spawn ./glulxe CounterfeitMonkey-11.gblorb Welcome to the Cheap Glk Implementation, library version 1.0.6. Can you hear me? >> y Good, you're conscious. We're conscious. I've heard urban legends about synthesis going wrong, one half person getting lost. Do you remember our name? >no To review, we're Alexandra now. I was Alex, before the synthesis. You were... >wait ...oh boy. Okay. Okay. I need you on form here. This is going to be hard if you don't remember being Andra. Not panicking. As far as I can tell, the operation was a success. We're meant to be one person now, unrecognizable to anyone who knew us before. Counterfeit Monkey A Removal by Emily Short Release 11 / Serial number 230220 / Inform 7 build 6M62 (I6/v6.41 lib 6/12N) Let's try to get a look around. I haven't been able to run our body without your help, but maybe now you're awake, it'll work better. To get a look around, type LOOK and press return. If you do not want help getting started, type TUTORIAL OFF. >tutorial off Tutorial mode is now off. >map on [This interpreter does not support displaying graphics.] >highlighting on Highlighting of object names is now on. >goals Here's what we think we need to do: Get out of these back streets >look Back Alley This isn't much, is it? Just the back sides of a couple of buildings, some peeling yellow paint, and not even much by way of windows to look in through. I think the place where we had the procedure done is just a block or two away, but I've already lost the door. I imagine they change it. This alley runs north to the open street, towards the town square. That's the way we'll want to go first. >look yellow building The buildings are no doubt due for renovation, but haven't received it yet. There are no windows facing this way. Something makes you think of how we got here. [MEMORIES will list your currently active memories] >look at me This body is more you than me -- well, it would be, since we came out a girl. Still, I feel a bit odd inspecting us too closely. It feels like invading your privacy. >look at me I don't think anything about us looks out of place. We are female, though a little taller and leaner than average, and with slightly boyish facial features. It's nothing that would attract attention, though. >memories Currently on your mind is how we got here. [REMEMBER any memory to review it.] >remember how we got here Cluttered Industrial Room The synthesizer was right at the center of the room, and we were inside it. An unshaven man in a blue jumper was prodding us with his foot. "Wake up! Wake up!" But we couldn't move, even though you were half-conscious. So he panicked. We'd paid him to let us recover in comfort, but he wasn't about to risk having a corpse on his hands, even an unidentified one. He picked us up and dumped our body in the Back Alley and left. Then we're back in the present. >north Sigil Street The buildings here are two and three stories, with shops at ground level and elderly apartments above. The shops are closed for the holiday: a typographer's office, tourist boutiques of colorful skirts and ethnic bodices (rarely if ever worn by natives) and t-shirts covered with font designs. Passing by the reflective window we catch the sight of our single blended body, and it creeps me out. A narrow alley runs between buildings to the south, while the street continues east. >look shops We peruse the offerings: colorful skirts, font t-shirts, ethnic bodices, and a mourning dress. I gather from your thoughts that you actually like some of the skirts, but I'd prefer that we skip the cross-dressing for now. Our synthesized body may be female but I'm still getting used to that. >look mourning dress A black vintage gown trimmed with much lace and dripping with jet beads. >inventory You insisted that we bring almost nothing into the synthesis room, so the criminal who was performing the synthesis couldn't rob us. I had hoped there was more honor among thieves, but you said no, there isn't. We are equipped with your R-remover -- an essential we mustn't part with. >look r-remover It is a blunt-nosed plastic device, about the size of a laser pointer, that can be waved at things to remove excess Rs. It is not very powerful, and often fails against large items. On the other hand, it has a wide range of action: it can be set to any letter we choose. These are, if not exactly cheap, hardly unknown in Atlantis. >set the r-remover to u You flick our thumb over the small knob: we now have a U-remover. >wave u-remover at mourning dress There is a flash of blue light, and the mourning dress turns into a morning dress. An outfit of striped trousers and fancy coat, such as men sometimes wear to fancy weddings in the morning. [Your score has gone up by one point.] >score You have earned 1 point: 1 point for using the letter-remover You have not yet removed a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, n, o, p, q, r, s, t, v, w, x, y, or z from anything. >look Sigil Street The buildings here are two and three stories, with shops at ground level and elderly apartments above. The shops are closed for the holiday: a typographer's office, tourist boutiques of colorful skirts and ethnic bodices (rarely if ever worn by natives) and t-shirts covered with font designs. The reflective window of a closed shop reflects our synthesized self. A narrow alley runs between buildings to the south, while the street continues east. >look window I have not gotten used to what we look like since we were synthesized into a single female body. The face that looks back is deeply scary. It's not me. And it's not you either. It's more like one of those computer composites you can have done to envision future offspring: if you and I were to have a somewhat androgynous daughter she might look like this. But I am uncomfortable sharing a body, and uncomfortable looking into a mirror and seeing something other than my own face looking out. You seem calmer about it: perhaps you've just had more time to reflect, or perhaps somehow you're filtering those emotions out for me. But I think we'll both be happier when we're split back into our own respective bodies. >east Ampersand Bend A bend in the street, which runs west and north. This district combines the old and the new: a small museum in an ancient stone building to the east, a shiny real estate office south. The window of the museum is currently displaying one of its exhibits, a codex. A temporary barrier blocks this empty street from the busy fair to the north, though there is a door that could be opened with the correct code. From here the gaiety and excitement of the holiday are fairly loud. >look barrier It's a high metal fence, supported by sturdy poles. It's designed to contain the chaos a little, and keep people who have come in for the Fair from wandering off down the side streets and causing trouble in unpoliced areas of town. It has a code-lock that opens the inset door. >look code-lock The kind of lock that can be set to a three-digit code, assuming one knows what the code is. >remove x from codex We smoothly, and almost without thinking about it, reset your device to be an X-remover. There is a smell of anise, and the codex turns into a code. A bit of paper on which is written "305." >open code-lock We set the wheels of the code-lock to 305. Click! The barrier door unlocks. >north We open the temporary barrier. Fair Today is Serial Comma Day, one of the biggest holidays on the island, and a time when half the police force is off duty while the other half is over-extended. The perfect day to make an escape. The square at the center of town is therefore crowded with people, and there's an overpowering smell of artificial butter and spun sugar. We are surrounded by kiosks for spell-offs, face-painting, a wheel to spin for prizes, and other activities best for small children or the very easily amused. The Fair continues with a selection of carnival games to the west, and with open park to the north and east. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now four.] >look kiosks They're the usual tacky affairs of brightly painted fiberboard and cheap prizes. I don't see any likely to help us today, however. >look wheel It's the sort of game where you spin the wheel for a prize. No one seems to be manning or using it any more, though; perhaps the supply of prizes has run out. >spin wheel We give the wheel a strong spin. The pointer lands on FREE POSTCARD. Sadly, no one is around to award this prize (which is probably why we were allowed to spin it without having some sort of ticket first). >west Midway Here in front of the pharmacy in the southwestern corner of the town square, various contests have been set up -- a strong-man hammering contest, a contest to see who can burst the most balloons using a styrofoam dart-plane, and so on. I assume you've noticed, though, the word-balance, which comes up as high as our hip. On the right pan is an apple and on the left a pear. Beside the word-balance is a barker in a blue suit, the same regulation blue used by the Bureau of Orthography. The barker is also carrying a tube. "Step up and try your hand at the fabulous word-balance!" calls the barker appealingly. We could ask what the gel is worth, ask whether the game is rigged, or ask whether anyone ever wins. >look contest It's one of those contests where you have to hammer something so that something else flies up and rings a bell. I don't have time for that kind of silly macho display. >look styrofoam Ridiculous little styrofoam gliders with dart-noses. No use to us, anyway. >look word-balance The beam is balanced. On the right pan is an apple and on the left a pear. >look barker He is dapper in his suit, as though he might belong to an especially vivid barber-shop quartet. >look tube We can't get a good look at the tube from this position, but it definitely appears to be authentic restoration gel -- valuable stuff, I recall you saying. (Or were you just trying to impress me?) >remove p from apple We run our thumb over the dial, setting the device to a P-remover. There's a smell of fermenting apple, then cider, then something more malty. In the apple's place there is now a glass of nutbrown ale. There is a cheer from the spectators. The word-balance tilts slowly but inexorably. The barker looks astonished and displeased, except for a fraction of a second when he just noticeably winks. With exaggerated bad grace hands us some restoration gel. "There's your prize. And now this contest is over." He stalks away. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now seven.] >n Church Forecourt This corner of the park, in the lee of the church, has been left free of kiosks and booths. Contrary to the usual rules of cathedral layout, the New Church is oriented toward the north, so we are standing by the flank of the building, though there is an entrance on this side. South and east lead to more of the park; there is a small cinema (where I left my pack) to the north, and the entrance to the New Church is west. >w New Church Not a Gothic cathedral from the era when the church was wealthy and secure, but a gallant Neo-classical response to the turmoil of the 18th century, when the power of language was just beginning to be evident, and instead of an immutable cosmology, we suddenly had observer-consensus reality. What is the need or use of God, if it turns out that He gave all the power of creation to Adam when He let him name the animals? An inscription above the altar, picked out in gold paint, reads Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος. My mother volunteers here: I think I should warn you. She is not quite religious, but believes in the cultural value of the building, and in having some sort of place where people can go for spiritual respite. She also, I suspect, likes having those great gold letters, defiantly foreign and arcane in the heart of the old city. There are side exits both east and west; and a gift shop occupies the narthex at the south end. >w Church Garden One might expect a graveyard, but burial inside the city walls has been forbidden for sanitation reasons since well before the New Church was built. Instead, there is a small meditation garden, which was once designed as an intricate knotwork of shrubs. The knotwork has since grown into a thicket. >look thicket Densely-grown: the church hasn't been able to afford a real groundskeeper for some time. >remove h from thicket We reset the device to h. The thicket abruptly shrivels and flattens itself, and in its place a ticket flutters to earth. >get ticket We take the ticket. It reads ADMIT ONE in large black letters. >e New Church Not a Gothic cathedral from the era when the church was wealthy and secure, but a gallant Neo-classical response to the turmoil of the 18th century, when the power of language was just beginning to be evident, and instead of an immutable cosmology, we suddenly had observer-consensus reality. An inscription above the altar, picked out in gold paint, reads Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος. There are side exits both east and west; and a gift shop occupies the narthex at the south end. >look altar It is simple and bare of cloth or flowers. >look inscription It means, In the Beginning was the Word. A patchy attempt to make theology align with scientific and linguistic reality, but it still has power. And despite the Bureau's depredations of foreign language writings everywhere else, they have never quite had the nerve to deface this. >e Church Forecourt This corner of the park, in the lee of the church, has been left free of kiosks and booths. Contrary to the usual rules of cathedral layout, the New Church is oriented toward the north, so we are standing by the flank of the building, though there is an entrance on this side. South and east lead to more of the park; there is a small cinema (where I left my pack) to the north, and the entrance to the New Church is west. >look new church It manages to be austere without seeming in the least modern: the walls are white and the windows clear, but the proportions, the texture of the plaster, the irregular leading between the panes of glass, all come of the age of handmade things. >look cinema Large red letters on the marquee announce the latest film from Cannes. >n Cinema Lobby This is a small, one-screen theater. The seats are not comfortable and the screen is not large. The projector is old. The management is lazy. No food is served. On two occasions, the film I was watching burst into flames while it was being shown. Despite these handicaps, it maintains an active and interested clientele simply by virtue of content: a wide variety of foreign films that, though meticulously dubbed into flawless California-accented English, nonetheless carry that slight tang of the forbidden. Evidently the next showing is not for a little while yet, because there are no patrons in sight. "Ticket," says the ticket-taker automatically. >give ticket "Here, have a ticket," we say. The ticket-taker frowns slightly as he takes the ticket. He turns it over front and back; looks at us in confusion; looks at the ticket again. Then he goes to the phone and makes a call. I'm nervous. It's evident that he's talking to his manager. He doesn't take his eyes off us for a moment. He puts his hand over the mouth of the receiver so that we can't hear the whole conversation clearly, but the gist is still obvious: "...be fake... but... a TRICKET maybe? or, like, a STICKET? ...oh, all right." Finally he hangs up. "Sorry for the inconvenience," he says. "Your ticket looks a little different from our usual ones, but I guess the printing has been changed." He tears the ticket briskly into confetti, destroying all evidence of our crime, and points off to the west. "The screening room is that way. Thank you and enjoy the show. It's not for a while, though." >w Screening Room Whatever is scheduled for later showing has not started yet, and is probably not destined to start for some time; at any rate, the screen is blank and no audience has yet assembled. My backpack is stowed under a seat in the third row from the back. I figured that it would be undisturbed there for a couple of hours, in the dark and out of sight, and if anyone found it they would probably turn it in to Lost and Found. But it is a big relief to find it still there. The backpack contains a flash drive and a monocle. We can go north and east to the Cinema Lobby from here. >look screen The screen is empty: nothing is yet being shown. It is also very very small by modern cinema standards. >look backpack Mine: a little bit worn, but capacious. It doesn't have any identifying marks on it, and I thought a brand-new bag would look more suspicious. It's closed. In the backpack are a flash drive and a monocle. >take backpack We get the backpack. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now ten.] >look flash drive This is it: all my notes; the syllable-and word-generating programs from which I built my language vocabulary; the lexicon and pronunciation guide and grammatical descriptions. And then there's the research to support the product: citations; copies of journal articles and scans from books; contact information for people in the outside world I think could help me. It's everything I've been working on for the last three years. >look monocle This is no mere fashion accessory. It is the very top grade of authentication scope, designed for people who have to use them all day, and normally available only to employees of the Bureau of Orthography. If we look through the monocle at something, we can see its true nature, regardless of spelling changes. You like that? I thought you might be impressed. My father got it for me. "For research," he said, but I think he knew I just coveted them. At any rate, you're not the only one with equipment. >n Projection Booth The booth is small and lined with grey carpet. It smells faintly of hot dogs. A jotter is propped up next to the projector. >use monocle (first taking the monocle) (opening the backpack) Everything turns computer-monitor green when viewed through our right eye. And staring fixedly at anything will turn up its authenticity status. >look projector It's an old-fashioned film projector, with a spot to hold a reel of film. The lens points at the screen. The monocle pings happily as we sight the projector with the crosshairs. >look jotter It's a little spiral-bound notebook, the kind reporters in old movies carry. It's full of notes: running times of movies. Numbers of people in the audience. Who clapped during potentially subversive scenes. Who arrived in a group of more than three. On the jotter is written "Red: audience 14. FM couple. MM couple. M in raincoat. FFFFF group. F. MF. M." The monocle pings happily as we sight the jotter with the crosshairs. >take jotter We take the jotter. >s Screening Room Whatever is scheduled for later showing has not started yet, and is probably not destined to start for some time; at any rate, the screen is blank and no audience has yet assembled. We can go north to the Projection Booth and east to the Cinema Lobby from here. >e Cinema Lobby This is a small, one-screen theater. Evidently the next showing is not for a little while yet, because there are no patrons in sight. "Yo," says the ticket-taker as we come in. >s Church Forecourt This corner of the park, in the lee of the church, has been left free of kiosks and booths. Contrary to the usual rules of cathedral layout, the New Church is oriented toward the north, so we are standing by the flank of the building, though there is an entrance on this side. South and east lead to more of the park; there is a small cinema to the north, and the entrance to the New Church is west. >se Fair The square at the center of town is crowded with people, and there's an overpowering smell of artificial butter and spun sugar. We are surrounded by kiosks for spell-offs, face-painting, a wheel to spin for prizes, and other activities best for small children or the very easily amused. The Fair continues with a selection of carnival games to the west, and with open park to the north and east. >e Heritage Corner This patch of the town square has been paved over in octagonal bricks and is commonly used for displays of traditional dancing: over-50 women in home-made embroidered aprons, skipping arm-in-arm and jumping over broomsticks. No, there aren't any here now. But trust me. It's an unforgettable sight. Under a bit of shelter in the corner, a diorama table shows scenes from local history, rotated out each week. This week's diorama represents the first sitting of the Committee for the New Orthodox Orthography. The park continues to the north and west; to the east is a backpackers' hostel where you've stayed recently and where you stowed the rest of your important possessions. >look bricks It's a narrow brick townhouse with only one or two rooms on each floor, and silly ornamental brickwork up near the skyline. The label over the entrance merely announces a generic hostel, without the dignity of a name. The monocle pings happily as we sight the hostel with the crosshairs. >look shelter The patriotic scene is set against the backdrop of the Bureau's buildings ca. 1895, where the committee first met, but the historians have included a bit of the building exterior to show that the meetings were conducted under army guard. The writing of dictionaries has not always been bloodless. The members and the army are movable, but the rest of the scenery appears to have been hot-glued in place. The monocle pings happily as we sight the diorama table with the crosshairs. >look members Mostly men and a few women, sternly dressed and with solemn expressions. The monocle pings happily as we sight the members with the crosshairs. >look army A collection of soldier figurines in blue uniforms. The monocle pings happily as we sight the army with the crosshairs. >remove y from army We reset the device to y. We wave the Y-remover at the army and produce an arm, severed (because after all it would be beyond the parameters of the change to generate the person whose body part it is). It is only moderately gory, and most locals get used to seeing this kind of thing as a prank from six-year-olds every halloween. Still, it might startle a tourist. >take arm We take the arm. A girl's arm, by the look of it, amputated neatly at the shoulder joint. The fingernails are painted shell-pink. >e Hostel I take it this is where you stayed from the time you got to town until our operation. I would have expected that someone with your credentials would have been able to afford something better: The Fleur d'Or, maybe? But maybe you thought this was lower-profile. At least it's clean and doesn't smell funny. The desk attendant is sort of eying us. She doesn't recognize you -- us -- but that's a good thing, I think. Discarded in one corner is Guidebook to Anglophone Atlantis. There's a spiral staircase that leads up to the dormitory rooms. >look attendant She's dressed in a kind of casual-hippy way: nose ring, poofy blouse that doesn't fit quite right. The monocle pings happily as we sight the desk attendant with the crosshairs. "Do you mind?" she asks. "That's kind of rude." >look blouse White cotton with little ribbons on it. I hate that kind of frilly nonsense. The monocle pings happily as we sight the blouse with the crosshairs. She sighs pointedly. >talk to attendant We wave at the desk attendant. "Yeah, I see you," she says. I'd like to ask whether we can keep the guidebook. >ask keep guidebook "Hey, does this guidebook belong to the hostel, or can I keep it?" "Sure, whatever," she says. "People take and leave stuff all the time. It's no big deal." >ask how unlock lockers If you're trying to converse with other characters, the suggestions in the text provide possible phrasings; so if you read "I might ask about lentils.", you might phrase your command ASK ABOUT LENTILS. Introducing other words or variant phrasings that weren't part of the suggestion may confuse the game. Alternatively, if you just want to take an action in the game world, try giving a direct command, such as EXAMINE THE ASP or WAVE THE P-REMOVER AT THE PHONEY. >up Dormitory Room Painted off-white, with hard wood floors under many layers of protective gloss coating: there are no surfaces in this room that would take a stain. Four dorm beds are lined up against the wall. The locker you identify as your own sits near one of the beds, still locked with its dial lock. A girl of about 19 is standing in the middle of the room, looking around as though she can't quite believe where she landed or what she's doing here. She is carrying a heavy pack and wearing a pink t-shirt. "Hey," says the girl. "Do you think this place is safe?" she asks conspiratorially. I must look blank, because she goes on, "I saw this documentary once, right, about a serial killer who went from youth hostel to youth hostel, grooming girls and killing them. And then he'd chop up the bodies and put the body parts into the lockers. And no one would find out until he'd gone away again." Nothing like that has happened around here, but she seems to get a charge out of scaring herself with this story. We could ask for privacy. >look floors The floors are designed to be scrubbed clean every single day, leaving no trace of what might have come or gone. The monocle pings happily as we sight the hard wood floors with the crosshairs. >look beds At this time of day, since everyone is checked out, the beds are all stripped down to bare mattress. Linens may be rented at the front desk -- but we're not staying here tonight, so there's no need to experience the thinning sheets and the pilled woolen blankets. Your memory is enough for both of us. The monocle pings happily as we sight the dorm bed with the crosshairs. You are reminded of how it started with Brock. >remember how it started with Brock Brock's Stateroom It was early morning, almost a year ago now. A dim light came through the portholes. A four-thousand dollar mink blanket covered your hip. You sat up and started fishing around beside the bed, in the dove-grey shadows, for your bra. Brock put a hand on your thigh. It seems you woke him. "That wasn't your first time," he said. "No." You were still feeling for the underpants and the shirt, not looking at him. "Well. You're made of human after all." Brock stretched, grinned. "After breakfast I'll clear you some drawer space." "This was a one-night event," you said. "You're familiar with the concept." He got very still. Then he got out of bed. Without looking at you, he got his trunks out of his drawer. "I'm going for a swim." Then we're back in the present. >look locker A standard metal locker for travelers to leave their valuable possessions in when they go out -- or while they sleep, since one's bunkmates are not always to be trusted. It is of the kind that requires the traveler to bring his own lock, and in fact someone (such as yourself) has put a lock on this one. The monocle pings happily as we sight the locker with the crosshairs. >look lock It's curious, now you look at it: it's a combination lock with a dial face, but no one has bothered putting any numerals onto the dial. There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the lock is a faint, greenish image of a clock. You have a fleeting thought of making your lock. >remember making your lock Galley You were going through the galley cupboards on the yacht. "If you're looking for coffee, Slango forgot to resupply," Brock said, descending the galley staircase in a wet Speedo. "No, the first-letter razor," you replied, holding up a portable clock. "I need a lock that responds to restoration gel but nothing else." "Ah." Brock toweled his hair. "It's in my bunk, sorry. Want to come look for it?" You smiled -- a give-away smile. "Wish I could, but we're on a deadline. Go put some pants on. And bring me the razor." Then we're back in the present. >look girl She is just the sort of tourist who most annoys the locals, but actually I find her type a little endearing: she may not be very sophisticated yet, but she wants to expand her horizons, and that's more than you can say for most of the friends she probably left back at home. The monocle pings happily as we sight the backpacking girl with the crosshairs. >look t-shirt It is somewhat too tight and bears the word JUICY in rhinestones across the bust. The monocle pings happily as we sight the pink t-shirt with the crosshairs. >look pack Mine: a little bit worn, but capacious. It doesn't have any identifying marks on it, and I thought a brand-new bag would look more suspicious. It currently gapes open. In the backpack is a flash drive. The monocle pings happily as we sight the backpack with the crosshairs. >ask for privacy "This will just take a moment, but you would you mind giving me the room to myself?" we say. She waves a hand generously. "Don't worry about it, do whatever you've got to do, I don't care," she says. "I'm so tired I couldn't move a muscle, but I've seen everything. I have three brothers and two sisters and I'm in women's rugby so I'm pretty hard to shock." With a grunt, she shrugs off her pack and puts it on the ground near one of the beds. "Wish I hadn't remembered that serial killer thing," the girl remarks, half to herself. "Now it's going to keep me up later. Picturing someone with a saw hacking me up." >show arm "Check this out," we say, holding out the arm for inspection. The backpacking girl turns white. After a moment to regain her composure, she flees the vicinity. >remove e from tube We reset the device to e. There is a flash of yellow light, and the tube turns into a tub. Now a handsome, giant-sized tub with RESTORATION GEL prominently emblazoned on the front. The monocle shows the residual form of the tube. >put gel on lock We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the lock. With an audible SPLORT, the lock becomes a clock and falls to the floor. It appears to be one of those archetypal alarm clocks that crows at sunrise and generally makes a nuisance of itself. It shows the time to be about twenty to ten. I'm starting to understand how you got into all the places you got into. Not that I judge you or your line of work, of course. [Your score has gone up by one point and is now eleven.] >get clock We get the clock. >open locker Now that the lock has been removed, the locker swings easily open, revealing a roll, a letter, and some plans. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now fourteen.] >look roll Now that is more like it: you've got us a tidy little stash of euros here. The monocle pings happily as we sight the roll with the crosshairs. >look letter It's a letter from your brother, printed off anonymously from an untraceable email account that you accessed in town. Nothing that could be followed back to Slango and the yacht. Sis, I'm keeping your wire transfer funds. I want to try for Stanford. I'd say thank you except that, one, you didn't get it legally (I saw this documentary about teen prostitutes -- if that's where it came from then EW) and, two, honestly? You owe for what you put us through after you ran away. Mom and Dad were humiliated that you turned into the prodigal daughter. Your face got on milk cartons. Pastor Hughes GAVE A SERMON ABOUT IT. Mom spent all that time coaching you through spelling practice, you know she doesn't enjoy getting up at 4 AM, right? You totally threw that in their faces. If you want to come home sometime, fine, but don't come to just see me. If you want to see me you have to see Mom and Dad too. Nate. The monocle pings happily as we sight the letter with the crosshairs. >look plans The plans are rolled up and stuck shut with a label that reads "PROPERTY OF DENTAL CONSONANTS LIMITED -- UNAUTHORIZED USE ILLEGAL". They're just a set of prints from the main computer design, of course, but still extremely informative: to the right engineer, they might reveal the secret of T-insertion for replication by other companies. These are what you and Brock were originally contracted to lift from the island, at a fee in the multiple millions. The monocle pings happily as we sight the plans with the crosshairs. >get roll We take the roll. >get letter We pick up the letter. >get plans We take the plans. >down Hostel I take it this is where you stayed from the time you got to town until our operation. I would have expected that someone with your credentials would have been able to afford something better: The Fleur d'Or, maybe? But maybe you thought this was lower-profile. At least it's clean and doesn't smell funny. The desk attendant is sort of eying us. She is wearing a nose-ring and a blouse. Discarded in one corner is Guidebook to Anglophone Atlantis. There's a spiral staircase that leads up to the dormitory rooms. >look nose-ring It's silver and reasonably discreet. The monocle pings happily as we sight the nose-ring with the crosshairs. She mutters about people who can't take hints. >get guidebook We take Guidebook to Anglophone Atlantis. A much-thumbed and several years out-of-date guidebook to this immediate area. The cover is tomato-red but the pages are crinkly and beige: it appears that someone has spilled coffee on it. There's too much here to take in in a quick read, but we could look up specific topics if we wanted to read more. >west Heritage Corner This patch of the town square has been paved over in octagonal bricks and is commonly used for displays of traditional dancing: over-50 women in home-made embroidered aprons, skipping arm-in-arm and jumping over broomsticks. Under a bit of shelter in the corner, a diorama table shows scenes from local history, rotated out each week. This week's diorama represents the first sitting of the Committee for the New Orthodox Orthography. The park continues to the north and west; to the east is the hostel. >north Monumental Staircase Once, the central hillock of the city was a fortified enclave, protected from the harbor and the peasant town by great walls. Now, however, the walls are mostly gone, except for a little spur that runs north from here. The walkways and tower are open to the public. Meanwhile a staircase as wide as a street descends east from the town square toward the harbor. An enormous blue and orange warning poster covers the wall alongside the staircase. We can go north, south to Heritage Corner, southwest to Fair, east, and west from here. >look poster "WARNING: Have you seen these dangerous individuals? If so, avoid contact and report all interactions to the Bureau of Orthography." Below, there's a picture of several people. One of them is you, before your face got shuffled with mine. It's funny that when we met, you mentioned you were a user of illegally modified language-tools, but you didn't emphasize the grand larceny side so much. Not to worry. I won't turn you in. I can hardly afford to, can I? The monocle pings happily as we sight the poster with the crosshairs. >north Old City Walls Only portions of the old walls still stand, but you can walk along what remains, as though you were defending the place. They're a meter and a half wide, made of ashlar blocks. On the vertical faces these blocks are still rough, but underfoot they have been worn smooth by the passage of many defenders and (subsequently) tourists. One of the blocks in the wall has even been defaced, some old inscription gouged out. I used to like to climb around up here when I was a kid. I made believe-- oh, you'll think it's silly. Down below in the distance are the docks and the sea, and immediately east of here is an old hexagonal turret. Something makes you think of my youthful pranks. >look block To judge by its different shaping and color, the defaced block is something borrowed from an older building to make up the new wall: taken out of a church or a mosque or perhaps even a Roman fortification in some earlier era of the island. It was once inscribed with a message, but whatever it was, the foreign-language writing has been completely chiseled away so as to be illegible. The monocle pings happily as we sight the defaced ashlar block with the crosshairs. >remember my youthful pranks Oh, I used to play that I was an Atlantean guard defending the battlements against invading redcoats, armed only with a saber and an, uh, an o-removing musket. So they turned into red cats, you see. My mother explained later that letter removal hadn't ever taken the form of muskets and that I had my chronology wrong. So I do know better. And my father gave me an even longer and even less interesting lecture about how the British colonial government wasn't entirely a bad thing and how it didn't do to be too gleeful about mentally shooting some young soldier who probably didn't have a choice about being there. Then we're back in the present. >west Hesychius Street As the street names make obvious, this part of town was laid out in a different political age, when it was considered more important to commemorate linguistic richness than to standardize practices. This is also the edge of the richest part of town, with houses -- really, almost villas -- that were built for households with servants. My parents' place is just a block or two north of here. On holidays like today, this street is often host to a farmer's market; though it is now late enough in the day that most of the farmers have given up and gone home, taking with them their twenty-three varieties of pickled olives, their loganberry jam, and their pigs'-feet-in-aspic. One remaining farmer lazes here, watching his stall. >look farmer Contrary to your obvious expectations, he is dressed more or less like anyone else, and is neither wearing quaint overalls nor chewing a piece of hay. The monocle pings happily as we sight the farmer with the crosshairs. >look stall It appears to belong to the farmer. It's made of wood and canvas and offers a little shade against the harsh sun. Previous customers have cleared most of it off, but the farmer still has some asparagus, a lime, and a yam. The monocle pings happily as we sight the farmer's stall with the crosshairs. >look asparagus It looks particularly tender and pleasant, but I avoid the stuff. The monocle pings happily as we sight the asparagus with the crosshairs. >look lime A small, wrinkled, intense-looking fruit: it wouldn't give much juice, but is likely very strong. The monocle pings happily as we sight the lime with the crosshairs. >look yam A yam with whitish skin. Some of the dirt of the farm still adheres to it. The monocle pings happily as we sight the yam with the crosshairs. >buy asparagus We greet the farmer. The farmer makes a little cluck sound which seems to mean that he sees us but doesn't care to waste an entire syllable on acknowledging it. "What is for sale?" we ask. "I got some asparagus, a lime, and a yam," the farmer replies. "I'll have the asparagus, please," we say. "Sure thing," says the farmer. I'd like to recommend other vegetables. >buy lime "I'll have the lime, please," we say. "Sure thing," says the farmer. We could recommend other vegetables. >buy yam "I'll have the yam, please," we say. "Sure thing," says the farmer. We want to ask what is for sale. >north Webster Court Hesychius Street opens here into a broad and plainly-paved court. Lending its name to the location is a bronze statue of Noah Webster. My mother likes to irritate my father by quoting what his contemporaries called Webster: a "viper", a "maniacal pedant", and (always a favorite at Reform Day parties) "a toad in the service of sans-culottism". She makes sure to pronounce that in the most Parisian accent possible. The large building just to the north -- yes, the one in pale pink -- is my parents' home. I think I mentioned that my parents were well off. My father works for the Bureau, embarrassingly, and my mother was born into the kind of money that we like to pretend doesn't exist on this island. The streets continue south, east, and west; and just to the northeast is my parents' side garden. >look home It's stucco and tile, inspired by southern California ideas of gracious living. There are potted palm trees inside, and leather sofas, and French oil paintings for which expensive importation licenses had to be bought. My childhood bedroom faces northwest, away from the docks, towards the roofs of other villas and the open sea. The monocle pings happily as we sight my parents' home with the crosshairs. >ne Patriotic Chard-Garden A narrow strip of land between the house and the edge of my parents' property. The eastern edge runs right up to the decaying old wall of the city, which here means some stumpy masonry on this side and a dizzying drop on the other. The rest of their terraces and gardens are fenced off. A little chard still grows in the nearest bed, carefully tended to thrive in this climate. Because it's so linguistically productive, chard is something of a national symbol; and during the world wars, there was a fad of gardening at home. After the war, it became common for affluent people with a little bit of land to keep their garden, so that if you were down on your luck you could glean a few leaves. >look chard Some leafy greens that might make an okay side salad, if we were feeling hungry. The monocle pings happily as we sight the chard with the crosshairs. >remove h from chard We reset the device to h. With a distinct whiff of crisp, snappy cardboard, the chard turns into a card. Not a playing card, as I might have expected, or a calling card, or even an index card, but a Tarot card, representing the Chariot. The vehicle is drawn by two prize horses, one black, one white. The driver appears to be having some difficulty keeping them together, to judge from the surly expression and the raised whip. There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the card is a faint, greenish image of some chard. >get card We take the card. >remove s from soil We reset the device to s. With a distinct whiff of mechanics and the summer time, the soil turns into some oil. A can of what appears to be motor oil. It is sludgy and black. There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the oil is a faint, greenish image of some soil. >get oil We pick up the oil. >sw Webster Court A broad and plainly-paved court, named for the statue of Noah Webster. The large, pale pink building north of us is my parents' home. The streets continue south, east, and west; and just to the northeast is my parents' side garden. >west Roget Close A pleasantly sheltered lane in which I learned to ride a bicycle, and where my friend Lucy used to live, before she and her parents moved off-island. Restrictions were looser even twenty years ago. Our old schoolhouse is just west of here. If you look just north between the houses, you'll notice also the footpath down to an almost-private beach. It used to be open, but it's now gated off, and built into the gate is a chic modern sculpture. >look schoolhouse It's where I went to school until I was twelve, as did most of the kids in this area. It's an old building with big arched windows and faded floorboards, and in the afternoon the schoolyard smells of spilled milk going sour in the sun. From this direction there's not much to see but the screen of palm trees in front. The monocle pings happily as we sight the schoolhouse with the crosshairs. >look gate A gate of wrought iron bars between two sturdy columns, too close to climb through and too tall to climb over. Built into the right-hand column, next to the gate latch, is a curious sculpture. The monocle pings happily as we sight the gate with the crosshairs. >look sculpture The base of the sculpture is a cone about four feet tall. On top of that is a flat circular pedestal, and there is a mirror that rotates around the outer circumference. The mirrored surface faces inward, so that it is sometimes reflecting whatever might be on the pedestal (currently nothing) and sometimes concealing it from view. The monocle pings happily as we sight the pedestal with the crosshairs. >put yam on pedestal We put the yam on the pedestal. The mirror rotates in leisurely fashion, and when it is done there is a May. This is the sheet for the month of May, torn from a calendar. Someone has put a gold star on the 21st, and "Dinner with the Shaplys" is penciled onto the 30th. There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the May is a faint, greenish image of a yam. The gate clicks open. [Your score has gone up by one point and is now fifteen.] >north We slip between the houses and down a path that looks as though it might lead to someone's back yard. No one has ever put up signage to correct this misapprehension because no one who lives around here is eager to encourage strangers on the private beach. Soon, however, the footpath begins to descend purposefully towards the level of the ocean. Winding Footpath The footpath winds between the villas, sloping steeply downward. It is narrow, and bushes left and right conceal it even from the windows of the people living nearby. >look footpath There are traces of sand on the pathway, tracked up from the beach. The monocle pings happily as we sight the footpath with the crosshairs. >look bushes Some variety I'm not familiar with: dark glossy green leaves, thick stems. In the right season, and I can't even remember what season that is, they also grow gaudy pink flowers. But not now. Lots of kudzu grows through and over the bushes -- this is one of the few spots on the island where it hasn't been eradicated, it seems. At one point along the path the bushes stick out especially far, as though there's something behind them. The monocle pings happily as we sight the bushes with the crosshairs. >north We continue down until there is a chink of a view of the sea. Then the path descends through a few last hairpin twists among rocks, and comes out suddenly on a little beach. Private Beach This is little more than a strip of fine yellow sand, perhaps twenty meters from side to side, and five from the hillside to the waterline. A little sage grows on the hillside, escaped from some garden, along with wilder plants. Above, at the top of that slope, are houses with balconies overlooking the sea, but from this angle it's impossible to see much of them, or for them (you'll have to take my word on this) to see us. Something green and plastic just barely pokes out of the sand. >look sand It's baking hot. The monocle pings happily as we sight the sand with the crosshairs. >look hillside We see nothing special about the hillside. The monocle pings happily as we sight the hillside with the crosshairs. >look sage Dark green leaves furred with silver prickles. The monocle pings happily as we sight the sage with the crosshairs. >get sage We get the sage. >get plastic We get the funnel. A gaudy green plastic toy suitable for funneling water and shaping conical sand-turrets. It's all sandy. >go to Webster Court We walk. Webster Court A broad and plainly-paved court, named for the statue of Noah Webster. The large, pale pink building north of us is my parents' home. The streets continue south, east, and west; and just to the northeast is my parents' side garden. The door to my parents' house opens and my father comes out. He's talking over his shoulder: "Sorry, dear, but someone has to be on call." My mother answers from inside, but we can't make out what she's saying. "Surge on the grid," Father replies. "Could be an unauthorized synthesizer, but more likely... yes, exactly. I'll try to be home before the fireworks." He closes the door behind him. Hastily I take off our monocle and palm it. Father shouldn't recognize us in our current body, but wearing expensive Bureau equipment in his presence would be a terrible idea. We put the monocle into the backpack. >wait We hold our breath. My father sees us from a distance and gives a neighborly wave. "Happy Punctuating!" he shouts. I wave back rather weakly. He gets on his small red scooter, checks his helmet, and revs off to the south. Off, apparently, to investigate the synthesizer that put us together. That will go slowly because of the holiday, but I'm guessing there will be Bureau investigators crawling all over the south side of old town in an hour or two. >go to High Street We have a quick walk out of the cocooning silence of the wealthy streets and back among the fair booths. High Street Hustle, bustle, dirt; ugly American chain shops; lots and lots of people. There seems to be a large organized protest in progress: protesters completely cram the sidewalk to the southeast. The curb is lined with garbage. To the west, the street turns into a monumental staircase leading to the old fortified area; a cross street heads southeast towards the main roundabout. Achievement accomplished: Finished tutorial mode! From a loudspeaker nearby comes the electronic sound of simulated bells ringing the hour after noon. It's later than I thought. We'd better get a move on. >remove d from card We reset the device to d. With a distinct whiff of metal parts and oil, the card turns into a car. It is little larger than a toy, but that is what you want when driving on the streets around here. Any substantial vehicle wouldn't fit down the winding drives. Here is how my mother gets around. She takes a 300 Euro Hermès scarf with an orange border and a pattern of prancing horses. She tosses it in the air. As it falls, she shoots it twice, like a clay pigeon: once to take out the F, the second time for the S. And such a car: buttery leather seats, jaguar lines. If someone asks how she gets such good results, she jokes that it's because of her quality materials. Suffice it to say that we are not similarly blessed. The car is far too large for us to carry, and falls onto the ground. >remove n from funnel We reset the device to n. With a distinct whiff of volatile fumes, the funnel turns into some fuel. It looks like a generic canister of unleaded gasoline. >put fuel in car I deeply fear automotive maintenance, but I can (just) manage to pour in the fuel... and I think that's done it. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now eighteen.] >remove b from garbage We reset the device to b. There is a flash of psychedelic colors, and the garbage turns into a garage. It is a small but well-furnished garage for minor tuneups and repairs. It even comes with a mechanic: a surprising touch, since letter-removers are usually legally prevented from creating living persons, but sometimes there are glitches if the people are not created directly. The mechanic nods at us. >give oil to mechanic "Will this work?" We hold out the oil. "Should do," he says. Rolling up his sleeves, he goes to work on the car. There is no small amount of banging and muttering, but finally he stands back and announces that he believes it is now in working condition. We want to thank the mechanic. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now twenty-one.] >thank mechanic "Thank you, that was a great help," we say. He nods. We could ask whether the car is fixed. >ask car "Is the car fixed now?" we ask. "The oil is in," the mechanic says. "Should run all right." >enter car We open the car door: perhaps unsurprisingly, it comes without an effective lock system. We get into the car. >se We switch on the ignition and the car comes to life. Smelly, trembling, putt-putting life, but still, not bad for something we conjured out of a vegetable picked outside my parents' place. Roundabout (jammed into the car) We are jammed into the car with our knees almost at our chin, looking out through the bulbous little windshield. The motor is growling like a housecat with pneumonia. The traffic flows in a tight circle around a statue which we can never see clearly. The hundreds of people are carrying angry signs and wearing slogans. Confusing signs point in various directions: northeast to Deep Street, northwest to High Street, south to Long Street, east to Tall Street. The car is making an unpleasant raspy growl. [Your score has gone up by five points and is now twenty-six.] >look people Hundreds of people pack the sidewalk, wearing slogans and carrying angry signs. You are reminded of your crew's heroism. >look signs They say things like "No Referendum = No Responsibility," "NOT GUILTY," and, more daringly, "The citizens of Atlantis have never voted for human rights violations." Some are just photos of Bureau officials wearing Hitler mustaches. The protesters can't say this directly, of course, but what they are protesting is the use of inanimation as a punishment by the Bureau of Orthography. Making someone into an inanimate object, or enclosing him in an inanimate object, is not technically murder, but it is considered a massive human rights violation by just about every other country in the world. >look slogans On every shirt and coat, sometimes screen-printed, sometimes just written on with a Sharpie, is the same message: NOT GUILTY. You know better than I do how the international media looks at Atlantis. How it presents us as a fat, wealthy plutocracy whose citizens happily engage in atrocities in order to keep hold of our unique advantages. But on most of those human rights issues, it's not as though we were ever asked. We never voted to do those things. The Bureau simply enacted them as "non-referrable procedures." >ne Deep Street (jammed into the car) We are jammed into the car with our knees almost at our chin, looking out through the bulbous little windshield. The motor is growling like a housecat with pneumonia. This road descends steeply from southwest to northwest, passing between white concrete buildings to provide access to the marina -- the Fish Market, the Docks, and a bar or two. The street is in deep shadow, protected from sunlight from almost any angle by its narrowness and by the height of the walls. We can go northwest, southwest to the Roundabout, east, and west from here. The car is making an unpleasant raspy growl. >look buildings Each has its balcony and its laundry flapping on clothes lines; but there the uniformity ends. Some are decorated in a curious fantasia of painted Moorish patterns; others a daring kind of art nouveau, all organic curves and windows that glance out under lowered concrete lids. >look balcony Many are rounded, like boxes at the opera. >look laundry Mostly bleached t-shirts and underpants and the odd sheet pinned to a line. >look patterns Black, gold, rose and red, they mark out arches and stripe eaves. >nw Since there's no way by road, we'll have to leave the car here. It is a moment's work to find a parking spot. We switch the ignition off. We swing the car door open. We climb out of the car. Fish Market Not very fishy at the moment, in fact: all the real trade happens in the early morning; then there is a period of tourist trade when the seafood sale tails off and most of the purchases are of polished conch shells and starfish; and then a little after noon the area clears out completely, leaving only briny rivulets on the concrete. A tall, stern woman is standing in the middle of the market. She wears the black caped uniform of an Authenticator, and a monocle just like mine. And I don't think I want her to see us. Just east of here is a rusting corrugated tin building, which was built to house various possessions of the fishermen. >east While the Authenticator's back is turned, we slip inside... Tin Hut Most of the light in here comes from circular windows punched into the tin walls just under the ceiling. From the inside, the building looks both larger and more sound than it appears from outside: there are plenty of sturdy struts supporting the roof and keeping the walls upright. Various tarpaulin-covered masses fill the room. A trap door is set in the floor. Sometimes smugglers and forgers have been known to stash things in here, since the building is close to the docks but rarely attracts the interest of customs officials. We catch our breath and look over our belongings to see if anything suspicious is showing. The B-remover, the monocle, and the plans might be a little too conspicuous. Ominous sounds come through the windows, but we're at the wrong angle to see out. >look struts The struts form a dull but sturdy lattice of metal, supporting the corrugated metal roof and walls. >look masses From the shapes visible under the blue plastic, it appears that they are probably tables and stalls, buckets, signs, and other necessary features of the fish market when sales are in progress. There's a flattish area we could probably scramble onto. >look trap door It is a wooden door set into the floor. The hinging mechanism is designed to keep the door closed if possible, perhaps as a safety feature so that people won't fall into an open hole. >remove s from plans We reset the device to s. With a distinct whiff of crisp paper, the plans turn into a plan. The number of pages in the original roll has been reduced, but this is still obviously a bit of DCL property. The only difference is that this version is incomplete. >remove l from plan We reset the device to l. There is a distinct spearmint flavor, and the plan turns into a pan. An omelet-sized skillet in cast iron. More racket comes in through the windows. >put pan into backpack We put the pan into the backpack. More racket comes in through the windows. >put monocle into backpack The monocle is in the backpack already. >put remover into backpack We put the L-remover into the backpack. >close backpack We close the backpack. >west I don't think there's anything showing that should get us into trouble. Timidly we open the door; the Authenticator has her back to us. We slip out. She makes one more turn in place -- monocled gaze sliding across us without stopping -- and then she strides away to the north. Fish Market Not very fishy at the moment, in fact: all the real trade happens in the early morning; then there is a period of tourist trade when the seafood sale tails off and most of the purchases are of polished conch shells and starfish; and then a little after noon the area clears out completely, leaving only briny rivulets on the concrete. Just east of here is a rusting corrugated tin building, which was built to house various possessions of the fishermen. We can go north, south, southeast to Deep Street, and east to the Tin Hut from here. >north Docks Here are some dozens of boats tied up: some of them are small to medium-sized fishing craft, some tourist boats for trips around the island, some merely ferries to the deeper harbor where the cruise ships anchor. To the east, up a moderate rise from the sea-level docks, is the imposing exterior of the Customs House. The classical look is only a little undermined by the public-service posters along the front. There passports are inspected and cargo passed under authentication, foreign items renamed or confiscated, and suspected smugglers interrogated. Immediately west, a sign advertises a pub called the Counterfeit Monkey. >look boats I know nothing about boats. You, on the other hand, appear to have an unnerving awareness of which of these craft are here on legal business and which are engaged in some form of smuggling or refugee-assistance. >look sign In the picture, a villainous man threatens a cage full of tiny primates with a primitive Victorian letter-remover. In the background is an enormous bag of cash. >west Counterfeit Monkey It takes a minute for us to adjust to the light in here. Built when people were a bit shorter and ceilings were a bit lower, the Counterfeit Monkey is always smoky and never well lit, even in the middle of the day. ...and... Slango is not here. This is bad. Even I can see this is bad. What happened to your confidence in your team? Where are the guys who are supposed to get us out of here? Something must have gone wrong. "Help you?" asks Parker the barman unenthusiastically. I'd like to ask whether he has seen Slango. >ask about Slango "I wonder whether you've seen an associate of mine," we say to Parker. "Name of Slango." Parker looks over the bar at us. "He comes in here from time to time," he says. "Very regular customer. Always has about three rum and cokes." This is a lie, and therefore a test. Slango doesn't drink alcohol himself and doesn't permit drunkenness in his crew. I'd like to challenge Parker about the rum. >ask about rum "Must be a different Slango," we say. "Mine is more of a root beer man. Thanks anyway though." "Oh, that Slango," Parker says, thoughtfully moving the Origin Paste sitting on the bar. "He's been around town the last couple of days, but not today. If you know his lady friend, you might try her." Lady friend? This can only mean Lena, she being the only female native with whom Slango spends much time socially. But you wouldn't have guessed that she'd advanced to the status of lady friend. Either way, Lena is a rather odd woman who keeps a used bookstore off Deep Street. We could ask whether we can have the Origin Paste. >look Origin Paste A cake of pale purple: it is able to disguise letter-reformed objects so that they don't look like obvious frauds, or even show up under authentication. The only problem with it is the distinctive smell. The Origin Paste is powerful stuff, and worth a good bit of money. >ask Origin Paste "That Origin Paste for sale?" "Well now," he says, grinning, "that would surely be illegal, would it not? Origin Paste is after all a controlled substance in this country, due to its unhappy association with fraudulent activities. On the other hand there is no law against someone winning the Origin Paste in a completely legitimate game of chance or skill." We could ask how one might go about winning. >ask about winning "Explain this game as though I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, leaning on the bar in an interested fashion. Are you flirting with Parker? No? Okay. Good to know. "It's a designated challenge game," says Parker. You've seen this played before, but he explains the rules anyway. "There are two contestants, one challenger and one defender. "The challenger chooses any object he likes and shows it to the moderator ahead of time. "The defender, without seeing the object, stipulates a general category. The challenger has five minutes to turn his designated object into an item that fits the defender's category, or he forfeits his ante." My response would be to play the game. Something makes you think of past experience playing games. >remember past experience playing games The three of you were watching the contest at Counterfeit Monkey. This time the prize was a bottle of Dove Wing Absinthe, and the latest contestant was trying to letter-remove her way to an object the size of a pebble. Slango lifted his root beer. "These guys are in a rut. It's all 'make a liquid' and size-based challenges. I want to see some demanding categories. Strawberry-scented. Paisley. Pachyderm-themed." You shrugged. "People L-remove tiles," you said. "You can get a letter-made tie any color you want." "Import Category 5," Brock said. "Now that would be a strong challenge category." Under Atlantean customs law, Import Category 5 means things that are edible, but not fruits or vegetables -- everything from drugs to chicken breasts. "Clear, but it rules out a lot of overly productive agriculture words." Then we're back in the present. >look clientele A nasty-looking bunch. They can be good enough if you're on the right side of them, but getting and staying that way isn't easy. And they're justly suspicious: the customs house not infrequently tries to infiltrate the criminal organizations and brotherhoods, though with no great success. >go to Aquarium Bookstore We hike through the marina district. Aquarium Bookstore The shop takes its name from the collection of fish mounted on every wall: swordfish, bass, other things I don't recognize. Underneath these dubious tokens, the walls are covered with bookshelves, and there are stacks of books on the floor where the shelves have proven insufficient. The merchandise consists mainly, but not exclusively, of books, and the selection caters to odd tastes. You once picked up in here a book about a man who R-removed a wrench, and then had his way with it. You and Brock had a good time with that one for the next month and a half. Lena is present, all right. In fact she watches us keenly the instant we come into the shop. Lena is an associate of Slango's. You hadn't realized that had crossed over into a romance. Slango has never, ever in your recollection dated anyone. And now this. "Happy Serial Comma Day," she says. "Glad to see you've got plenty of Origin Paste," Lena remarks. "It's such a useful thing to have. Smells so nice." I'd like to ask whether she has seen Slango or say who we are. >look fish None of the fish has been dusted in the last decade. The collection presents a slightly mournful air. >ask about Slango "You wouldn't happen to have seen Slango about recently?" we ask. "Slango?" she asks blankly, for all the world as though she'd had a lobotomy. "Is that a board game?" We could say who we are. >say who we are "Lena, it's Andra. And company. Maybe Slango mentioned that I was auditioning a new silent partner." "I don't know what you're talking about," she says. "But since you're here, whoever you are, I wonder whether you'd like to have a look at some merchandise of mine that could use a spruce." Aha. She wants us to prove our identity; probably has contraband that needs concealing, and wants us to do the deed as proof of trustworthiness. There's a brief pause. Lena goes off into a corner and rummages among the suspicious piles of books, and uncovers a box. "C'mere," she says; and obediently I wander over to that area of the store, which incidentally happens to be tucked away and half-hidden by shelves. "See here," she says. "See what you can do with it, eh?" >look box It's just a cardboard box in which some items of interest have been stored. In the contraband box are some modems and some preamps. Lena apparently wants our help getting them into a less identifiable format. >look modems If Brock were here, he would know exactly what made these interesting and valuable. All you can guess is that they're not a form approved by the government. >look preamps They aren't in themselves restricted technology, but Atlantean government slaps a very high tariff on any kind of electronic device not manufactured on the island. This is especially annoying and needless in the case of audio equipment for which there is no local manufacturer. >remove m from modems (opening the backpack) We reset the device to m. With a distinct whiff of old book, the modems turn into some odes. A slender volume of poetry, bound between red covers. It looks completely harmless and is written in English. The blurb on the back describes it as a "collection of meditations" on Atlantis' imaginary roots, which is to say, a lot of stuff about magic-wielding Phoenicians, Knights Templar, refugees from the Tower of Babel, space aliens, cabalistic mysticism, and Lully's combinatorics. It fits in perfectly with the rest of Lena's selection. Really amazing work. I've seen other people who were able to do impressive things with local field distortions -- think hard enough and you can prejudice the outcome of a linguistic transition. But this... this is detail work like I haven't seen. My hat is off. Or would be if I were wearing a hat and taking it off didn't mean making you take it off too. Lena touches the binding appreciatively. "You've even got that little bit of creasing in the spine that makes it look used," she says. "This is perfect. Only risk is customers wanting to buy it. I've got a couple this would be right up their alley." >remove p from preamps We reset the device to p. There is a lavender cloud, and the preamps turn into some reams. Since each ream is 500 sheets of paper, and there are many reams here, the collection is unhelpfully bulky. Lena considers the heap of reams contemplatively. "That's inconvenient, isn't it," she says. "And I have a book store, not an office supply shop." I'd like to calm Lena or tease Lena about selling office supplies. >remove s from reams We reset the device to s. There is a distinct spearmint flavor, and the reams turn into a ream. One ream, which is to say 500 sheets, of generic printer or copier paper, in white-white. "That works. Kind of thing I might have around for printing invoices on. I was a little afraid there you were going to go for a ram just to spite me. Don't know where I'd put one of those around here." >go to Outdoor Cafe We make the short walk through the marina district. Outdoor Café From this slightly raised terrace, tourists have a view of the activity in the market and out over the docks. Curiously, there's an acquaintance of yours here: Nexami Engeo is at one of the round black metal tables. He's a musician, the front man of engeo. Your gang helped him out with some customs issues because of his unusual name. Nexami nods to us. "Watch out. That table next to you has something sticky spilled on it." And indeed there is a spill. You were about to lean on it nonchalantly. We want to say thanks for pointing out spill or ask what he is doing in Atlantis. >look Nexami A big man, both tall and stout. He hasn't reached overweight yet, but it looks like a matter of time. He's wearing a rocker jacket and jeans. >look jacket It's black leather. It might make the wearer look fierce if he didn't have such a round dimpled face. >look jeans Blue. Ordinary cut. I'm not really an expert in fashion. >look tables The wobbly, tipsy kind of table that jog at a touch and spill your coffee everywhere. On the round black metal tables is a spill. >say thanks for pointing out spill "Hey, thanks." He makes a you're-welcome gesture and goes back to contemplating the sea view. We could ask what he is doing in Atlantis. >ask what he is doing in Atlantis "So, what are you doing in Atlantis?" "Doing a show tonight," he says. "Up on the City Walls." This is only partly a lie: you know that his main business in town is some sort of computer science contract, and that it's largely cover that his band is playing in the Serial Comma Day festivities. Nexami stands up and mutters something. I have a little trouble with his Scottish accent -- we don't get a lot of that around here, for obvious reasons -- but you interpret it as him saying he'd better go pay up. He heads into the interior of the café. >remove s from spill There is a smell of anise, and the spill turns into a pill. It is small, round, and blue. There are no brand or generic markings to indicate what it might do. >get pill We take the pill. >go to Counterfeit Monkey It's a short walk through the marina district. Counterfeit Monkey Infamously this pub was raided in 1929, the year that the Bureau developed its first meager attempt at an Authentication Scope, and dozens of smugglers and fraudulent businessmen went to jail. But neither that raid nor subsequent scrutiny has ever shut the place down entirely. Built when people were a bit shorter and ceilings were a bit lower, the Counterfeit Monkey is always smoky and never well lit, even in the middle of the day. The clientele are currently engaged in a game of darts, while the barman watches and practices a sarcastic wit on those who embarrass themselves. There is also a quantity of Origin Paste sitting out on the bar. Parker acknowledges our return with a nod. "What do you think? You up for a try at the Origin Paste?" I'm inclined to play the game. You have a fleeting thought of your crew's attitude to Atlantis law. >remember your crew’s attitude to Atlantis law I don't know what you think you're talking about, because we can't see any such thing here. >play game "I'd like to play for the Origin Paste," we say. "Excellent. Oh, I did mention the small matter of the entry fee?" I get out the roll of bills and he peels off two twenties. "Thank you. Now, you pick your entry article, and I'll ask one of these good gentlemen to suggest a defense category." >show pill "Right," says the barman. "The pill it is." He turns towards the group assembled around the dartboard. "Anyone want to defend against this character?" (with a nod at you). "A liquid," says a gruff man. ("You always say liquid!" complains one of the others. "It's his favorite thing!" says a third.) But the ante is submitted and the challenge set. >put gel on pill We dip out a fingertip-coating quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the pill. With an audible SPLORT, the pill becomes a spill. "A winner!" says the barman, straightening up. "What do you know? The Origin Paste is all yours, darling." This produces a squawk of surprise and irritation from the defendant, and you get the impression that this game has been agreeably fleecing tourists all day. Pity you had to come along and spoil it. The spill, true to its nature, leaks out onto the floor. I'm inclined to ask whether he has any other games going. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now twenty-nine.] >get Origin Paste We get the Origin Paste. I'm inclined to ask whether he has any other games going. >ask whether he has any other games going "So, is there anything else I can win? Any other games going?" Parker laughs. "Not until tomorrow, kid," he says. "We only run one game a day." >go to Aquarium Bookstore We make the walk through the marina district. Aquarium Bookstore The shop takes its name from the collection of fish mounted on every wall: swordfish, bass, other things I don't recognize. Underneath these dubious tokens, the walls are covered with bookshelves, and there are stacks of books on the floor where the shelves have proven insufficient. The merchandise consists mainly, but not exclusively, of books, and the selection caters to odd tastes. Lena hovers, unwilling to let us look around ungoverned. At her feet is a contraband box containing a ream and some odes. "Greetings," she says. "Nice monocle, by the way! You do have all the good toys. Suppose it means you can check your work and see whether you've really got enough paste on things." >put Origin Paste on ream We smear some of the Origin Paste onto the ream. Nothing obvious happens, of course, but that is the whole point. "Excellent," Lena mutters under her breath. >put Origin Paste on odes We smear some of the Origin Paste onto the odes. Nothing obvious happens, of course, but that is the whole point. "Perfect," Lena says, regarding her contraband possessions with satisfaction. "Welcome back, Andra and Guest." We could ask whether she has seen Slango. >ask about Slango "Now, you owe me one Slango," you say. "Where'd he get to?" "Slango and I were catching up. Bless that man, he's hung like a yak," she says. "But he got bad news and had to hurry back to the yacht. Said something about not being able to keep an appointment. I take it you're the appointment? I can try reaching him for you, if you want." My response would be to encourage Lena to contact Slango. >encourage Lena to contact Slango "That would be extremely helpful," we say. Perhaps we can finally get off this island and back into our separate skins, which would not be one minute too soon for me. "Very good," she says. She goes over to one of the free-standing shelves and takes out copies of Indian Summer and Seventy Ways to Disable an Authentication Scope. Behind these works of literature she finds what looks like a cellular phone; but it mustn't be one, or at least not of the usual variety, because the Bureau tightly controls such items. We hear half a conversation. "It's me. There's someone to see... yes, I had her do the contraband... I don't know, a little taller and a lot less mean... Oh! I see. She looks healthy enough... I'm not running a restaurant! Okay. Okay. I'll talk to you later, sweetie. Bye." Without meeting our eye, she buries the phone back in its previous location. Then she says, "He's coming in direct. He says go over to Counterfeit Monkey and he'll be right over as originally planned, and he's sorry about the wait." "Oh! And." She tosses us a coin. "Have a drink on me." I'd like to thank Lena. [Your score has gone up by three points and is now thirty-two.] >thank Lena "Thank you," we say. "We owe you one." She smirks. "I get my money's worth out of Slango, don't worry." >go to Counterfeit Monkey "This would be a good time to stop for lunch and a little siesta," says Lena, following us to the door. As we go out, she's rolling down the shades and putting up a closed sign. We walk through the marina district. Counterfeit Monkey Built when people were a bit shorter and ceilings were a bit lower, the Counterfeit Monkey is always smoky and never well lit, even in the middle of the day. Slango sits at a dark table, nursing a root beer. Slango is, of course, not Slango's real name. He is half criminal, half ideological revolutionary: uncouth, restless, always hungry for a new exploit. Had he been born into a freer society, he might have become a very valuable engineer or consultant. He has been your mentor in crime and your usher into the world of adults. There's a spill on the floor. Slango meets our eye for a long minute without smiling. We want to say who we are. >look Slango He's dressed plainly but neatly: clean jeans, crisp white button-up shirt. His face is calm and his voice is even and he could be any age between thirty and fifty. He looked that way when you met him eight years ago, too. >say who we are "Slango," you say. "Lena gave me a totally unwanted visual about your yaklike proportions. Guess you also got a yak's sense of clock time?" "It was an emergency. I figured you'd go to Lena, and I was right." "You were lucky. I knew her a little, but I had no idea you two were making the yak with two humps." "No such thing as a bactrian yak," Slango replies. "My apologies. I assumed that what Brock knows, he passes on to you, and he certainly knows about me and Lena." He scowls into his root beer. "Nearly gave himself a hernia laughing," Slango adds under his breath. We could explain Brock's probable reasons or ask whether we can leave now. >explain reasons "She's old enough to be your spinster aunt and flaky enough to tell your fortune with half a tarot deck and a couple of Uno cards," you say. "We haven't got a lot of clues about what your type is, but I doubt Brock would have guessed Lena." "She's thirty-two," says Slango crisply. "She runs Radio Free Atlantida single-handed with electronics she built herself. And if she were old enough to be my spinster aunt, that would still be my business." "So, uh, I guess you guys are pretty serious, then," you say. "I'd give her and me better odds than you and Brock." We could mutter darkly or ask whether we can leave now. >mutter darkly I grumble under our breath about people who are hung up on their personal issues when there are useful jobs to be done. Slango pretends not to hear. We're all silent as the door of the pub opens and closes and a large man walks past us. "Brock's run into a little trouble pursuing a profitable opportunity." We want to ask what the trouble was. >ask what the trouble was "Define trouble." "I had a pick-up arranged to get him off the island shore all the way down by Maiana last night, but he didn't make it, and sent no messages. I checked a contact in Bureau Processing, but no arrest file has gone through, so Brock hasn't been caught. He's just... missing." A squabble breaks out over by the darts board. "We can't leave without Brock," Slango says, as though you needed persuading. Or maybe he's saying that to the me half of us. Right now, it's true that I'm not keen on the prospect of hanging out in Atlantis. We're already way behind the plan. We want to complain about the inefficiency of this scheme. You are reminded of how it started with Brock. >remember how it started with Brock Navigation Area Brock was sitting at the controls, with you leaning over him. He pushed you away. "Cut it out. I'm not available every time you decide to go slumming." It was deep blue summer twilight. He was driving the yacht with one hand on the steering wheel and the other loosely in his lap. You turned to go. Then we're back in the present. >complain about inefficiency of scheme Sorry, but I have to get this out there. "I was really expecting a smoother escape plan when I arranged to work with your operation," I say. Slango eyes us with disfavor. "Andra, you got a moron up in your head. Kid -- Alex -- we aren't travel agents." A dart bounces off the dart board and lands near your foot. A gruff man retrieves it with muttered apologies. "I've got to get back to the yacht; it's empty," Slango says. "And I would prefer not to let the Bureau get a good look at me, while your current face is, shall we say, disposable. The trick is, we don't know where Brock is. If he left a message for us, it'll be at the dead drop." That's a spot at the public convenience by the town bus station where the three of you leave messages for one another when necessary. Usually quiet, yet anonymous. "We're on it," we say. "Glad to hear it," says Slango. "Now stop referring to yourself as 'we' in company." This gives us something to go on, anyway. We give Slango what I intend as a reassuring nod of solidarity. "Back to the yacht for me," Slango says. "Don't let the other half of your head do anything you wouldn't do." "Which of us are you talking to?" I ask smartly. "Both." He heads out towards the docks and quickly disappears from view -- returning to the yacht to wait for us to arrive with Brock. [Your score has gone up by five points and is now thirty-seven.] >save Enter saved game to store: start6 Ok. >score You have earned 37 points: 1 point for using the letter-remover 3 points for passing through the temporary barrier 3 points for winning the gel 3 points for retrieving the backpack 1 point for using the gel 3 points for opening the locker 1 point for using the spinner 3 points for fueling our car 3 points for repairing our car 5 points for traveling by car 3 points for winning a barroom bet 3 points for arranging contact with Slango through his lady friend 5 points for meeting Slango You have not yet removed a, c, f, g, i, j, k, o, q, r, t, v, w, or z from anything. The achievements you have accomplished so far include: Finished tutorial mode >