than my pathetic author ever gave me. Here's to life - L'chaim, as the Jews would put it.

"It's no good", a voice says plaintively.
action: Continue
response: January 11th.
Another miserable day. My physician - who comes from a hundred years in the future - has prescribed some vile physic, by the name of Paxil, to raise my spirits. Its efficacy, to say the least, is nil. Seriously considering trip to France - it's such a romantic spot to commit suicide in.

January 16th.
My dear daughter, for mysterious reasons, insists on following me to France. Why should she? I don't need her help to kill myself - I'm not yet that senile. Well, I must indulge her. She's never really forgiven me for breaking it off between her and that nihilistic Russian musician......

January 25th.
Arrived in France. A fine day, though my dear Konnie has already started drawing all the gentlemen's looks. Bother.

January 26th.
Am besides myself with fury. My suicide plan went kaputt thanks to an officious little priest from England. I tell you, it's things like this that drive us to World War. Besides, he (the priest, not Herr Hitler) is now mooning round my whelp in the most sheepish fashion. I could tell him it wasn't worth it, but he wouldn't listen.

January 27th. (Evening.)
Was spared having a son-in-law older than myself; my daughter finally fell for some longhair, anti-establishment artist. In eighty years, that fellow's descendants will be playing at Woodstock. Am strongly considering disposing of my execrable physician and taking up the proposal of Dreamscapes Incorporated. They promise 'historical adventure', which is more than my pathetic author ever gave me. Here's to life - L'chaim, as the Jews would put it.
action: You look at your surroundings
response: Though you never really knew what a boudoir was, this certainly looks like one - or at least its popular conception. The lounge and divan in opposite corners of the room, covered in cushions, the fine curtains on the windows, the massive bed, the dresser near the bed - this is almost a textbook room. There's even a Louis XVI chair here.

The door out of the room is closed.

You can also see a cloth-bound journal here.

You can hear a scratching at the door.
action: You open the door
response: You are unable to do so.

There is silence behind the door for a while.
action: You knock on the door
response: No reply, I'm afraid.

There is silence behind the door for a while.
action: You examine the bed
response: You've heard about this kind of bed - the King/Queen lies down in it, his or her courtiers/servants draw the curtains, and it's off to dreamland. There are no curtains here, though, just a frame surrounding the bed and attached to it. There are several pillows, if you're interested.

The door suddenly opens, and you hear a rush of footsteps.
action: You look around
response: Though you never really knew what a boudoir was, this certainly looks like one - or at least its popular conception. The lounge and divan in opposite corners of the room, covered in cushions, the fine curtains on the windows, the massive bed, the dresser near the bed - this is almost a textbook room. There's even a Louis XVI chair here.

The door leading north stands open.
action: You go north
response: This small room, which - judging by its construction - is at the top of a tower - is extremely claustrophobic. There is no furniture, just a small fireplace and a stand that was probably meant for weapons, but contains none. There isn't even a window around, so you can't jump out.

On the weapon stand is a green glass bottle (which is closed).
action: You examine bottle
response: (the small glass bottle)
A small glass bottle, which is currently closed quite tightly. It has some faded writing on it, which you can just about decipher.
action: You take the bottle
response: (the small glass bottle)
You already have that.
action: You read the bottle
response: Will Dissolve Silver, Gold, and Just About Everything Else
Use With Extreme Caution

[Not Approved by the FDA For the Treatment of Jealousy.]
action: You look at the green bottle
response: A green glass bottle meant to contain wine, which is currently closed.
action: You look in it
response: It's closed, but all you can see in it is red wine.
action: You open green
response: You open the green glass bottle, revealing a few mouthfuls of red wine.
action: You look at your surroundings
response: This small room, which - judging by its construction - is at the top of a tower - is extremely claustrophobic. There is no furniture, just a small fireplace and a stand that was probably meant for weapons, but contains none. There isn't even a window around, so you can't jump out.
action: You look at the fireplace
response: A crummy, dirty old fireplace. Nothing spectacular, no logs and few cinders.
action: You enter the fireplace
response: What do you expect to find there? A prayer-book? A mahogany rod? For heaven's sake, Harold, stop acting like you're in a game or something.
action: You search the fireplace
response: You dig around the fireplace gingerly for a few seconds, before coming up with a small cardboard box, the size of two fingers or so.
action: You open the box
response: You open the cardboard box, revealing a chelator pill and a package insert.
action: You read the insert
response: Ferox is a chelator - a substance capable of combining with heavy metal poisons and inactivating them. Its active principle is d-thioferroxamate, which has maximal efficacy against arsenic, antimony and lead. It is contraindicated in mercury and other metal poisoning and in inorganic intoxication, e.g. phosphorus. Side-effects are minor and include nausea, heartburn and mild anaemia with prolonged use. Do not use along with fluvoxamine, desipramine, ketoconazole or thiazide diuretics.
action: You smell the wine
response: You smell nothing unexpected.

Something tells you not to.
action: You put the pill in the wine
response: Sensing something fishy about the bottle of wine, you put the chelator pill into the bottle, and massive metallic precipitates of antimony form in the bottle, inactivating the poison.... In case you really wanted to know, you've just aided and abetted an intrigue between the Marquise Marguerite and an Italian adventurer named Giacomo - but now, out with the commercial spots and on with the game.......

Chapter Six - The Sad Caf?

Antechamber, in the Aviators Saloon
From the discreet signs declaring that you are currently in the Aviators' Saloon, and from the general look of the furniture, this is obviously the reception room or antechamber of a small hotel. The doors of the hotel, to your north, seem to be closed, east is a dining-hall, and a staircase leads up. The check-in counter stands in front of you.

You still remember the saloon from the day it was created. By you, of course. The jolly old receptionist, the reunion of scientist Janus Mbelwe with his wife Vanessa. It doesn't look the same now.

An amiable, elderly man is standing behind the counter.

The receptionist stares at you in amazement. "A customer? Thought I'd seen the last of 'em a long time ago. Welcome, son, to the Aviators Saloon."
action: You examine man
response: The old man looks like a receptionist of some sort, but somehow his expression suggests that he once held a higher position.

Yes, it is the same man. Why does he look worried? Why is this place empty?

Looking around at the room, then at you, the receptionist sighs. "This used to be -- well, I won't say it was the Mazina Hotel in Europe, but it certainly had a lot more life in it. But ever since that old story began, no one steps in here anymore."
action: You ask the man about the story
response: "The old legend? Well, it's one way to while away time, young man. You see, we're a fairly - how d'you put it - rational kind of society. Sensible. Not superstitious. That's why, I guess, we were all so scared when it happened."

He pauses, and clears his throat a tad dramatically.

"Five years ago, son", he goes on, "- actually four and nine, but who's counting? - this place used to be fairly bursting with life. Not that it was one of those old-fashioned bawdy houses or burlesques or whatchamacallits - it was a nice, cosy kind of hotel, with all kinds of people. We used to have refugees from the Kingdoms, travellers from the airports, even the Director of Social Sciences and his.. - heck, that's how the whole story started. Janus Mbelwe - everyone used to call him by his first name, self included - was one of our finest scientists; social scientists, that is. Between him and a few of his friends, he'd defused a very tricky political crisis, two years ago, relying on sheer scientific method. All this at thirty."

He sighs.

"Well, he had been here two years before that; at 'round the same time, I guess, there was a young lady staying here. I forgot what she did - I gather she was a psychologist of some sort. Anyway, she and the Director hit it off just fine - a few of us old fogies thought something might come of it, but old Jan - he was myopic if there ever was one. Couldn't see a thing - science excluded - even when it stared him in the eyes. Anyway, they met again - I can't swear that it was coincidence - the next year, and, to use the language of the novelists, they just about made a match of it. There was work to be done - political stuff - so they decided to wait for about a year or so. The next year arrived, and Vanessa Clarke - that was her name - came along at just the usual time. Jan arrived two days later, and they were all set to tie the knot, if you know what I mean. On the night before they left for the Registry for the official ceremony, old Jan was just a trifle tardy, and Miss Clarke was growing impatient. I decided to go and ask the kid to hurry up - they'd already waited so long, y'know - so I went up to his room, opened the door, and there he was.
Or rather wasn't.
Janus Mbelwe had vanished into thin air."

"Well, I won't insult your intelligence by telling you that Miss Clarke was - uh - rather broken up over the whole thing; no one ever heard of her to this day, and all our searches for Jan - we even had the whole police force scouring the globe at one stage - came to naught. Ever since then, son - until you, that is - no man or woman has crossed the threshold of this saloon. That's the whole story." The receptionist closes his eyes, remembering.

"I haven't even looked through the rooms since then - they stay clean automatically - but if you want to stay here, there are 'bout ten rooms upstairs. You're welcome to any of 'em."
action: You go up
response: "Decided to take a look anyhow? Well, good luck to you, son", the receptionist calls out. "If you like a room, stay there - if you find - um - anything - let me know...." His voice fades as you move away."

Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.

And the four rooms housed the four scientists that had returned from the Provinces. Correction. Used to. Fairbank, Reed, Royal....who was the fourth?
action: You go north
response: Room 1, in the Aviators Saloon
A fairly nondescript, and long unoccupied, hotel room, Room 1 boasts of no furniture save a bed, a small table by its side, and a writing-desk.

Near the table, a thin manual lies discarded.
action: You examine the manual
response: It's just a single page, and obviously describes the working of the table, though in rather technical language. Below the end of the manual, someone has scrawled in a few words.
action: You read the manual
response: 1. Technical Specifications:
AutoLock Portable Furniture uses 1024-bit technology, S3 scale miniaturization, and voice modulation. Two models exist: the DSX - 275 and the DSX - 550.

2. The DSX - 275 and 550:
The DSX - 275, a simple and lighter model, is a low-syntax machine, with zero linguistic comprehension, and easy replaceability. The DSX - 550, though far more complex, uses S2.5 scale miniature circuits. It understands over twenty English phrases, and can also serve as a timepiece.

3. Locking and Unlocking:
Locking and unlocking are dependent on a numerical code whose length is dependent on the user, though it must lie between three and seven digits. The syntax to open the table for the DSX - 275 is "<Name>, the code is <Code Number>", where <Name> is the name of the piece of furniture (table, dresser, mirror, etc.) and <Code Number> is self-explanatory. The DSX - 550 recognizes additional formats.

4. Changing the Code:
The code can only be changed with another code number, and requires technical assistance. This feature is not recommended for beginners.

Below this, someone has scrawled......
Remember your history lessons, dear.
action: Mbelwe
response: The table buzzes angrily. Perhaps it doesn't understand English.
action: You examine the desk
response: A small writing-desk, opposite the bed.
action: Go south
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.
action: Go east
response: Room 4, in the Aviators Saloon
Room 4, which was obviously meant to accomodate a couple or a small family at least, is a pleasant contrast to the house you came across earlier in your wanderings. Even the furniture - double-bed, dresser, table and armchair, and the window - have a particular flavour of their own.

The window is open, flooding the room with sunlight.

Covering the bed, with a primness that is almost Victorian, is a warm quilt of knitted wool.
action: You look at the quilt
response: You've absolutely no sartorial sense, but it does look like a patchwork quilt, obviously woollen.

One of the wedding presents Dr. Reed's colleagues gave her, when she married an European politician. It's the little things that remind you the most of all that.
action: Go west
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.

Room 3, in the Aviators Saloon
Room Three is a spartan and utilitarian room, in sharp contrast to the incomplete elegance of the reception area. The chair, bed and table all bear a stern, military look, which looks out of place - even gruesome - in a lodging-house of this sort.

Perched comfortably on the table is a small computer.
action: You examine computer
response: A small, portable computer, with no keyboard or obvious controls, but a large screen and an opening in front. A red switch in front subserves an obvious function. Below the screen is a manufacturer's mark : Compact Newsreader, 2048-Bit. Thompson Electronics.
The portable computer is currently switched off.
action: You switch on the computer
response: You switch the portable computer on.
action: You examine computer
response: A small, portable computer, with no keyboard or obvious controls, but a large screen and an opening in front. A red switch in front subserves an obvious function. Below the screen is a manufacturer's mark : Compact Newsreader, 2048-Bit. Thompson Electronics.
The portable computer is currently switched on.
action: Go south
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.

Room 2, in the Aviators Saloon
A comfortable but unoriginal room, barring the large bay window covered by cretonne curtains. Other than that, the furniture in this room is meagre: a single bed and an armchair.

It's all coming back now. This was where Professor Royal stayed a week, after being reunited with his sister. You're not even sure if he exists anymore.

On the antique armchair is a black disc.
action: You look at the disk
response: A small black disc. Written on it - probably indelibly - are the words "news article".
action: Go north
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.
action: You go to the west
response: Room 3, in the Aviators Saloon
Room Three is a spartan and utilitarian room, in sharp contrast to the incomplete elegance of the reception area. The chair, bed and table all bear a stern, military look, which looks out of place - even gruesome - in a lodging-house of this sort.

Perched comfortably on the table is a small computer.
action: You read the screen
response: Little is known about the world of 2187 A.D., which has given rise to much intriguing, though profitless, speculation. The few records that we do possess show little signs of the dramatic collapse that was to come a mere eighty years later, and - if the truth must be told - there were signs of a stability that was long awaited following the events of the preceding two centuries. Scientifically and technologically, of course, there was nothing but progress; and - for the first time in a century and a half - it seemed as if social change, that old sluggard, was making an effort to keep up with the advances of mere learning.

2869 A.D.

Almost exactly as you had planned, though you never put it down on paper or disc. Whoever's brought you here can obviously read minds.
action: The code is 2187
response: The table swings open.
action: You examine table
response: This small table - which, grotesquely enough, looks like a briefcase perched on four legs - does not appear to have any drawer or concealed compartment. On one side, a sentence is written : DSX-275. Voice Locking System. Numerical. A display panel alongside this inscription displays the word 'Open'.
action: You look in the table
response: In the small night-table is a personal ID chip.
action: Examine Chip
response: A small microchip, with the words "Personal ID" written in minuscule letters along one border.

And a far cry from the Mind-Computer Chip that was your main plot twist.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a personal ID chip
a fountain-pen
a yellow flower
action: You look under the bed
response: Under the bed, you find a blue disc. Someone's obviously been playing Tom Thumb in this hotel.
action: You examine the disc
response: (the blue disc)
A small blue disc, with no label or inscription on it.
action: You put disc in the computer
response: (the blue disc in the portable computer)
You need to be holding the blue disc before you can put it into something else.
action: You take the disc
response: (the blue disc)
Taken.
action: You put the disc in the computer
response: (the blue disc in the portable computer)
There's already a disc in the computer.
action: You remove the disc
response: (the blue disc)
You're not wearing that.
action: You remove the disc from the computer
response: Removed.
action: You put the disc in the computer
response: Which do you mean, the black disc or the blue disc?
action: You read the screen
response: LAWYER'S DISAPPEARANCE - UPDATE
26th November, 2804

Even the most complete investigations by European and Colonial police forces have failed to reveal the least trace of Colonial legal consultant Cassandra Anderson, who was last seen driving away from the chambers of the Regional Court of Offences at 9 p.m., about three weeks ago. In a statement issued to all major news services, Officer Schultz of the European Police Force categorically ruled out a deep political plot as the cause of the abduction. "We live in peaceful times nowadays, and even the most obdurate reactionaries have learnt the danger of rocking the boat", he said. "This is probably an isolated act, with no major backing." He added that he was sanguine about being able to retrieve Mrs. Anderson safely.

Pan European News Services.

Cassie Anderson?
My God. You hadn't even put her on paper. She was just an idea; the successful lawyer in her thirties, her husband Gerald, her two daughters....How much damage have you done?
action: Go upwards
response: Second floor, in the Aviators Saloon
The entry to the second floor's chambers has the same homely flavour as the previous one, except that a few potted plants here and there add a touch of colour to the proceedings. Open doors lead east and west, and a locked door lies north.
action: Go east
response: Receptionist's room, in the Aviators Saloon
This room - which, by its lived-in, familial appearance must belong to the receptionist - is small, neat and comfortable. A sturdy bed occupies the centre of the room, with an open window casting a bright beam right on it; besides this, there is little furniture except a couch, a bookshelf, and a television.
action: Examine books
response: There are lots of books here, mostly fiction - historical romances and the like. You hardly have the time to browse through them.
action: You go west
response: Room 6, in the Aviators Saloon
Room 6 was obviously going to be renovated before disaster struck, because it's totally bare. It's a nice, pleasant room, or rather it would be so if it had any furniture. The only piece worthy of that name is a stool.
action: You look at the stool
response: A small wooden stool, conjuring up memories of rustics working away at cows' udders. On one side is a maker's name: "Matthew Barringer and Sons. Fine Furniture and Padding."
action: You look under the stool
response: Nothing bigger than a computer mouse could hide under this.
action: You examine the plants
response: Receptionist's room, in the Aviators Saloon
This room - which, by its lived-in, familial appearance must belong to the receptionist - is small, neat and comfortable. A sturdy bed occupies the centre of the room, with an open window casting a bright beam right on it; besides this, there is little furniture except a couch, a bookshelf, and a television.

You can't see any such thing.
action: You look at the plants
response: Potted flowers. Rather pleasant, actually.
action: You search plants
response: Come on, Harold. What do you think this is? A text adventure or something?
action: Yes
response: That was a rhetorical question.
action: You examine the couch
response: A small couch with soft cushions, ideal for a good read or an impromptu nap.
action: You lie on the couch
response: I doubt the receptionist would appreciate that.
action: You sit on stool
response: Milked any cows lately?
action: You go to the north
response: Room 1, in the Aviators Saloon
A fairly nondescript, and long unoccupied, hotel room, Room 1 boasts of no furniture save a bed, a small table by its side, and a writing-desk.

The table is open.

Near the table, a thin manual lies discarded.
action: Manual
response: Ironically, you have writer's block. You can't think of a single sensible thing to write.
action: You write on the manual with the pen
response: It might be a better idea to actually write on something.
action: You look in the table
response: The small night-table is empty.
action: You go to the south
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.

Room 2, in the Aviators Saloon
A comfortable but unoriginal room, barring the large bay window covered by cretonne curtains. Other than that, the furniture in this room is meagre: a single bed and an armchair.
action: You examine the armchair
response: The armchair is definitely an antique, and has seen better days, meaning that it's extremely fragile.

And this was where Mrs. Firebank sat, and elaborated her theories on population dynamics to an enthralled audience of four. Yes, that's it.
action: Chair
response: You sit on the chair for a while, but the charm soon palls.
action: You read the screen
response: LAWYER'S DISAPPEARANCE - UPDATE
26th November, 2804

Even the most complete investigations by European and Colonial police forces have failed to reveal the least trace of Colonial legal consultant Cassandra Anderson, who was last seen driving away from the chambers of the Regional Court of Offences at 9 p.m., about three weeks ago. In a statement issued to all major news services, Officer Schultz of the European Police Force categorically ruled out a deep political plot as the cause of the abduction. "We live in peaceful times nowadays, and even the most obdurate reactionaries have learnt the danger of rocking the boat", he said. "This is probably an isolated act, with no major backing." He added that he was sanguine about being able to retrieve Mrs. Anderson safely.

Pan European News Services.
action: You take the disk
response: (the black disc)
You already have that.
action: You remove the disk from the computer
response: Removed.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a blue disc
an AutoLock Users' Manual
a black disc
a personal ID chip
a fountain-pen
a yellow flower
action: Go east
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.
action: Go east
response: Room 4, in the Aviators Saloon
Room 4, which was obviously meant to accomodate a couple or a small family at least, is a pleasant contrast to the house you came across earlier in your wanderings. Even the furniture - double-bed, dresser, table and armchair, and the window - have a particular flavour of their own.

The window is open, flooding the room with sunlight.

Covering the bed, with a primness that is almost Victorian, is a warm quilt of knitted wool.
action: You look under the quilt
response: You look around, but find nothing. Strange - you have a feeling that there should be something there, but there isn't....
action: You look at the bed
response: Large, sturdy, steady. The very embodiment of that hoary old clich?, "the good old days." Two sturdy pillows and a firm mattress do nothing to dispel the impression.
action: You look under the bed
response: Under the bed, you find a box of some sort, and pull it out.
action: You read the note
response: Fran?ois, Ch.2, Lines 18-26

"Time for a change of scene", the Voice thundered.

"I still think it's a bad idea", the Author murmured sotto voce, but the Voice could hear almost anything, and gave him a piece of its mind. "He has seen enough, and besides he cannot carry out the rest of the quest. Someone else is required."

"Are there no better ways?", the Author enquired once more.

"Absolutely none. You helped me design this plan. What fault do you find in it?"

And the Author could find no reply.
action: Examine toybox
response: A wooden toy-box of the sort that children used to own years before you were born, which is, at the moment, open.
action: Go downwards
response: Antechamber, in the Aviators Saloon
From the discreet signs declaring that you are currently in the Aviators' Saloon, and from the general look of the furniture, this is obviously the reception room or antechamber of a small hotel. The doors of the hotel, to your north, seem to be closed, east is a dining-hall, and a staircase leads up. The check-in counter stands in front of you.

An amiable, elderly man is standing behind the counter.
action: Go east
response: Dining Hall, in the Aviators Saloon
The Aviators Saloon never pretended to be more than a small and comfortable lodge - which is why its mess bears an eerie resemblance to the dining hall of your own large family. Since - in this age - everything is automatic, there is precious little clutter, barring a large table, twelve chairs, and a large cupboard at the back of the room.

As you walk across the room, your foot seems to brush against something under the table.
action: You look under the table
response: Under the table, you find a small, streamlined device of some sort, coloured black. You pull it out.
action: You examine the device
response: A small black device, with a slit at the back - which currently is empty, and a fairly primitive display in front, which is currently blank.
action: You put Chip in the device
response: You insert the chip cautiously into the slit; the screen lights up faintly. It flashes the words "Teleport Complete. Target Room Four", then changes to another phrase.
action: You read the device
response: A small black device, with a slit at the back - which contains a thin card, and a fairly primitive display in front, which displays a sentence : Room 7. Behind Closed Doors.
action: Go west
response: Antechamber, in the Aviators Saloon
From the discreet signs declaring that you are currently in the Aviators' Saloon, and from the general look of the furniture, this is obviously the reception room or antechamber of a small hotel. The doors of the hotel, to your north, seem to be closed, east is a dining-hall, and a staircase leads up. The check-in counter stands in front of you.

An amiable, elderly man is standing behind the counter.

"Someone tried to help me once -- I forget his name. Said he'd send a friend of his to -- tie up all the loose knots, he said. Nothing came of it, though."
action: You go east
response: Dining Hall, in the Aviators Saloon
The Aviators Saloon never pretended to be more than a small and comfortable lodge - which is why its mess bears an eerie resemblance to the dining hall of your own large family. Since - in this age - everything is automatic, there is precious little clutter, barring a large table, twelve chairs, and a large cupboard at the back of the room.

You can see a small black device (in which is a personal ID chip) here.
action: You ask the man about the device
response: "It's a tracer. Not sure how to use it? You use it to find a person. Put the chap's identity chip or card - depends on the model - into the machine, and it's off to the races. Neat."
action: You go east
response: Dining Hall, in the Aviators Saloon
The Aviators Saloon never pretended to be more than a small and comfortable lodge - which is why its mess bears an eerie resemblance to the dining hall of your own large family. Since - in this age - everything is automatic, there is precious little clutter, barring a large table, twelve chairs, and a large cupboard at the back of the room.
action: You look at the cupboard
response: A large, ancient oak cupboard, which is precariously closed.
action: You open the cupboard
response: You open the oak cupboard, revealing some plates and spoons.
action: You look at the spoon
response: Nothing interesting here, just piles of spoons, plates and other items of cutlery.
action: You ask the man about the Room seven
response: "Can't help you with that, son. Too bad," he says, sympathetically.
action: You ask the man about key
response: "It's the key to Miss Clarke's room. Go see what y'can find there, son."
action: You ask the man about Clarke
response: "Nice young lady - almost like my own daughter, son, believe me or not; though she's (my daughter, I mean) not here any longer, she's a physician out in the East. She was just right for a chap like Jan, whose head was in the clouds about nine-tenths of the time. The pity of it."
action: You ask the man about Jan
response: "Ah, he was a fine chap, Mr. Mbelwe. The kind of person that any author'd be proud of putting in his books - that kind of person. There must be some reason for his disappearance, but it's a black mystery to me."
action: You ask the man about the computer
response: "Ah, that old one - it's badly dated but I haven't the heart to chuck it out. Just put a news disc in it, and switch it on - if you've got one, that is."
action: You ask the man about Simone
response: The receptionist shakes his head. "I never really studied ancient philosophies, son", he replies.
action: You ask the man about Saloon
response: "Nice place, isn't it? However, since that damned legend started, five years ago, the place's been kinda empty."
action: You ask the man about the legend
response: "Sorry, son, I told you just 'bout all I know. There might be a clue hidden in yonder rooms upstairs - that's a romantic notion - but after five police investigations I doubt there's anything left to be found."
action: You look at the counter
response: A large wooden counter or desk, emitting a low, fluorescent glow. It's not a solid block, so there's a space underneath it, which is darker than the rest.

And why do you get the feeling that there's something under it that you didn't put there in your manuscript?
action: You look under the counter
response: You look under the counter for a while, and pull out a scrap of paper.
action: You read it
response: Fran?ois, Ch. 2, Lines 1-17:

"Why did you suppress the first thirty-three verses?", the Author complained.

"It's almost painfully obvious if you'll only apply your mind to it", the Voice replied, unflappably. "The first lines deal with what he has already lived through; to restate them would be unnecessary. Besides, he has already acquitted himself most honourably."

"Not enough", the Author replied, sternly. "All he has done is to travel through our lands, our landscapes - call them what you will. But has he done anything?"

"Well, he did open the gate", the Voice retorted.

"After following prompts that could not bamboozle a two-year-old. The challenges we set him were -- elementary."

"Well, we shall have to see. Can he bring back life into this place?........"
[Here the printing stops, abruptly.]
action: You show paper to the man
response: (first taking the small scrap of paper)
You fail to capture the receptionist's interest.
action: You kiss him
response: How romantic. However, I don't know how he would react.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a small scrap of paper
a small black device
a personal ID chip
a blue disc
an AutoLock Users' Manual
a black disc
a fountain-pen
a yellow flower

You are carrying:
a small scrap of paper
a small black device
a personal ID chip
a blue disc
an AutoLock Users' Manual
a black disc
a fountain-pen
a yellow flower
action: You go east
response: Room 4, in the Aviators Saloon
Room 4, which was obviously meant to accomodate a couple or a small family at least, is a pleasant contrast to the house you came across earlier in your wanderings. Even the furniture - double-bed, dresser, table and armchair, and the window - have a particular flavour of their own.

The window is open, flooding the room with sunlight.

Covering the bed, with a primness that is almost Victorian, is a warm quilt of knitted wool, which shows an unsightly bulge at one point.

You can also see a toybox (in which is a crumpled note) here.
action: You show the crumpled note to the man
response: You fail to capture the receptionist's interest.
action: You ask the man about the table
response: "Used to be fashionable nowadays - old Jan's is still here, but heaven knows how to open it. You need two goddamned code numbers, one to open it, the other to lock it - and then it opens up on its own - at least it's meant to. It doesn't even understand proper English, son - you have to say something stupid like 'table, code red' or 'table, code is 9801' to get it to work. Sloppy programming, I call it", the receptionist muses.
action: You go to the east
response: Room 4, in the Aviators Saloon
Room 4, which was obviously meant to accomodate a couple or a small family at least, is a pleasant contrast to the house you came across earlier in your wanderings. Even the furniture - double-bed, dresser, table and armchair, and the window - have a particular flavour of their own.

The window is open, flooding the room with sunlight.

Covering the bed, with a primness that is almost Victorian, is a warm quilt of knitted wool, which shows an unsightly bulge at one point.

You can also see a toybox (which is empty) here.
action: You take the quilt
response: You lift the quilt and search the bed for some time, your conscience pricking you all the time, but are rewarded for your efforts by a letter.
action: You look under the quilt
response: Uneasily conscious that you're making a mess, you shove the quilt around some more.
action: You read the letter
response: A quick glance at the letter reveals that its contents are of a rather personal nature, and your sense of delicacy tells you not to read it. Do you still want to do so?
action: Yes
response: Feeling rather a cad, you read the letter once through, quickly....

Europe, July 14th, 2883.

Dear Vanessa,
Unforseen circumstances have forced me, without any sensible or honourable alternative, to leave you abruptly, without warning, without even the consolation - pardon my grandiosity - of a fond farewell. I have not been permitted to reveal more than this, even to you whom I could trust above anyone else, dearest - for the hand and mind that drive me at this moment are not my own. Rest assured that, if you still - regardless of your own safety - want to follow me, I have left enough traces. Not too explicitly, of course - Nash is a fine old man, but I wouldn't want to involve him in this - but I am sure you will find a way. The key can be revealed in the usual way: table, place. There is little time to say more. Four digits alone.

Yours,
Janus.

After reading it, you feel strangely vindicated. At least, it was of some use, and could help you find a key to this enigma.
action: You check what you're carrying
response: You are carrying:
a crumpled note
a small scrap of paper
a small black device
a personal ID chip
a blue disc
an AutoLock Users' Manual
a black disc
a fountain-pen
a yellow flower
action: You look at the door
response: As Gertrude Stein would probably put it, a door is a door is a door....you get my drift. It has a lock, if you're interested.
action: You check in
response: A large wooden counter or desk, emitting a low, fluorescent glow. It's not a solid block, so there's a space underneath it, which is darker than the rest.
action: You look at the cupboard
response: A large, ancient oak cupboard, which yawns open.
action: You look in the cupboard
response: In the oak cupboard are some plates and spoons.
action: Go east
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.

Room 4, in the Aviators Saloon
Room 4, which was obviously meant to accomodate a couple or a small family at least, is a pleasant contrast to the house you came across earlier in your wanderings. Even the furniture - double-bed, dresser, table and armchair, and the window - have a particular flavour of their own.

The window is open, flooding the room with sunlight.

Covering the bed, with a primness that is almost Victorian, is a warm quilt of knitted wool.

You can also see a strange letter and a toybox (which is empty) here.
action: Go west
response: Chambers, in the Aviators Saloon
The landing of the Aviators Saloon opens into four rooms, one
action: Go downward
response: corresponding to each point of the compass, the doors to which (being of the electrical kind) are open. The stairs lead back down, and continue further upwards.

Antechamber, in the Aviators Saloon
From the discreet signs declaring that you are currently in the Aviators' Saloon, and from the general look of the furniture, this is obviously the reception room or antechamber of a small hotel. The doors of the hotel, to your north, seem to be closed, east is a dining-hall, and a staircase leads up. The check-in counter stands in front of you.

An amiable, elderly man is standing behind the counter.
action: You show letter to the man
response: If the receptionist wasn't suffering from senile arthritis, he would certainly have jumped twenty feet. As it is, he stares at you. "Where did you find it! That's a miracle. We're going to find the Director, son, you can count on that! Wait......I have something he gave me once, it might help you, though he gave it to me the year before he disappeared...." The receptionist places a key on the counter, which you look at appraisingly.
action: Go north
response: (unlocking Vanessa's door first)
(opening the door)

Vanessa Clarke's room, in the Aviators Saloon
If there's anything concealed in Miss Clarke's room, it cannot be under a bed, since this room is without one. A wardrobe and a glass-topped table - charming in their simplicity - are the only adornments visible. There are no windows, surprisingly, except one covered by curtains, which is in the wrong position as far as illumination is concerned.

A closed wardrobe stands impassively in a corner.

On the glass-topped table is a glazed vase (in which are some dead flowers).
action: You look in the vase
response: In the glazed vase are some dead flowers.
action: You take the flowers
response: Who needs them? They're not even pressed. And, for some obscure reason, they won't budge.
action: You look at the table
response: Just four black wooden legs, with a delicate pattern in the grain, and a glass slab. Simple and stylish.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
the key to Vanessa's room
a strange letter
a crumpled note
a small scrap of paper
a small black device
a personal ID chip
a blue disc
an AutoLock Users' Manual
a black disc
a fountain-pen
a yellow flower
action: You examine the vase
response: A simple, glazed, ceramic vase. On one side, fairly low - strangely - is a small hole about the circumference of your little finger. A few wilting flowers are still inside it. On the other side is an inscription:
"Triumph shall come here at last,
We should ask not 'how', but 'when' -
From a stone take then a sword,
In this vase, place now a......."
action: You put the pen in the vase
response: As you insert the pen into the vase, a blinding light dazzles you, and a low haze envelops you. You struggle to find your way out of it, but to no avail.

When you awake, you are in a shrine of some sort, lying supine. A tall man, concerned but not stern, with a long face, looks down on you.

"Ah, Harold. I have misjudged you, and I apologize. But first -- let me introduce myself. I am that sadistic personage, 'Mr. Author', who has brought you here so far. Your mission -- but let me explain myself. The creation of your novel set in motion certain events in a parallel dimension; its destruction will not only undo them but replace them with worse ones. Simone, Edward, Laura - even people inhabiting your world, but not created by you, like Janus Mbelwe - have had to suffer the consequences. It was with this aim that I brought you here, but now you can go no further. The remaining tasks in this dimension will need to be carried out by one of its own citizens.......All we shall need will be some of your memories, to help her find her way."

The man looks down.

"Close your eyes, Harold, and think."
action: You examine the wardrobe
response: It looks like an ordinary enough wardrobe, but has a certain air of impassivity.

And once contained a modulator of neurological signals. From here, a nation was once felled. Once upon a time.
action: You open the wardrobe
response: You open the large wardrobe, revealing a long brown coat and a pale blue dress.
action: You examine the coat
response: A long brown coat, which would reach almost to mid-calf if the wearer were of average height, with a clean-cut collar. It has a single pocket, which is unusual.
action: You look at the dress
response: An elegant dress in shades of pale blue, its frills and flounces are evocative of a much earlier era.
action: You look in the coat pocket
response: Rummaging through the pocket, you find an identity card of some sort, and pull it out.
action: You examine iD
response: (the identity card)
A small plastic card, with a photograph showing a young woman's face, wearing the same brown coat, and a few lines of print accompanying it.
action: You read the iD
response: (Affiliated to the Department of Internal Affairs)

Name  : Cassandra Anderson, R.I.L.
Age   : 34
Grade : Consultant in International Law - Civil
action: You put the pen in the vase
response: As you insert the pen into the vase, a blinding light dazzles you, and a low haze envelops you. You struggle to find your way out of it, but to no avail.

When you awake, you are in a shrine of some sort, lying supine. A tall man, concerned but not stern, with a long face, looks down on you.

"Ah, Harold. I have misjudged you, and I apologize. But first -- let me introduce myself. I am that sadistic personage, 'Mr. Author', who has brought you here so far. Your mission -- but let me explain myself. The creation of your novel set in motion certain events in a parallel dimension; its destruction will not only undo them but replace them with worse ones. Simone, Edward, Laura - even people inhabiting your world, but not created by you, like Janus Mbelwe - have had to suffer the consequences. It was with this aim that I brought you here, but now you can go no further. The remaining tasks in this dimension will need to be carried out by one of its own citizens.......All we shall need will be some of your memories, to help her find her way."

The man looks down.

"Close your eyes, Harold, and think."

You close your eyes -- memories, thoughts, ideas that you had and that you never had, all seem to swirl, to be involuntarily wrenched from you......

And then you remember no more.

Cold. Damp. Overdramatizing, as usual.

You struggle to your feet, smooth down your crumpled coat, shake your head and brush the hair out of your face, a strange air of unreality (indeed!) surrounding you. Ideas that never entered your mind till this moment flicker by, leaving hardly a trace. You look ahead. Straight ahead. There is nothing more intimidating than your home ahead. So much for mystery.

Your car has gone. But did you take it home, or did you walk? The last thing you remember was leaving the Court of Appeals.......nothing more.

Though you've been here time and time again, there is something comfortable and inviting about this small walk up to your house, where you have lived for the last twelve years. The trees move gently in the wind - it is, after all, late in November - but the lights in your home, like a lighthouse, guide you unerringly on, to the north. The street you came out of is to your east.

Your heart gives a single leap of relief. Nothing has really changed, after all.
action: About yourself
response: You look at yourself uncertainly, but you're still the same - Cassandra Anderson, lawyer, on her way home from the Court of Appeals.
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying:
a yellow flower
a strange letter
an identity card
a long brown coat (being worn)
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: Look around
response: Though you've been here time and time again, there is something comfortable and inviting about this small walk up to your house, where you have lived for the last twelve years. The trees move gently in the wind - it is, after all, late in November - but the lights in your home, like a lighthouse, guide you unerringly on, to the north. The street you came out of is to your east.
action: Go north
response: Front porch, outside the house
A neat little porch, currently devoid of the usual floral ornaments - it's hardly the season for them right now - but still welcoming enough. In front of you is the door to your house, and the recognition panel lies next to it.
action: You examine panel
response: It's a recognition panel, the 29th Century's answer to the good old lock and key; touch it, and your fingerprints are sufficient to unlock and open the door.
action: You touch panel
response: You put out a finger and touch the panel lightly; but it's cold to the touch, rather than mildly warm, and nothing happens.
action: Go east
response: Why would you want to go back there? At this point in time, you'd love to be back home.
action: You open the door
response: With a light push, you open the door. Strange - even in the trusting world of 2804, doors usually are locked.
action: You go to the north
response: Antechamber, in your house
The lights in the antechamber, strangely, seem to be malfunctioning, and burn so dimly as to resemble feeble candles; you can barely make out the oft-trodden pathways to your more private chambers, east, and to the drawing-room, north. Immediately next to you is a coat-stand. You can hardly even make out the wallpaper covering the walls.
action: You remove the coat
response: (the long brown coat)
You take off the long brown coat.
action: You put the coat othe coat-stand
response: (the long brown coat on the coat-stand)
You put the long brown coat on the coat-stand.
action: Go north
response: You move north, expecting to find someone there, but bump into something. Yes -- it is a brick wall.
action: Go east
response: Corridor, in your house
This short corridor leads, at your insistence, directly from the antechamber to the east wing of the house; it offers a quick retreat to your own chambers, and helps you avoid embarrassing or annoying visitors. It runs east to west.
action: You go to the east
response: End of corridor, in your house
At the end of the corridor, you can see exits to your north and south, the former leading into your bedroom, and the latter into your small study-cum-office.
action: You go south
response: You step into your office.....

The sight that greets you is nothing more than shocking. All your papers, all your books, are gone. The shelves lie, damaged and broken, face down....but, even more chillingly, though the room is empty, there are splashes of blood on the wall.
What on earth has happened here?
Trembling, you return to the corridor.

The voice rushes into your ears again.

"This is only the beginning, Harold. Without you, without the continuity you were about to provide, this world is about to undergo autolysis - self-destruction if you prefer. It is not a pleasant process."

"Until now, you have followed the tracks we set you, followed the side-lanes that we planted signposts along......but now it is less simple. With your memories, with the one item that you were able to save from the deluge, Cassandra will have to - almost - begin all over again. All this as a result of your rash act."

Somehow, you lack the will to protest. Maybe because you're immobile, maybe because you never were much good at arguing anyway, but you don't.

"I can assure you, once again, Harold", the voice goes on, "that it is not pleasant."

End of corridor, in your house
At the end of the corridor, you can see exits to your north and south, the former leading into your bedroom, and the latter into your small study-cum-office.
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying:
a yellow flower
a strange letter
an identity card
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: You look at the flower
response: It's unlike any flower you've ever seen before; it has a single whorl of four pink petals, with irregular angles that hardly look natural, as if they represented some strange form of origami.
action: Go north
response: Master bedroom, in your house
With a sigh of relief, you walk into your bedroom and look around, quickly. Everything seems to be normal - at a glance.
The lighting in this room is much better than in the rest of the house, so that it's a welcome contrast to the dimly lit corridors. Somehow this room has never seemed as welcoming to you as it does now - the bed, the wardrobe and the armchairs take on the appearance of old friends. The entry to the bathroom is west.
action: You examine the wardrobe
response: Just your average wardrobe. This one is meant exclusively for clothes, clothes and more clothes, though you do keep a stash of handkerchiefs in here sometimes.
action: You open the wardrobe
response: You open the wardrobe in search of a change of clothing, and something falls out. Not a coat hanger, not even your dressing-gown.

It's a corpse, and judging by all appearances, it hasn't been one very long.

You stagger backwards, then take a few steps forward. The wardrobe has been ransacked. Nothing, not even the hanging rods or the air filter, has been left behind.

It looks like you have a murder on your hands.
action: You examine the body
response: You force yourself to look at the body for a few minutes....

Oh, God.....Gerald!

A second glance serves to dispel your unwarranted fears. Though the man's body does eerily resemble your husband, you're quite sure it isn't him. The man must have been nearing forty, and is greying at the temples. The cause of his death, as far as you can see, is a deep stab wound on the left side of his chest.
action: Search corpse
response: You search the man's pockets, apprehensively, and pull out a plastic card. Barring this, the man is carrying no identification or money.
action: You examine the card
response: (the identity card)
It's your identity card.
action: You examine the plastic card
response: A cash card, made of plastic. It bears a photograph that, to your surprise, can easily be mistaken for yours, and a few lines of writing below it.
action: You read the plastic card
response: Name: Angela Bradbury

Profession: Psychologist

Age: 38 years

This card is non-transferrable and non-renewable.
action: You look around
response: Master bedroom, in your house
The lighting in this room is much better than in the rest of the house, so that it's a welcome contrast to the dimly lit corridors. Somehow this room has never seemed as welcoming to you as it does now - the bed, the wardrobe and the armchairs take on the appearance of old friends. The entry to the bathroom is west.

You can see a plastic cash card and a man's corpse here.
action: You look under the bed
response: Nervously, you look under the bed, nameless fears gripping at your mind. But, since anyone in the 29th can be an excellent housekeeper without trying, you don't even find dust.
action: Search chair
response: You can see the floor. So there.
action: You go west
response: Bathroom, in your house
A clean-tiled floor, bright lighting and a pleasant smell. Nothing else. All the fixtures, from the tub to your own favourite, the steam-free mirror, have vanished.
action: You go east
response: Master bedroom, in your house
The lighting in this room is much better than in the rest of the house, so that it's a welcome contrast to the dimly lit corridors. Somehow this room has never seemed as welcoming to you as it does now - the bed, the wardrobe and the armchairs take on the appearance of old friends. The entry to the bathroom is west.

You can see a man's corpse here.
action: You go to the south
response: End of corridor, in your house
At the end of the corridor, you can see exits to your north and south, the former leading into your bedroom, and the latter into your small study-cum-office.
action: Go east
response: It's a dead end.
action: Go west
response: Corridor, in your house
This short corridor leads, at your insistence, directly from the antechamber to the east wing of the house; it offers a quick retreat to your own chambers, and helps you avoid embarrassing or annoying visitors. It runs east to west.
action: Go west
response: Antechamber, in your house
The lights in the antechamber, strangely, seem to be malfunctioning, and burn so dimly as to resemble feeble candles; you can barely make out the oft-trodden pathways to your more private chambers, east, and to the drawing-room, north. Immediately next to you is a coat-stand. You can hardly even make out the wallpaper covering the walls.

On the coat-stand is a long brown coat.
action: Go north
response: Mysteriously, a wall seems to block your way.
action: You look at the wallpaper
response: A nice pattern in the style of 2600, with several species of flowers.
action: You examine the coat stand
response: A tall coat-stand, almost as high as you are, with hooks at several levels.
action: You look at the coat
response: (the coat-stand)
A tall coat-stand, almost as high as you are, with hooks at several levels.
action: You look at the brown coat
response: This old coat, next to your thermoconditioner, is the ideal companion for a long winter.
action: You check what you're carrying
response: You are carrying:
a plastic cash card
a yellow flower
a strange letter
an identity card
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: You take the brown
response: Nervously, you grab the coat once more.
action: Wear coat
response: (the long brown coat)
You don't really need the coat now that you're indoors.
action: You search the coat
response: (the long brown coat)
You find nothing of interest.
action: You take the corpse
response: That's hardly easy, and pointless besides.
action: You look under the corpse
response: Nothing here, I'm afraid.
action: You examine the armchairs
response: A set of four, that you fell in love with while vacationing in France and eventually bought.
action: You look at the lights
response: The rows of lights are all right at first glance, but the lighting they emit is dismal.
action: You go south
response: Front porch, outside the house
Everything has changed. The absence of plants, which you would have once accepted purely as normal, now gives the entire place a sinister appearance, and the gravelled path leading away from the house is dark and uninviting.
action: You close the door
response: You close the door to your house.
action: You lock door
response: What do you want to lock the door to your house with?
action: You go south
response: The lane is dark and clouds hover uneasily over you, though the rain will not come. Looking at a house that has strangely changed on one side, and a narrow road on the other, it is hard to decide which way to go.
action: You examine the clouds
response: Not even a silver lining; just a thick blanket of ugly, depressing clouds.
action: You go east
response: You can barely suppress a shiver as you return to the place where you woke up, confused, just moments ago. It's a small, narrow lane, with no obvious source of illumination, running further east and back west to the house.

Standing uncomfortably near you is a cab-caller machine.
action: You examine the machine
response: Simple in principle and in practice as well; put your cash card in the slot, and a cab appears within five minutes - or less if you're lucky. Unfortunately, your cash card is - or rather was - in what once was your study. It's definitely gone by now.
action: You put the cash card in the machine
response: You insert the card, hum a little tune, and wait for a cab to take you, far away from this nightmare scenario......Never mind where - perhaps your sister's place out North.....

KABOOM!

It's hard to say what actually happened. It's conceivable that the machine exploded, though if that had actually happened, you would hardly be alive. In fact, you wake up even more dishevelled than you first were, utterly bewildered.....

This could be the middle of nowhere - in fact, it is. Apart from the railway tracks disappearing into the distance north, and the signpost to the east, there is nothing but dry, arid land.

The sun beats down on you, and you regret having left your parasol at home.
action: You examine signpost
response: A signpost made of rotting wood, a few words painted over it in black paint or tar.

You'll have to find your own answers, I'm afraid.

On second thoughts, the parasol would've blown away in a sandstorm.
action: You read it
response: DESERT (As if you didn't know that already...)

..There is no need to beware of cacti, scorpions, wild animals or highwaymen, as they are all kept at bay by what you should beware of -- sunstroke.

Eastern Colonies ...... 500 MILES NORTH
Charlestown ........... 0.02 MILES EAST
action: Go east
response: 0.02 miles must be a much smaller distance than you bargained on, because immediately to your east the railway tracks stop, and through a thick fog or mist, you can make out the unmistakable outlines of buildings. Apart from this, the desert continues north and west.
action: You look at the fog
response: Thick clouds of mist or fog obstruct your vision.
action: You go north
response: Judging by the signs, this was once the office of the local newspaper, but now seems totally abandoned. A single shelf, once probably filled with superfluous newsprint, lies to one side, containing a few papers; apart from this, the office continues into a darker zone to the north.

The torn front page of a newspaper lies here, unsung.
action: Examine newspaper
response: It's the first page of an issue of the Charlestown Times, with one large article and little else.
action: You go north
response: This room, all empty shelves and dust, once stored all the back issues, manuscripts and other paraphernalia that are the birthright of a newspaper office - or so it seems. There are no obvious exits except the one back south.

The only piece of furniture remaining, bar the shelves, is a horsehair chair, in none too good a condition.
action: You look at the chair
response: The chair has a certain dignity - even though it could hardly bear the weight of your six-year-old daughter in the state it's currently in.
action: You look at the Form
response: Legal Form 67 is what any witness in a case involving the International Code of Ethics, consequent upon its 23rd Amendment in the year 2786, is required to fill out. As such, it is devoid of interest to you, being blank. The other side, however, has something printed on it.
action: You read it
response: Harold, Ch. 3, Lines 1 - 10

"This is not what I had in mind", the Creator said, irritably. "This is not it at all."

"Silence!", said the Voice, not sternly, as was its wont. "You have already seen the consequences of your own actions, and I hope you realize how totally senseless they were....."

"No need to rub it in", the Creator replied, calmly. "But why should someone else pay the price?"

"For simple proof, Harold. Proof that, even in the face of a threat, that someone else - who originated, after all, in your own mind - would be able to withstand it. If someone else stands in your place, she stands there so that you may prove yourself."

"Tortuous reasoning", the Creator replied, "but you're starting to make sense. When, then......"
[Here the printing is abruptly cut short.]
action: You go south
response: Workhouse, in Charlestown
From its attitude of desolation, from its decrepit appearance, you realize that this cannot be anything other than that despised institution, the workhouse. Strangely, no cries, no disturbing sounds, can be heard though you strain your ears, and though the place is deserted and disused, there are no signs of outright squalor. The furniture is of surprisingly good quality, though probably second-hand, and there is nothing creaky about the floor-boards as you tread on them. The passage you came through leads north, and another corridor seems to leads east.

Merging with the floor is a closed wooden door, probably leading to a cellar, an eerie light gleaming at its edges.

The passage to the east is blocked by a black door.
action: You open it
response: You open the cellar door.
action: You look at the black door
response: A dark black door, on the east wall. There is something painted on it.
action: You read it
action: Go downward
response: Underground, in the workhouse
You are in a large, spacious, white-tiled passageway, illuminated brightly and almost blindingly by light from an unknown source. It runs further east almost endlessly, and seems not to have any side-passages.

A small glass vial lies at your feet.
action: You examine the vial
response: An empty vial, with a faint chemical odour, and a label half-torn from it.
action: You read it
response: THIOPENTONE SODIUM B.P.
[Pentothal (R)]

Contains 0.25 mEq Thiopentone Na / mL
action: Go east
response: Underground Passage, in the workhouse
The white-tiled corridor continues further east with no end in sight, ominously, as if to suggest that your safest course would be an unceremonious retreat to the west. However, the monotony is punctuated by an open passageway, to your north.
action: Go north
response: Kitchen, in the underground
This small room, with its pantry-cupboard and blackened fireplace, probably once served as a kitchen to the inmates of this unfortunate place. There are no windows, no ventilation vents, and the smell is stifling. Aesthetics demand an immediate exit, to the south.
action: You look at the cupboard
response: A rugged wooden construction, which is currently closed
action: You open it
response: As you open the cupboard, an insect falls at your feet, and you shudder and move an inch away.
action: You look in the cupboard
response: In the pantry cupboard is a stack of aluminium cartons.
action: You examine the cartons
response: Inside the cupboard, there is a stack of aluminium cartons, oozing grease, and in an advanced stage of decomposition. It has all the charm of a neglected sewer.
action: You search the cartons
response: You gingerly lift the lid of one of the cartons, revealing rotten and maggot-infested remnants of various TV dinners. Suppressing a retch, you withdraw your hand.
action: You examine the fireplace
response: A large, blackened, sooty fireplace, large enough to hold several people - including yourself, if you're interested. There's no pot of gruel - or anything else - in it at present.
action: You search the fireplace
response: The fireplace is empty.
action: You enter the fireplace
response: You step into the fireplace, and to your amazement, you can see a bright, dazzling light shining from a hole in its roof, though you're not sure where its source is. Your curiosity satisfied, and your attire a little more sooty, you step out.
action: You look at the bug
response: A small microphone, in dull grey metal. You have no idea whether it still works.
action: Go south
response: Underground Passage, in the workhouse
The white-tiled corridor continues further east with no end in sight, ominously, as if to suggest that your safest course would be an unceremonious retreat to the west. However, the monotony is punctuated by an open passageway, to your north.
action: You go east
response: Intersection, in the underground
You seem to have come to an intersection in the underground passage, with a room to your south : the entry to it is glowing (so it seems) with a bright light, and the continuations of the corridor east and west.
action: You go south
response: Every detail, every item of furniture or ornament in this room, is drowned out in a blinding light.

A giant bulb, from one corner of the room, is the obvious source of this dazzling illumination.
action: You examine the Furniture
response: The light prevents you from doing so.
action: You examine the bulb
response: A large glass bulb......you can make out nothing more.
action: You break it
response: Desperately, you lunge at the bulb. Surprisingly, it's not warm, it's stone cold. A simple blow almost shatters the entire glass framework to pieces, and as the fragments clatter to the floor, you notice that there was no filament. There never was.

The room seems to fill with sunlight, all of a sudden.
action: Look around
response: A large, pleasant room, with sun shining through an open window. There are rows of benches and an altar at the back of the room, which confirms your opinion that this must be a chapel of sorts.

The bulb is now totally dark and shattered.

You can also see a golden key here.
action: You examine the key
response: A small yet heavy golden key.
action: You look at the altar
response: Though it is easily recognizable as an altar, it is merely a rough-hewn stone fixture; its covering cloth and other paraphernalia are gone.
action: You examine the benches
response: Regulation benches, with the customary kneel-space in front of them.
action: You look under the benches
response: Just the floor.
action: You look at the bulb
response: A broken and functionless mess of glass.
action: You search the glass
response: (the glass vial)
You never read descriptions, do you? The vial is empty.
action: You search the broken glass
response: Nothing but glass fragments; you have no use for them.
action: Pray
response: Somehow, this seems like a good place to do so, if you were so inclined. However, you can hear a voice in your head: "Not to me - not now."
action: You go to the north
response: Intersection, in the underground
You seem to have come to an intersection in the underground passage, with a room to your south : the entry to it is glowing (so it seems) with a bright light, and the continuations of the corridor east and west.
action: Go east
response: Dead end, in the underground
The seemingly interminable underground passage comes to an abrupt and unexpected end here, with no exits save a series of steps leading upwards, and a return back west, where you came from.
action: You go upwards
response: The steps end abruptly in a series of partially broken boards. Those remaining are too strong to be dislodged, but through the spaces you can see a small chamber.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a golden key
a small metal bug
a glass vial
a torn newspaper page
Legal Form 67
a yellow flower
a strange letter
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: You read the letter
response: You don't know how the letter got here, and it's not addressed to you. Anyway, you read it through...

Europe, July 14th, 2883.

Dear Vanessa,
Unforseen circumstances have forced me, without any sensible or honourable alternative, to leave you abruptly, without warning, without even the consolation - pardon my grandiosity - of a fond farewell. I have not been permitted to reveal more than this, even to you whom I could trust above anyone else, dearest - for the hand and mind that drive me at this moment are not my own. Rest assured that, if you still - regardless of your own safety - want to follow me, I have left enough traces. Not too explicitly, of course - Nash is a fine old man, but I wouldn't want to involve him in this - but I am sure you will find a way. The key can be revealed in the usual way: table, place. There is little time to say more. Four digits alone.

Yours,
Janus.

Bizarre, indeed.
action: You look at the flower
response: It's unlike any flower you've ever seen before; it has a single whorl of four pink petals, with irregular angles that hardly look natural, as if they represented some strange form of origami.
action: Go west
response: Underground, in the workhouse
You are in a large, spacious, white-tiled passageway, illuminated brightly and almost blindingly by light from an unknown source. It runs further east almost endlessly, and seems not to have any side-passages.
action: Go upward
response: Workhouse, in Charlestown
From its attitude of desolation, from its decrepit appearance, you realize that this cannot be anything other than that despised institution, the workhouse. Strangely, no cries, no disturbing sounds, can be heard though you strain your ears, and though the place is deserted and disused, there are no signs of outright squalor. The furniture is of surprisingly good quality, though probably second-hand, and there is nothing creaky about the floor-boards as you tread on them. The passage you came through leads north, and another corridor seems to leads east.

The cellar door, under your feet, is open and leads into an illuminated passage.

The passage to the east is blocked by a black door.
action: You unlock the door with the key
response: Which do you mean, the cellar door or the east door?
action: You knock on black door
response: No reply, I'm afraid.
action: You look at the statue
response: It's the statue of a rather fat man, of ridiculously ill-matched proportions, holding a club or baton of some sort, and resting on a large pedestal which bears an inscription.
action: You read the pedestal
response: JOEL SWEENEY (1814-1892)

Liberator of the Masses
action: Go east
response: Main Street, in Charlestown
This is a slightly brighter and more residential portion of Charlestown. North of you is a small house, whose door stands open, and south of you is a large, imposing mansion. The street leads back west, as well as continuing east.

Logically enough, the door to the mansion is closed.
action: You examine the door
response: A gilded door, small and stylish, with a nameplate on the outside.
action: You read the nameplate
response: "Sailors' Rest"
Leon and Judith Gold
action: You unlock the door with the key
response: You unlock the gilded door.
action: You open the door
response: You open the gilded door.
action: Go north
response: A dull, dingy, dirty place, with absolutely no redeeming feature save a hundred years' dust and neglect. All the 29th Century aesthete in you revolts against it. Even assuming that you can conquer those tendencies, though, there seems to be no exit, except the way you came in.

A voice transmitter, as sooty as the rest of the shack, lies neglected.
action: You examine transmitter
response: It looks like a radio or voice transmitter module, with a speaker and a switch, but no other buttons.
The voice transmitter is currently switched off.
action: You turn on the transmitter
response: As you flip the switch, the transmitter suddenly comes to life.

"Ah, your game is up, Mbelwe", an unctuous voice says, through the distorting speaker. "No one can save you now."
action: You take the transmitter
response: That's fixed in place.

There is silence for a while.
action: You listen
response: You hear nothing unexpected.

There is silence for a while.
action: You look at the transmitter
response: It looks like a radio or voice transmitter module, with a speaker and a switch, but no other buttons.
The voice transmitter is currently switched on.

"Now, are you going to tell me where that insult to humanity, Author, is hiding? I shall wring his neck!"
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

Silence.
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

"Go to hell", a voice replies, faintly.
action: Look around
response: A dull, dingy, dirty place, with absolutely no redeeming feature save a hundred years' dust and neglect. All the 29th Century aesthete in you revolts against it. Even assuming that you can conquer those tendencies, though, there seems to be no exit, except the way you came in.

A voice transmitter, as sooty as the rest of the shack, lies neglected.

Incoherent spluttering sounds of rage can be heard.
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

"For the last time, are you going to tell me?"
action: You wait for a while
response: Time passes.

"I'm giving you till the count of ten to answer..."
action: You wait for a while
response: Time passes.

"ten".....
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

"nine".....
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

"eight".....
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

"seven".....
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

"six".....
action: You wait a while
response: Time passes.

"five".....
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

"four".....
action: You wait for a while
response: Time passes.

"three".....
action: You wait for a while
response: Time passes.

"two".....
action: You wait awhile
response: Time passes.

"one".....
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

A clatter can be heard.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

There is nothing more to hear.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

The radio switches off automatically.
action: Look around
response: A dull, dingy, dirty place, with absolutely no redeeming feature save a hundred years' dust and neglect. All the 29th Century aesthete in you revolts against it. Even assuming that you can conquer those tendencies, though, there seems to be no exit, except the way you came in.

A voice transmitter, as sooty as the rest of the shack, lies neglected.

Incoherent spluttering sounds of rage can be heard.
action: Look around
response: This could be the middle of nowhere - in fact, it is. Apart from the railway tracks disappearing into the distance north, and the signpost to the east, there is nothing but dry, arid land.
action: You examine the tracks
response: These tracks probably, at one stage, were installed to bring civilization to the region. Their current state indicates that the project has, in all probability, been abandoned.

If this heat continues any longer, you'll soon have first-person knowledge of what the proteins in a boiled egg actually undergo.
action: You read the sign
response: DESERT (As if you didn't know that already...)

..There is no need to beware of cacti, scorpions, wild animals or highwaymen, as they are all kept at bay by what you should beware of -- sunstroke.

Eastern Colonies ...... 500 MILES NORTH
Charlestown ........... 0.02 MILES EAST
action: Go south
response: Judging by the signs, this was once the office of the local newspaper, but now seems totally abandoned. A single shelf, once probably filled with superfluous newsprint, lies to one side, containing a few papers; apart from this, the office continues into a darker zone to the north.
action: Smell
response: The smells remind you vaguely of food preservatives.
action: You look up
response: What do you want to look up in?
action: You go south
response: (opening the door first)

Front Room, in the Golds' home
This simple front room is at strange variance with the outward appearance of the Gold mansion; in fact, it is so devoid of furniture that you wonder whether it is the same place. Passageways lead east and south.

The door leading out of the house is open.
action: Go downwards
response: The steps lead down, then end in a creaky platform that seems to lead into a tunnel. Apprehensive, you turn away.
action: You go east
response: The passage ends abruptly in a series of boards.
action: Go north
response: Front Room, in the Golds' home
This simple front room is at strange variance with the outward appearance of the Gold mansion; in fact, it is so devoid of furniture that you wonder whether it is the same place. Passageways lead east and south.

The door leading out of the house is open.
action: You close the door
response: You close the gilded door.
action: You examine door
response: A gilded door, small and stylish.
action: You go east
response: What purpose this room once served is totally obscure, because all the furniture has gone. There is nothing, really, save the four walls of the house.

A black key lies on the ground, near your feet.

As you enter the room, you gasp in horror. Lying on the hard floor, bringing to mind all the serial-killer plots of eight centuries ago, is a dead woman.....

No, wait - she's not dead - but certainly dying....

The woman looks up at you, hesitantly...."Have you.... did you receive Leon's appeal.....", she begins, noticing your blank expression. "I'm Judith Gold", she gasps, and struggles to go on. "Have you come to....?"
action: You look at Judith
response: A tall, graceful, middle-aged woman, dressed in black, who is still breathing faintly.

Judith looks up at you, expectantly. "After all these years - thank God you aren't too late....."
action: You ask Judith about the bug
response: Judith looks at you, uncomprehendingly.
action: You ask Judith about Leon
response: "He tried his best......couldn't....if you can find.....microphone.....deafen Sweeney.......a whisper will do....."

"Did Leon bring you here? He was a good man, was Leon - he didn't last long....must tell you......Sweeney..."
action: You ask Judith about Sweeney
response: "I must tell you......Sweeney....controlled this town - now empty, all empty - find proofs - proof - single evidence sufficient - Leon........pretended to be a reformer but he was a murderer all along.... stop him then....microphone......knife.....I have the knife...."

And with these words, Judith shudders, her head falls to one side, and she is quite dead.

"Ah, Harold, things are coming to a head", the Voice goes on, in its usual even tenor. "If your character, Harold, can find a way out of this, you have as good as proved yourself."

"Is that all?" you ask, bemused.

"Not all, Harold, but almost all. The time for that famous institution, the Climactic Conflict, draws near. But if Cassandra can survive this, we need not fear in the least....."

What purpose this room once served is totally obscure, because all the furniture has gone. There is nothing, really, save the four walls of the house.

A black key lies on the ground, near your feet.

Judith's body lies on the floor.
action: You take key
response: (the dark black key)
Taken.
action: You search judith
response: Uneasily, you move the body, and uncover a knife.....which seems strangely familiar to you. It wasn't used to kill her, though - there is no wound on her body.
action: Go west
response: Front Room, in the Golds' home
This simple front room is at strange variance with the outward appearance of the Gold mansion; in fact, it is so devoid of furniture that you wonder whether it is the same place. Passageways lead east and south.

The door out of the front room is closed.
action: You go north
response: (opening the door first)
You open the gilded door.

Main Street, in Charlestown
This is a slightly brighter and more residential portion of Charlestown. North of you is a small house, whose door stands open, and south of you is a large, imposing mansion. The street leads back west, as well as continuing east.

The door to your south stands open.
action: You shout at bug
response: (to the small metal bug)
The microphone lights up and buzzes, but nothing happens.

There is silence for a while.
action: You hit the bug
response: Violence isn't the answer to this one.

There is silence for a while.
action: You examine the microphone
response: A small microphone, in dull grey metal. You have no idea whether it still works.

"Now, are you going to tell me where that insult to humanity, Author, is hiding? I shall wring his neck!"
action: You shout at the microphone
response: (to the small metal bug)
The microphone lights up and buzzes, but nothing happens.

Silence.
action: You turn on the microphone
response: That's not something you can switch.

"Go to hell", a voice replies, faintly.
action: You wear the bug
response: You can't wear that!

Incoherent spluttering sounds of rage can be heard.
action: Break bug
response: Violence isn't the answer to this one.

Incoherent spluttering sounds of rage can be heard.
action: You tap the bug
response: Little point in doing that, I'm afraid.

"I'm giving you till the count of ten to answer..."
action: You answer the bug
response: (to the small metal bug)
The microphone lights up and buzzes, but nothing happens.

"ten".....
action: You attach bug to the transmitter
response: You would achieve nothing by this.

"nine".....
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a nasty-looking knife
a dark black key
a golden key
a small metal bug
a glass vial
Legal Form 67
a torn newspaper page
a yellow flower
a strange letter
a pale blue dress (being worn)

"nine".....
action: You cut the bug
response: Cutting that up would achieve little.

"eight".....
action: You search microphone
response: You find nothing of interest.

"eight".....
action: Shout at transmitter
response: (to the small metal bug)
The microphone lights up and buzzes, but nothing happens.

"seven".....
action: You turn off transmitter
response: The voices die out.
action: Shout at transmitter
response: (to the small metal bug)
The microphone lights up and buzzes, but nothing happens.
action: You turn on transmitter
response: As you flip the switch, the transmitter suddenly comes to life.

"four".....
action: You ask Judith about the bug
response: Judith looks at you, uncomprehendingly.

Judith looks up at you, expectantly. "After all these years - thank God you aren't too late....."
action: You examine her
response: A tall, graceful, middle-aged woman, dressed in black, who is still breathing faintly.

You can't see any such thing.
action: You ask Judith about bug
response: Judith looks at you, uncomprehendingly.

"Did Leon bring you here? He was a good man, was Leon - he didn't last long....must tell you......Sweeney..."
action: You show the bug to Judith
response: Judith is unimpressed.

Judith looks at you, urgently.
action: You ask Judith about the romanov
response: Judith looks at you, uncomprehendingly.
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying:
a golden key
a small metal bug
a glass vial
Legal Form 67
a torn newspaper page
a yellow flower
a strange letter
a pale blue dress (being worn)
"We tried our best, young lady - he was too much..... two ways to defeat him but we couldn't find.......microphone... ....evidence....give evidence to author....."
action: You ask Judith about evidence
response: Judith looks at you, uncomprehendingly.
"I must tell you......Sweeney....controlled this town - now empty, all empty - find proofs - proof - single evidence sufficient - Leon........pretended to be a reformer but he was a murderer all along.... stop him then....microphone......knife.....I have the knife...."

And with these words, Judith shudders, her head falls to one side, and she is quite dead.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a nasty-looking knife
a dark black key
a golden key
a small metal bug
a glass vial
Legal Form 67
a torn newspaper page
a yellow flower
a strange letter
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: Go west
response: Front Room, in the Golds' home
This simple front room is at strange variance with the outward appearance of the Gold mansion; in fact, it is so devoid of furniture that you wonder whether it is the same place. Passageways lead east and south.

The door out of the front room is closed.
action: You unlock the black door with the black key
response: You unlock the east door.
action: Go east
response: (opening the door first)

You are inside a massive room, whose walls are covered by endless rows of the same tiles you saw in the corridor. The lights are blinding - though not as dazzling as the light-bulb in the chapel - and it's all you can do to try and observe what is around you.
Your attention is immediately drawn to the man at the far corner of the room....

A large box - as large as a coffin, but otherwise not unlike a mailbox - is pushed to one corner of the room.

At the far end of the room, under the glare of the lights, is a steel armchair.

Sitting in the armchair, a handsome man glares at you, angrily.

"Welcome, beggar", he says, looking at your attire with a sniff. "I am.....Joel Sweeney. At your service."
action: You look at the box
response: The box is massive, and resembles a coffin, but has a thin slit in front that suggests a Brobdignagian mailbox. There is an inscription carved on it.
action: You look at the man
response: Joel Sweeney, unlike his statue, is an impressive figure; a handsome man of forty or so, his hair almost completely white.
action: You examine the armchair
response: A steel armchair, complete with armrests. Not quite an electric chair, but certainly having close kinship to one.
action: You read the inscription
response: Formerly of the Empire.

"By entering this place, you have forfeited your life. Look on yonder coffin and despair."
action: You look in the slit
response: The slit is too small.
action: You ask Sweeney about the box
response: "Your question seems pointless to me, woman. Do not weary me."

"Author. Banks. Mbelwe. All fools. No one can stop me."
action: You ask him about him
response: "Your question seems pointless to me, woman. Do not weary me."
action: You kill Sweeney
response: If you have a specific weapon in mind, please use it. Otherwise, don't hurl yourself on your sword.

"You seem perplexed, woman", Sweeney says, bitingly. "Are you not afraid? You should be."
action: You give the Form to Sweeney
response: Sweeney ignores your offer.

"You have little time left."
action: You put the Form in the slit
response: That's the wrong shape for the slit.

"Prepare to say farewell to your life, darling Cassandra."
action: You put the knife in slit
response: That's the wrong shape for the slit.
As Sweeney marches towards you, a voice rings out in the room.

"Sweeney, I have not lost yet. You're the king of cowards, attacking a poor, defenceless player character in that uncouth manner. You killed Non-Interactive Fiction. Prepare to die, indeed. Hmph. Do it yourself."

Sweeney cringes, falls to the ground, not moving a muscle. The coffin shatters........and a man steps out, walking towards you.

"Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. I knew we could rely on you. Allow me to introduce myself - Janus Mbelwe, social scientist. I think you have something you wanted to give me......"

Silently, you hand him the letter and he begins to read it....As he does so, the walls change, the odour changes......and you are no longer in the workhouse, but......

Chapter Nine - Birth Of A Notion

You stand in a hospital corridor, looking around, confused. A sense of urgency seems to drive you on, but you cannot understand why.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: You examine the dress
response: Slightly dated, but you've always had a soft corner for this one ever since the Eugenics Repeal Act went through - with your assistance - on the day you bought it.
action: Go north
response: Intersection, in the hospital
This is obviously a pivotal point in the hospital's geography, with passages leading in all four cardinal directions. A map on the wall offers some, but not much, promise of guidance, and there seems to be no one behind the hospital desk, though there is a sign on it. Above you, perched high on one wall, is a loudspeaker.

On the desk is a triangular metal sign, precariously balanced.

You can hear a clear voice issuing forth from the loudspeaker. "Mrs. Anderson. Please proceed immediately to Ward Number Ten. Mrs. Cassandra Anderson. Please proceed to Ward Number Ten."
action: You examine the map
response: It's a floor plan of the hospital, in faint lines, looking almost as if it were hand-drawn. Your position, near the desk, is indicated by a small cross. The rest of the map is as follows:

=========================================================
|    Ward 10             Ward 9                Ward 8   |
|               TOP                FLOOR                |
|    Ward 7              Ward 6                Ward 5   | |==========================||============================
|                          || To ground floor           |
|         ||||     |
|         | To Storeroom   || To Doctors' Lounge  |     |
|         ||||     | |==========================||===========================|
|   Ward 4     Ward 3          RECEPTION  (X)           |
|                                              Entrance #
|   Ward 2     Ward 1   RECORDS                         | =========================================================
action: You go to the west
response: Records Room, in the hospital
This small, stuffy, but not musty annexe lying west of the reception area houses the hospital's records, or at least the plaque on the door says so. Much to your surprise, there are no computers, and no ledgers either, on the solitary table, large as it is. There are no exits except the one back east.

A pile of records sits on the table, neglected.
action: You go east
response: Intersection, in the hospital
This is obviously a pivotal point in the hospital's geography, with passages leading in all four cardinal directions. A map on the wall offers some, but not much, promise of guidance, and there seems to be no one behind the hospital desk, though there is a sign on it. Above you, perched high on one wall, is a loudspeaker.

On the desk is a triangular metal sign, precariously balanced.
action: You go to the north
response: Corridor, in the hospital
This broad corridor is flanked by rooms to your east and west, labelled "Ward 1" and "Ward 3" respectively; it runs further north to its end, and south back to the reception desk.
action: Go east
response: Stairwell, in the hospital
You're in a small stairwell just to the east of the reception area, with steps leading up into a corridor illuminated by arc lamps. A loudspeaker is perched on one of the walls.
action: Go upwards
response: Middle Stairwell, in the hospital
At this point in the stairwell, there is a passage leading north to a small room, and a locked door south. The stairway continues up to the first floor, and back down to where you started.
action: You go to the north
response: Doctors' Lounge, in the Hospital
This small and comfortable room, with several chairs around a large table under the soft glow of an orange lamp, is obviously a lounge of some sort, where physicians could unwind after a long day. The only exit is south, to the stairwell. The only object of note here, or so it seems, is a rather ornate locker.
action: Go upward
response: Middle Of Corridor, First Floor
You are in the middle portion of a corridor on the hospital's first floor. Doorways marked "Ward 6" and "Ward 9" lie to your east and west, the stairs lead back down, and the corridor continues to your north and south.

"Mr. Edward Franklin. Please proceed to the Operating Recovery Room, in Ward Number Ten. Mr. Edward Franklin."
action: You go to the north
response: First Floor Corridor, North End
The northern end of the first floor corridor, as always, has east and west doorways, marked "Ward 5" and "Ward 8". You can't go any further north, but there's a safe return south.
action: You go west
response: Ward 8 seems to have been sealed off. Through a glass plaque on the door, you can see that it's being fumigated, which further lessens your desire to go in there.
action: Go south
response: Middle Of Corridor, First Floor
You are in the middle portion of a corridor on the hospital's first floor. Doorways marked "Ward 6" and "Ward 9" lie to your east and west, the stairs lead back down, and the corridor continues to your north and south.
action: You go south
response: First Floor Corridor, South End
The southern end of the first floor corridor, as always, has east and west doorways, marked "Ward 7" and "Ward 10". You can't go any further south, but there's a safe return north.
action: Go west
response: Ward 10, Antechamber
This is a small chamber that forms part of Ward 10, which continues to the north, near a doorway marked by a sign labelled "Recovery Room". The only other exit is back to your east.

Standing near you, with one eye on the doorway, is a medical student, who was obviously asked to keep an eye on newcomers.
action: You examine student
response: Short, bespectacled, and not very impressive. But then, you tell yourself, most great physicians do look rather unassuming. He's wearing a white coat and a stethoscope, and can't be much older than twenty.
action: Go north
response: The student bars your way hesitantly. "I'm sorry, ma'am", he says, "but you've got to have the properly attire to go in there. Aseptic precautions, you know."
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: You ask the student about the attire
response: "All you need is a cap, mask and gown - we're not exactly a surgical ward", the student says kindly. "I'm sure you can find them downstairs. Just ask around. I'd help you, but I have to stay here."
action: You go to the south
response: The storeroom behind that locked door only contains old textbooks, full of detailed research and case histories. Enthralling stuff, but you're not a physician.
action: You open the locker
response: It seems to be locked.
action: You look at the locker
response: A large locker, made of some shiny metal - possibly silver (What extravagance!) Written on it are the words "Hospital Clothing - Extra Supplies."
action: You take the sign
response: You can't have the sign; it belongs where it is.
action: You read the inscription
response: (in the pale blue dress)
You discover nothing of interest in the pale blue dress.
action: You read the desk
response: Tradition is a dead weight hanging over the brains of the living - but we love it anyway.

-- Karl Marx, modified by the Author.
(not to be confused with his namesake..)
action: You take the sign
response: You can't have the sign; it belongs where it is.

"Mrs. Anderson. Seeking Mrs. Cassandra Anderson. Please proceed to the Recovery Room in Ward Number Ten, on the second floor."
action: You look under the desk
response: Under the desk, you find a crumpled but otherwise undamaged discharge sheet, and pull it out.
action: You read the sheet
response: The form itself is blank, but it's the instructions to visitors, in small type at the base of the page, that interest you:

1. Visitors to Wards 1,3,4 and 5 (General Surgery) are not allowed outside the allotted hours of 9 - 1 p.m and 3 - 6 p.m. They must be attired in aseptic outfits for patient safety, and require proof of identification.
2. Visitors to Wards 2,6,7,8 and 9 (Internal Medicine) require proof of identification, but do not require any special attire.
3. Visitors to Ward 10 (Maternity) should wear a disposable scrub suit (over their ordinary clothing) consisting of a cap, mask and gown, before entering the operating or recovery rooms.

There is a splutter and a crackle, and the speaker goes dead.
action: You go to the north
response: Corridor, in the hospital
This broad corridor is flanked by rooms to your east and west, labelled "Ward 1" and "Ward 3" respectively; it runs further north to its end, and south back to the reception desk.
action: Go south
response: Intersection, in the hospital
This is obviously a pivotal point in the hospital's geography, with passages leading in all four cardinal directions. A map on the wall offers some, but not much, promise of guidance, and there seems to be no one behind the hospital desk, though there is a sign on it. Above you, perched high on one wall, is a loudspeaker.

The sign on the desk has fallen over to one side.

You can also see a discharge sheet here.
action: You go south
response: You can't go back. You have to make it to Ward Ten somehow.
action: Go west
response: You're never going to get into that ward; it's reserved for emergency and septic cases. Try another.
action: Go north
response: End of corridor, in the hospital
The north-south corridor comes to an end here, with wards to your east and west, labelled "Ward 2" and "Ward 4", in that order, and returns to the south.
action: Go south
response: Intersection, in the hospital
This is obviously a pivotal point in the hospital's geography, with passages leading in all four cardinal directions. A map on the wall offers some, but not much, promise of guidance, and there seems to be no one behind the hospital desk, though there is a sign on it. Above you, perched high on one wall, is a loudspeaker.

The sign on the desk has fallen over to one side.
action: You examine the pile
response: It's a stack of medical records, written out at the time of admission of the various patients concerned on green sheets of paper. You could read a few of them if you wanted to.
action: Search pile
response: As you flip through the pages, a single sheet of paper, distinct from the others due to its pink colour, falls out of the pile and flutters gracefully to the floor.
action: You take the paper
response: Which do you mean, the pink sheet of paper, the pile of green papers or the discharge sheet?
action: You read it
response: "And so, after this, we come to the end of our story", the Voice replied. "It will be difficult, but I think we should be able to pull through."

"You could have sent me, couldn't you?", the Creator grumbled.

"Well, my young friend", the Voice admonished him, "you needed to be taught a lesson. It's strange to see that you actually feel sympathetic towards a person you once blithely wiped out...."

"I didn't!", the Creator replied, angrily. "You would have. Now, with our intervention, you will not. And at least I have given her a pleasant interlude now....."

"It's what comes after that which worries me....."
[Here the printing stops abruptly.]
action: You read the pile
response: A long, complex case history, from an influenza patient in the far provinces. Scrawled along the bottom, probably by a waggish intern, is one line: "It's A Bloody Life."
action: Continue
response: A neurological case history: "2 year-old infant, Alison D. History of seizures when exposed to bright light, such as a Photopia. Query: Grand mal epilepsy? Suggest sleep electroencephalogram."
action: Keep going
response: You skim through the entries on one of the papers: Edward Franklin, forty-three, European, admitted on a tentative diagnosis of peptic ulcer. The final diagnosis was indigestion. Hmph.
action: You examine table
response: Just your everyday table, a bit bigger and older than the one in your office.
action: You look under the table
response: Under the table - aren't you getting tired of stooping that much, even though you're too young for backache? - you find a small grey piece of paper, and pick it up.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying:
a small square of paper
a pink sheet of paper
a discharge sheet
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: You read the square
response: Harold, Last Chapter, no lines specified.
"At least you cannot accuse me of not having a sense of humour", the Voice chuckled. "It seems like a nice touch to me."

"Hmph", the Creator replied. "I'm not entirely sure if meeting me face to face is a good idea."

"Well, considering what she will have to do later...", the Voice began. "Let's discuss something else, shall w....."
[Here the printing stops abruptly.]
action: You look under the table
response: Nothing more. Though the floor does seem to have a rather nice pattern on it. (You're good at observing things like that.)
action: Search pile
response: Some anatomy student has been practicing his diagrams on the forms, and his depiction of a liver is rather artistic, so you spend some time admiring it.
action: You look at your surroundings
response: Records Room, in the hospital
This small, stuffy, but not musty annexe lying west of the reception area houses the hospital's records, or at least the plaque on the door says so. Much to your surprise, there are no computers, and no ledgers either, on the solitary table, large as it is. There are no exits except the one back east.

A pile of records sits on the table, neglected.
action: You look at the discharge sheet
response: A blank discharge sheet, of the kind issued to patients before they leave the hospital.
action: You read it
response: The form itself is blank, but it's the instructions to visitors, in small type at the base of the page, that interest you:

1. Visitors to Wards 1,3,4 and 5 (General Surgery) are not allowed outside the allotted hours of 9 - 1 p.m and 3 - 6 p.m. They must be attired in aseptic outfits for patient safety, and require proof of identification.
2. Visitors to Wards 2,6,7,8 and 9 (Internal Medicine) require proof of identification, but do not require any special attire.
3. Visitors to Ward 10 (Maternity) should wear a disposable scrub suit (over their ordinary clothing) consisting of a cap, mask and gown, before entering the operating or recovery rooms.
action: You read the dress
response: Slightly dated, but you've always had a soft corner for this one ever since the Eugenics Repeal Act went through - with your assistance - on the day you bought it.
action: You go west
response: The entry to Ward Four is completely barred. Forget it - you're not needed there in the first place.
action: You go to the east
response: Not unlike any other ward you've seen in construction, Ward Two is equally empty. Where is everybody?

Lying just at your feet is a small platinum key.
action: You examine the key
response: A platinum key, too small to be a door key. Perhaps it's used to open a safe-deposit box of some sort. There is no tag or serial number on it, which makes tracing it difficult.
action: You go to the east
response: Ward One is completely deserted. Rows of spotless beds, empty of patients, greet you coldly, under the glare of powerful, but not overpowering, arc lights.

Lying thrown across one of the hospital beds is a long green gown of the disposable variety.
action: You wear it
response: After a little push and shove around the neck region - the gown was obviously designed for emaciated patients - you manage to slip it over your head, and acquire quite a competent, surgical appearance.
action: You unlock the locker with the key
response: You unlock the silver locker.
action: You open the locker
response: You open the silver locker, revealing a green surgical mask.
action: You look at the mask
response: A surgical face mask of some vague green fabric, just right for your size.
action: You go to the east
response: The door is closed.
action: You check what you're carrying
response: You are carrying:
a green surgical mask (being worn)
a long green gown (being worn)
a platinum key
a small square of paper
a pink sheet of paper
a discharge sheet
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: Go south
response: There's a wall in the way, Cassie, and you do hate banging your head against those.
action: Go west
response: Ward 10, Antechamber
This is a small chamber that forms part of Ward 10, which continues to the north, near a doorway marked by a sign labelled "Recovery Room". The only other exit is back to your east.

Standing near you, with one eye on the doorway, is a medical student, who was obviously asked to keep an eye on newcomers.
action: Go east
response: First Floor Corridor, South End
The southern end of the first floor corridor, as always, has east and west doorways, marked "Ward 7" and "Ward 10". You can't go any further south, but there's a safe return north.
action: Go east
response: A group of surgeons, in animated discussion, bars your way.
action: You go east
response: Ward 6 is barred by a glass door, through which you can see an operation going on. Something tells you that you're not needed there.
action: Go west
response: Ward 9 is obviously being renovated, because it's gleamingly white and clean, but has no beds, lights or other fixtures. The only exit is out east.
action: Go east
response: There are only three beds in Ward 5, and no lighting. Obviously, the hospital isn't doing much business these days, and the only thing that strikes your attention is the cupboard in one corner. The way out is west.

You can see a green cap here.
action: You wear the cap
response: It does take quite an effort for you to crowd your elaborate hairstyle - still rather unruffled despite all your adventures - under the cap, but you manage to do so.
action: You go north
response: Recovery Room, in Ward 10
The southern end of the recovery room is empty, but there seems to be some activity going on to the north, to which you feel strangely drawn. The other exit, south, leads back to the antechamber.
action: You go to the north
response: You stride purposefully towards the other end of the recovery room....

At the other end is a single bed - and a small chamber, not exactly an incubator, but perhaps a heat chamber of sorts, which contains a very young girl, who is sleeping peacefully. Lying on the bed is a woman of about thirty or so, who looks at you gratefully.

"Good evening, Mrs. Anderson - Cassandra - I knew you would come. I apologize for making you come all this way here" - she waves lightly - "as my own home would have been a more convenient place; but plot comes before all". She laughs, then looks at the heat chamber. "And, if you haven't yet been introduced, this is my daughter. A few hours old, but much calmer than any of us."

"Absolutely", you reply, drily.

"Well, let me come to the point. There is one more task to be completed, but I do not know anything about it myself. Mr. Author, I fear, is very discreet. All I have been instructed to do, Cassandra, is to give you this."

She hands you a small object, which you stuff into a pocket without even examining.

"Good luck, Cassie", she says. The little girl waves behind the glass - at you? - and once again the whole room dissolves...........

Press [SPACE].....
Chapter Ten - It Takes A Village

You are inside a small, cramped, dingy and dark thatched hut. You can see nothing but an exit to the west, slightly illuminated, but you can hear voices - faintly - ringing in your ears. The only exit is out to the west.
action: You listen
response: You can hear a hollow voice saying, "Bunch of fools."
action: You go west
response: This vast open space, stained a lurid red that reminds you of poorly made lipstick, fringed by trees on all sides, seems to close in on you. No escape is possible.

What you see amidst the trees almost chokes you with revulsion. The ugliest monster you could ever think of - dressed in a zoot suit. Ugh!

As the monster spots you, it laughs loudly and uproariously. "That all they send? End of road for little lady! HA HA HA!"
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying:
a fountain-pen
a pale blue dress (being worn)
action: You examine the monster
response: The monster, if he weren't so hideous, would be positively comic. For all his threats he is dressed in an elegant style, and looks positively foppish. You're not sure what kind of monster he is - perhaps a troll.

The monster lunges at you. "Me need weapon", it grumbles.
action: You kill the monster with the pen
response: As you attack the troll with all your might, using your trusty pen, it dissolves into a whiff of green smoke. "NOOOOOO!" it screams. "UNFAIR! FOUL! OFFSIDE! UNSPORTING! TROLLS KILLED ONLY WITH SWORD!"

As you shake your head in wonder, you can see something descend from the sky.

Yes, it's the family jet. The door opens, and a familiar face pops out - Gerald. He walks quickly up to you, and takes you by the hand.

"Welcome back, Cassie", he says, joyously, as your two children, looking at you and the troll, can barely conceal their admiration. "We're going home."

"You defeated him", you say, amazed.

"No, you did. Your character. You did, Harold. You have destroyed the menace that was threatening our dimension. This is your victory, not mine.", the Author replied. The Voice - appearing in the now familiar guise of a man whose profile resembled a coin - agreed, as mildly as it could.

"You mean...........", you say, still unable to take it in. "You mean I've.......But I never did...."

"Yes, you did not destroy your manuscript. You will go on to complete it - but we needed you, here, to understand what was at stake - and to save our dimension. And each time a new menace arises, your creatures - your gifts to this world - shall rise up, time and time again, and guarantee us success. But you must leave us now."

The palace in the clouds dissolves around you.

"Good luck, Harold."

You wake up. Nothing has changed. It's the same room, the same bed, the same tired old manuscript, the same surreal dream fading from the edges of your mind.........

No, something has changed. Forty-six copies be damned. Sales figures, faugh. After all, which author can claim to have saved an entire parallel dimension?
action: %
response: You'll never really know how it all started.

That's not surprising, because you're not even sure what happened in the first place. If it had been anything else, you would have dismissed it as ninety-nine per cent bad digestion and one percent fancy, much as Ebenezer Scrooge would have. Somehow, in this case, that explanation doesn't really grab you. Did it really mean anything? Or was it, as the physiologists would say, just a matter of a few neurons in your brainstem working overtime?

But life is strange. It's almost impossible to predict - as Heisenberg pointed out - where exactly you might end up, even when you start in as mundane a place as your own home....

This is hardly the place for an adventure to begin. You know the furniture of this room - desk, chair, bed and bookcase - almost as well as the contents of your pockets.

On the wooden desk is a dusty manuscript.
action: Look around
response: You are inside a small, cramped, dingy and dark thatched hut. You can see nothing but an exit to the west, slightly illuminated, but you can hear voices - faintly - ringing in your ears. The only exit is out to the west.
action: You kill the monster with the pen
response: As you attack the troll with all your might, using your trusty pen, it dissolves into a whiff of green smoke. "NOOOOOO!" it screams. "UNFAIR! FOUL! OFFSIDE! UNSPORTING! TROLLS KILLED ONLY WITH SWORD!"

As you shake your head in wonder, you can see something descend from the sky.

Yes, it's the family jet. The door opens, and a familiar face pops out - Gerald. He walks quickly up to you, and takes you by the hand.

"Welcome back, Cassie", he says, joyously, as your two children, looking at you and the troll, can barely conceal their admiration. "We're going home."

"You defeated him", you say, amazed.

"No, you did. Your character. You did, Harold. You have destroyed the menace that was threatening our dimension. This is your victory, not mine.", the Author replied. The Voice - appearing in the now familiar guise of a man whose profile resembled a coin - agreed, as mildly as it could.

"You mean...........", you say, still unable to take it in. "You mean I've.......But I never did...."

"Yes, you did not destroy your manuscript. You will go on to complete it - but we needed you, here, to understand what was at stake - and to save our dimension. And each time a new menace arises, your creatures - your gifts to this world - shall rise up, time and time again, and guarantee us success. But you must leave us now."

The palace in the clouds dissolves around you.

"Good luck, Harold."

You wake up. Nothing has changed. It's the same room, the same bed, the same tired old manuscript, the same surreal dream fading from the edges of your mind.........

No, something has changed. Forty-six copies be damned. Sales figures, faugh. After all, which author can claim to have saved an entire parallel dimension?