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.

>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.

>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. 

>remove x from codex
We smoothly, and almost without thinking about it, reset your device to be an X-remover. There is a flash of cerulean light, and the codex turns into a code. A bit of paper on which is written "305."

[Your score has gone up by one point.]

>open code-lock
We set the wheels of the code-lock to 305.

Click! The barrier door unlocks.

>north
We open the temporary barrier.

I'm glad to see you're feeling ready to face the wider world. Here's what we think we need to do: 
  Get my backpack from the cinema
  Retrieve your remaining possessions from locker at hostel
  Meet your colleague Slango at Counterfeit Monkey

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.]

>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 has a tube. 

"One tube of restoration gel goes to the first person who can unbalance the word-balance!" cries the barker, glance sweeping the crowd.

We want to ask what the gel is worth, ask whether the game is rigged, or ask whether anyone ever wins.

>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. 

>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.

>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.

>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.

>take backpack
We pick up the 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.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now ten.]

>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.

>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
[If you're traveling far, you can always type GO TO (location name) to get there automatically.]

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.

>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.

>talk to attendant
We greet the desk attendant.

"Yeah, I see you," she says.

We could ask whether we can keep the guidebook.

>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 want to ask for privacy.

>ask for privacy
"I'd really like to be alone for a couple of minutes now," 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."

>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.

>drop arm
We put down the arm.

>remove e from tube
We reset the device to e. There is a distinct spearmint flavor, and the tube turns into a tub. Now a handsome, giant-sized tub with RESTORATION GEL prominently emblazoned on the front.

>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-five 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.]

>get roll
We take the roll. Now that is more like it: you've got us a tidy little stash of euros here.

>get plans
We take the 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.

>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.

>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.

>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.

You have a fleeting thought of my youthful pranks.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>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.

>buy yam
We say hello to 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 yam, please," we say.

"Sure thing," says the farmer.

I'd like to recommend other vegetables.

>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.

>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.

>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.

>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.

>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. 

>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.

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.

>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. 

>get plastic
We take 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 have a quick 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.

>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
It's a brief hike 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 could thank the mechanic.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now twenty-one.]

>ask car
"Is the car fixed now?" we ask.

"The oil is in," the mechanic says. "Should run all right."

We could thank the mechanic.

>enter car
We open the car door: perhaps unsurprisingly, it comes without an effective lock system.

We get into the car.

I'd like to thank the mechanic.

>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.

I hate to backseat-drive, but I think you were supposed to yield just there.

[Your score has gone up by five points and is now twenty-six.]

>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.

>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 and the plans might be a little too conspicuous.

>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.

Ominous sounds come through the windows, but we're at the wrong angle to see out.

>remove l from plan
We reset the device to l. There is a mad-scientist cackle, and the plan turns into a pan. An omelet-sized skillet in cast iron.

>put pan into backpack
We open the backpack.

We put the pan into the backpack.

>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. 

>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.

We could ask whether he has seen Slango.

>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 want to ask whether he has seen Slango or 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."

We could play the game.

Something makes you think of past experience playing games.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>go to Aquarium Bookstore
We have a short 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. 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."

We could ask whether she has seen Slango or 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?"

>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 smell of anise, 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'm inclined to calm Lena or tease Lena about selling office supplies.

>remove s from reams
We reset the device to s. There is a flash of psychedelic colors, 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
It's a quick 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 could say thanks for pointing out spill or ask what he is doing in Atlantis.

>remove s from spill
There is a flash of blue light, 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.

"Nice clean-up method," Nexami Engeo comments. "Beats using a rag." At least, I think that's what he said.

We could say thanks for pointing out spill, say that it's one of those things atlanteans learn, or ask what he is doing in Atlantis.

>get pill
We acquire the pill.

He 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.

>go to Counterfeit Monkey
We have 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?"

We want to ask whether he has seen Slango or play the game.

You are reminded of your crew's attitude to Atlantis law.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>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 drips out of our hands.

I'd like to ask whether he has seen Slango or 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. 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.

I'd like to ask whether he has seen Slango or ask whether he has any other games going.

>go to Aquarium Bookstore
We 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
"You wouldn't happen to have seen Slango about recently?" we ask.

"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."

I'm inclined 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 Ba's Journey 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.]

>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.

It's a quick 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 could say who we are.

>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."

My response would be to 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.

Out of the corner of our eye, we see the barman looking steadily at us. We turn deliberately back to Slango.

"Brock's run into a little trouble pursuing a profitable opportunity."

My response would be 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.

I'd like to complain about the inefficiency of this scheme.

You have a fleeting thought of how it started with Brock.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>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."

We're all silent as the door of the pub opens and closes and a large man walks past us. 

"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.]

>go to Roundabout
We drive through the marina district. 


The whole Roundabout has ground to a halt, with protesters walking in the street and in some places completely filling the road. But this is mostly a nuisance until I notice that there are a couple of teenagers handcuffed to a tree.

I give the wheel a yank and run the car up onto the central traffic circle a little way. Call it a parking job. We need to get those kids out of here before their arrest is processed and they go to storage. I might not have the nerve to do anything by myself, but you're with me, and I'm starting to appreciate that's like being Batman. 

Traffic Circle (jammed into the car)
Normally no pedestrian ever comes to this circle of grass and litter: the flow of traffic is too constant and too fast. But the protest has stopped the traffic and I'm determined to do something about the two teenagers I saw just now, so here we are. Though we probably have to get out of the car if we're going to be useful.

>put Origin Paste on car
We surreptitiously smear some of the Origin Paste onto the car. Nothing obvious happens, of course, but that is the whole point.

[Your score has gone up by one point and is now thirty-eight.]

>get out
We open the door of the car.

We climb out of the car.

Traffic Circle
A giant Atlantida statue stands at the center, decorated in an unorthodox fashion with a sign and a stuffed octopus. Atlantida is to us a bit as Uncle Sam might be to you, except that she embodies the spirit of the people rather than the government. In recent years she's become a symbol of opposition to the Bureau.

Two teenagers are cuffed to a brown tree, apparently for safe-keeping while the All-Purpose Officer undoes their vandalism. He has a diminutive affixer. 

"Go ahead, put us in Cold Storage!" shouts the defiant teenager. "I'm happy to sleep through all this shit and wake up when we have jet packs and a government that respects the rights of its people."

The All-Purpose Officer shifts the restoration gel rifle from one hand to another; looks around; and then props it against the foot of the statue.

>use monocle
(first taking the monocle)
Everything turns computer-monitor green when viewed through our right eye. And staring fixedly at anything will turn up its authenticity status.

The nervous teenager looks unhappy. "We won't get out of here until our families are all dead and global warming has reduced Atlantis to three square feet of hilltop."

The All-Purpose Officer goes around to the back of the statue and begins to climb up the leg, finding footholds in the folds of Atlantida's gown. It looks like a precarious business, but he's determined.

>get rifle
We pick up the rifle. It fits well in your hand: good heft. I feel like we know how to aim this thing. It's illegal to carry, but that doesn't seem to be bothering you right now.

The nervous teenager struggles against her bonds.

Gritting his teeth, the All-Purpose Officer climbs for access out onto Atlantida's huge metal arm. It looks about as sturdy as a substantial tree branch, but more slippery, and inconveniently angled.

>shoot tree
(with the restoration gel rifle)
We shoot the restoration gel rifle at the brown tree. With an audible SPLORT, the brown tree becomes a brown tee. It's a brown wooden peg for putting a golf ball on. Apparently the All-Purpose Officer performed a little light R-insertion when he found himself in need of a portable tree.

Freed from attachment to the tree, the teenagers look at each other and then run off into the crowd.

The All-Purpose Officer glances around, but you've made us stand so our body conceals the rifle from his angle. He growls in annoyance. "Station," he says, apparently to thin air. "I need back-up."

Understood, says a tinny distant voice.

Once the All-Purpose Officer comes level with the sign, he shoots it with the diminutive affixer, turning it into a signet. It's an outsized signet bearing the crest of the Bureau of Orthography, now hanging around the statue's neck in the same way that the sign did a moment ago.

>enter car
We get into the car.

No one seems to be much the wiser about what just happened. I have to say, you know what you're doing. We ditch the rifle out the window -- it's too large to fit in the car. Traffic is starting to move again. We'd better get on to the dead drop.

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 know all too well.

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.

>east

Tall 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.

Tall Street is very quiet. No celebrations have reached this far, and neither is there any business today; so it has an air of dull abandonment. At the east end the street bends to go around an old park rarely visited.

To the south is the important blue rotunda of the Bureau of Orthography. The street runs west towards the busy roundabout.

The car is making an unpleasant raspy growl.

>east
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 open the door of the car.

We climb out of the car.

Abandoned Park
In contrast with the parks in the more savory parts of town, this is a bit of patchy grass where local dogs occasionally come out to do their business. A granite war memorial is fixed at the center, which is why tourist maps optimistically call the place Monument Green. But the memorial is only moderately monumental and the grass hardly green at all.

We step on a twig before we back away again. 

It is a place that might have been developed long ago; only it is known that there are remains of Roman settlement here, and there is a risk that digging out the foundations would turn up some of those ruins, exposing a large number of Latin-language objects to the light of day. To prevent this catastrophe the whole area has been placed off limits to development.

We can go southeast and west to Tall Street from here.

>get twig
We get the twig. Nine or ten inches long, very thin and somewhat flexible. There are no leaves left on it.

>se

Bus Station
A currently-desolate depot from which buses run seasonally to Maiana, the island's other major town. The old station building is a low, rectilinear edifice from the 60s, all pebbled concrete and sheet glass, but it's shut, leaving accessible only a series of empty bus bays and a wall-mounted schedule. The public convenience to the east is the only thing open, while the area to the northwest is open parkland.

A dove flutters from one surface to another, occasionally stopping to stare at us. 

A shed, rather ramshackle and unlikely, sits on the pavement, where it ought to be in the way of incoming buses. 

Something makes you think of leaving your family for the last time.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>put gel on shed
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the shed. With an audible SPLORT, the shed becomes a shred. Just a torn rag-end of cloth. It is white and blue, and bears every evidence of having been part of an obligatory-service uniform.

>get shred
We take the shred.

>east

Public Convenience
There are just the two toilet stalls and a couple of sinks, but the place has been kept up reasonably well, if one doesn't count the graffiti.

A soap dispenser hangs beside the mirror. 

About knee-height in one of the stalls is a hole that runs right through the wall between the men's and women's restrooms. It's here that you and Brock and Slango usually leave things for one another.

A faint smell of lavender lingers in the air.

>smell
The smell seems to emanate from the small hole in the wall.

>put gel on ash
We just touch a coated fingertip of gel to the ash. With an audible SPLORT, the ash becomes some trash. Most of it's junk: sweet wrappers, tissues, bus tickets. But there's also, suggestively, an appointment card for Arbot Maps & Antiques.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now forty-one.]

>go to Tall Street
We have a short walk. 

Tall Street
Tall Street is very quiet. No celebrations have reached this far, and neither is there any business today; so it has an air of dull abandonment. At the east end the street bends to go around an old park rarely visited.

Our car -- which might better be described as a covered bicycle -- is parked nearby. 

To the south is the important blue rotunda of the Bureau of Orthography. The street runs west towards the busy roundabout.

>enter car
We get into the car.

>west
We switch the ignition on.

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 know all too well.

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.

>south

Long Street North (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.

Long Street is lined on each side with a double-row of tall, anemic palm trees that bend towards one another many feet overhead. This corridor continues some considerable distance south.

On the west side of the street is the several-story front of the Fleur d'Or hotel. 

We can go north to the Roundabout, south, and west from here.

The car is making an unpleasant raspy growl.

>south

Long Street South (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.

Long Street is lined on each side with a double-row of tall, anemic palm trees that bend towards one another many feet overhead. We are now in the southern part of this long corridor, between the Canadian Embassy and Arbot Maps & Antiques.

Someone has left a shopping bag at the roadside -- maybe by accident when loading up a car, maybe because they mean to come back for it. In the shopping bag are a ball and a jigsaw. 

We can go north to Long Street North, south, and west from here.

The car is making an unpleasant raspy growl.

>west
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 open the door of the car.

We climb out of the car.

We show the appointment card, and are let in.

Arbot Maps & Antiques
There is a large collection of vintage and antique maps under glass -- the island of Atlantis as a whole, street maps of here and of Maiana, navigation maps of the harbor, and then maps of more distant places as well. 

A stylish mannequin near the front sports a pair of Britishizing goggles. 

Overseeing all this is a woman named Kate. 

"Welcome to Arbot," says Kate. "Feel free to browse and ask me any questions you may have about the merchandise."

We could ask whether she has seen Brock.

>ask about Brock
"Have you seen a man -- maybe this morning -- about this height, dark hair, very blue eyes, kind of cocky?"

There's a light of recognition. "Yes, he was in. A friend of my boss. He visited the shop and sold us a map he happened to have with him. Then they left, together. I believe there was some discussion of seeing a demonstration."

We could ask which map was sold, ask what sort of demonstration, or ask whether Brock seemed upset.

You have a fleeting thought of how it started with Brock.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>ask which map was sold
"He sold you a map? Which one was that?"

"It's just here," Kate says, going over to the selection and pointing out a map purporting to depict Slangovia. "An unusual piece."

She glances sideways at us.

I'd like to ask what sort of demonstration or ask whether Brock seemed upset.

>ask what sort of demonstration
"You mentioned that your boss and the other gentleman went to a demonstration. What kind of demonstration was it?"

She smiles and shrugs. "Mr. Arbot used to work for the Bureau before he retired to sell antiques. He still has lots of connections. It could be anything."

I'd like to ask whether Brock seemed upset.

>buy map
"I'll take the Slangovia map," we say. "It's not every day you see something like this."

"Very good," she says. "Too bad he didn't think to offer it to you directly! But just as well for us, I suppose."

I take this to mean that Arbot is getting a big commission on the sale.

Kate removes the map from its case and packs it up carefully for us.

>ask about Brock
"There's a chance my friend was in trouble. Did he seem to be in a hurry or concerned about anything?"

"Not at all. He appeared eager to speak with Mr. Arbot, and they had plans together, but he didn't seem agitated. If anything, he seemed a little more worldly and collected than people in his line of work usually are."

Cryptic. Perhaps he was posing as a researcher? But we can't very well ask, not if we're supposed to be a friend of his.

Kate waves at someone she knows through the store window. "If your friend is missing, you could report him to the Bureau, you know," she says. "I believe they keep close tabs on academic and research visitors. They may well know where he is."

"Thank you," you say. "I don't think things are quite at that point." And they never will be, obviously.

You are reminded of how it started with Brock.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>get legend
We take the map of Slangovia. It's a detailed street map pretending to correspond to some remote South African town called Slangovia. Cryptic icons dot the surface. There is a legend in the lower right corner that appears to be a separate piece glued on.

>go to Fleur d'Or Lobby
It's a quick drive as far as Long Street North. There we pull easily into one of the available parking spots, since many people have now gone home.

Fleur d'Or Lobby
The Fleur d'Or is a high-end hotel that serves businessmen and luxury tourists interested in the linguistic mechanisms of the island. As a result, it has all kinds of paid exemptions, including an exemption allowing it to operate under a foreign name.

The spotlights in the ceiling light the floor in distinct pools of Bureau blue, and a sheet of frosted glass etched with random letters separates the lobby from the drinks club to the west.

There is no one at the glossy piano in the corner, though a piece has been left on the piano bench. 

>west

Fleur d'Or Drinks Club
The back wall is dramatically decorated with bottled liquors of all sorts, from gin to cachaça; there's a giant bottle of Campari, taller than your average three-year-old, with a red ribbon around its neck.

What makes this place technically a drinks club rather than a bar is its license to serve letter-manufactured food and drink. A toolkit on the bar contains some screwdrivers, some gimlets, and some rusty nails, ready to be transformed into their respective cocktails.

The bartender is in the middle of showing her homonym paddle to a patron holding a gin and tonic. The other patrons are scattered around the room at small tables, drinking or talking among themselves. 

She acknowledges us with a nod as we stroll up to the bar and get close enough to hear their conversation. "It was originally produced as a toy, but it's actually a bit dangerous," the bartender is saying.

"Dangerous? How so?" asks the patron.

"Various ways," she says. "Suppose I hit a small object that has a big homonym, like say a plane. You know, the carpentry kind. Suddenly I've got an airplane-style plane on top of me."

>show legend to bartender
"Here, have a look at this," we say.

"This?" she says, looking a little surprised. "You want it converted?"

"Why not?"

"No reason," she says. "Just I did the same item a few hours ago for a gentleman. Really hot, with these amazing eyes-"

"Whatever," you say, before she can get any more excited about Brock.

She smirks. Then she taps the legend with her paddle and it transforms into a proper map legend.

"What if you hit something that doesn't mean anything else?" the patron asks. "Like a chicken?"

"Nothing," she says. "That's safe." As though to demonstrate, she smacks the paddle against her left buttock. "See? I don't get changed into a different bartender. Want to try?"

She holds up the paddle as though she's going to tap him with it.

"Uh... my name is Mark," he says.

"Maybe not, then!" she says, laughing brightly.

I'd like to thank the bartender.

[Your score has gone up by one point and is now forty-two.]

>look legend
This legend has been edited from its original form, replacing the words like HOSPITAL and RESTROOM with other, hand-written labels: INVITE, GOT, 11, OUT, T-INSERTER, etc. By arranging the words of the legend in the order in which the icons appear along the main street, we arrive at GOT INVITE T-INSERTER DEMONSTRATION. OUT 11 AM.

Of course, it's already long past 11 AM, so Brock's plan clearly went wrong. If we're going to go after him, we'll have to go to the T-inserter demonstration ourselves. The catch is that, as dangerous new technology, it's held inside the Bureau and requires a special invitation to enter.

I think I know where we can get one, though. My advisor Professor Waterstone -- that's the person overseeing my graduate research -- was also invited to this demonstration. We might be able to get his.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now forty-five.]

>ask bartender for screwdriver
We catch the bartender's eye and order a screwdriver. She holds up a finger as though to say she'll get to it as soon as she's done with Mark.

The bartender fishes around in the toolkit for a screwdriver and sets it on the bar with a flourish. Mark is watching this transaction in an interested way.

"This is good," says the bartender, winking at us both (all?). "You'll like this." She raises the homonym paddle unnecessarily high in the air and smashes it down hard on the screwdriver.

There's a crackling discharge of purple-toned lightning, and in place of the screwdriver, a cocktail of the same name now sits on the bar. A few of the customers applaud.

"Just the way you were imagining it, guaranteed."

I'd like to thank the bartender.

>put gel on screwdriver
We turn away from the bartender so she won't see too obviously what we're up to. I suppose it doesn't matter, but I wouldn't want her feelings to be hurt. We just touch a coated fingertip of gel to the Screwdriver. With an audible SPLORT, the Screwdriver becomes a screwdriver. The screwdriver is flat-headed, with a red plastic handle and a sturdy shaft.

"That was a little dangerous, wasn't it?" Mark asks. "If you had tapped me with that thing, wouldn't I be a giant X on the carpet now?"

"Not for long," the bartender says. "I do have some restoration gel for emergencies. Or I could just hit you again with the paddle. But there would be an incident report and I could lose my license. So, yeah, better not."

We could thank the bartender.

>get screwdriver
We take the screwdriver.

Mark looks thoughtfully into his gin and tonic. "I hear that sometimes the Bureau turns people into inanimate objects as a criminal sentence. Is that true?"

For the first time, the bartender looks uncomfortable. "I just pour the drinks," she says. "Hey, you're almost out there! Let me give you a refill." And she busies herself getting down the Bombay Sapphire and refilling his drink.

"You ever tempted to paddle the Sapphire?" Mark asks. "Should be worth a lot."

"Alas, jewelers tend to check for authenticity around here," she replies.

We want to thank the bartender.

>go to Long Street South
We drive. 

Long Street South (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.

Long Street is lined on each side with a double-row of tall, anemic palm trees that bend towards one another many feet overhead. We are now in the southern part of this long corridor, between the Canadian Embassy and Arbot Maps & Antiques.

Someone has left a shopping bag at the roadside -- maybe by accident when loading up a car, maybe because they mean to come back for it. In the shopping bag are a ball and a jigsaw. 

We can go north to Long Street North, south, and west to Arbot Maps & Antiques from here.

The car is making an unpleasant raspy growl.

>exit car
We switch the ignition off.

We open the door of the car.

We climb out of the car.

>put gel on car
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the car. With an audible SPLORT, the car becomes some chard. 

>remove h from chard
We reset the device to h. The chard gives way to the card. This time it's Justice. A woman in a blue dress sits on a throne. She carries a letter-remover in one hand and her eyes are blind-folded.

>get card
We take the card.

>south

Palm Square
Now this is my part of town: Palm Square is the beginning of the university district. To the southeast, through the iron gate, is the university campus proper; and that unobtrusive little doorway directly south of us leads into the Babel Café.

I live in the apartment complex that runs along the west side of the square -- in fact, my apartment door is immediately to the southwest. 

>south

Babel Café
Through many changes of management, this institution has fed the denizens of the university and ignored their semi-sedition.

A clerk in a white apron stands behind the long glass case. In the long glass case are a pocket-bread, a wrap, and a honey pastry triangle. 

The tables are square wooden things painted dark blue (not the vibrant blue of the Bureau, but something closer to midnight), and the upper surfaces are découpaged with antique travel postcards. 

A blue plaque is mounted on the wall. 

The clerk grins at us in a welcoming way.

>buy wrap
"I'll have the wrap, please," we say, offering an appropriate bill.

The clerk takes the wrap out of the case and puts it on the table for us.

"Enjoy!"

>north

Palm Square
Palm Square is the beginning of the university district. To the southeast, through the iron gate, is the university campus proper; and that unobtrusive little doorway directly south of us leads into the Babel Café.

I live in the apartment complex that runs along the west side of the square -- in fact, my apartment door is immediately to the southwest. 

>sw
You had me leave my keys behind, remember?

But if you insist, my apartment is actually pitifully easy to break into. That window there opens onto the bathroom, and you can force it from the outside without much effort. 

>west
The window slides open with a hideous protesting shriek.

"Halt! You! Young person!"

It's my neighbor, Mrs. Parsnip, leaning out from her apartment above us. Mrs. Parsnip and I don't interact except about once a month when she comes around to ask for my spare change for bus fare or the laundry.

"Clear off or I'll call the police!" she shouts.

>

...No, don't worry, I'll handle this.

I step us back and stare up at her. "I'm a friend of Alex," I say. "He called and asked me to stop by because he thought he left the stove on. Said he climbs in the window all the time when he gets locked out."

"That's true," she says. "Shouldn't be allowed out by himself. Okay, go ahead."

In a mutter she adds, "Not like he has anything worth stealing anyway." She vanishes from view.

The window is uncomfortably high and it takes a little scramble to get in, but soon we are inside. 

Apartment Bathroom
An antique nightstand of my mother's, which does not actually fit anywhere near my bed, is jammed into one corner of the bathroom. On the nightstand are a key and a ring. 

The bathroom window gives some weak sunlight. 

We could climb back out the window, or we could go south into the rest of my apartment.

>close window
We slide the window shut. I feel obscurely better now.

>take key
We take the key. It's made of an extremely ordinary blank.

>take ring
We get the ring. A gold-toned ring that from a distance would look like a signet. In fact the face of it is figured with the symbol of the university, an owl biting the letter A in its beak. Embedded in this face is the tiny RFID tag that opens generic university security.

It is the perfect combination of technical paranoia and old-fashioned pretentiousness, and one is assigned to every new student with great pomp on the day of orientation.

>south

My Apartment
I should point out my copy of The Problem of Adjectives. I should have taken it back to the library -- I meant to take it back to the library -- but there just wasn't time. The last couple of hours before I came to meet you were frantic. The way I figured it, my parents or someone will come looking for me and they'll take it back for me. I think.

I'd apologize for the mess, but should we really be here? I'm reconciled to leaving all my things behind, you know. You made me promise that I didn't mind.

>ne
We're about to, when the door to the street opens and my mother walks into the room. She shuts it behind her and puts away her key before she notices us. Then she stands very still. For about a quarter second she considers calling the police, but I can see that worry passing away again as she takes in our clothing, age, and general demeanor.

"Hi there," she says, coming forward to take our hand. "I'm Mrs. Rosehip. Alex Rosehip's mother. You must be a friend of his?"

We could say we're his girlfriend.

>say girlfriend
"Yes -- sort of. We've been... I mean, we've been on a few dates." That's you, and I have to say you don't sound as keen on dating ourself as you might.

She raises her eyebrows. "I see. How secretive of him not to bring you around. And where is Alex now? I need to speak with him. He's been hard to reach lately."

I know you think it's a bit sketchy that my mother just walks into my apartment when I'm not around, but I swear to you she's never done that before. She must be more worried about something than she's letting on.

We want to claim to have seen him this morning or say we don't know.

>say don't know
"I don't know," we say.

"A communicative couple, then," she says dryly. My mother has never been very nice to girlfriends she considered stupid.

Mother stares absently at our monocle for a moment.

"He must like you," she says, "if he lets you wear his monocle. He's very proud of that. But do be careful with it -- it would be a little embarrassing if someone were to catch you with it. Alex's father was technically not supposed to remove it from the Bureau."

We could agree to take care of the monocle.

>agree to take care of the monocle
"I'll be very careful with it."

"I knew you would." Mother picks her way to the refrigerator, which she opens, revealing only some yogurt.

"Evidently not planning to have dinner at home this evening," she comments.

We could explain we might go out.

>taste yogurt
It tastes as I would have expected.

"How well do you know him?" Mother asks. She immediately catches herself, and adds: "I'm not inquiring into the details of your relationship. But I am concerned about him. He has seemed very unhappy recently about his work. Has he said anything to you about that? Wanting to leave the program, or change careers, or... anything?" 

I didn't think she'd noticed.

I'd like to reassure Mother or suggest the truth.

>reassure Mother
"I think it's graduate school getting to him a bit," we lie. I am pretty sure this is what my mother thinks: she has little time for whining or sulking, and I believe she considers any ideological queasiness I may have exhibited to be just malingering about research that is not going well.

"Really?" she says. "Hm." 

I would like her to go on, but she doesn't: because it would be indiscreet, because she doesn't trust us.

She gives the refrigerator door a little push and it swings closed. "Well," Mother says. "I had better go. If you do see Alex, tell him to call me, please. It isn't an emergency, but you can tell him there's a bit of Bureau business I'd like to discuss with him."

We nod, and suddenly it is borne in on me that this may be the last I see of my mother in a lifetime: and I'm trying to memorize the exact cut of her hair and the way her expensive Italian heels tap on the floor, and meanwhile she is going out completely indifferent to the moment. I could have stood for our previous meeting to be the last one -- we had dinner and she hugged me goodbye then. This makes it all much much worse.

And you, you're nattering at me in our head, asking what she meant about the Bureau. It might be, I guess, that they've been watching me and that she got wind of it. That would be likely. But if so it doesn't matter, not any more.

She's not even visible through the window any longer.

>ne
We take The Problem of Adjectives. Might as well return it to the department seminar room, as long as we're going that way.

We unlock the apartment door.

We open the apartment door.

Palm Square
Palm Square is the beginning of the university district. To the southeast, through the iron gate, is the university campus proper; and that unobtrusive little doorway directly south of us leads into the Babel Café.

I live in the apartment complex that runs along the west side of the square -- in fact, my apartment door is immediately to the southwest. 

My bathroom window is closed, but not, of course, latched.  

>se
We unlock the sturdy iron gate.

We open the sturdy iron gate.

University Oval
This is the center of the university, a broad grassy oval shaded with sycamore trees and surrounded by buildings in brick or white stone.

An activist is standing in our way, gripping a sign that says "TOXI WASTE AWARENESS!". 

Immediately south of here is the building where I spend most of my time, Samuel Johnson Hall. 

"Do you have a minute to help save the environment?" the activist asks brightly.

We could say no or say yes.

>talk to activist
We already have the attention of the activist.

"Listen, we're trying to gain financial support to make a major advertising campaign pushing the concept of toxi waste throughout the anglophone world. If you know anything about linguistic efficacy, I'm sure you can imagine the implications." 

I can, in fact, imagine the implications, probably a little better than she would like.

We could encourage the activist to elaborate on the implications.

>encourage activist
"Oh?" we say neutrally. This is all it takes.

"Toxi waste would be, in concept, a completely harmless, safe, and neutral substance that would have no detrimental impact on the surrounding environment. By raising awareness of toxi waste throughout the Anglophone world, we would put the collective consciousness to work for the environment! It would then be possible for volunteer workers to convert large stocks of dangerous toxic waste into the safe, neutral toxi waste using minimal energy."

I'd like to ask how consciousness will be raised or ask how the campaign will address problems of visualization.

>ask how consciousness will be raised
"And, er, how do you plan to raise awareness of toxi waste to sufficient levels to achieve linguistic efficacy?" we ask. Well, that was mostly me. But I'm curious.

"That's where people like you come in," she admits, with a sweet little smile.

She sets down the sign in order to free her hands for more expressive argument. "The next few months are critical to our operation," the activist says. "We need to be able to blitz multiple countries simultaneously with an intense and outrageous advertising campaign that will garner further media coverage from news sources and provoke discussion on the internet and in the workplace. But in order to do that, we need the funding to place high profile advertisements in a variety of places. That's why donations from people like yourself are going to be so very necessary."

We could donate.

>donate
Oh, you're not seriously going to -- oh, god, you are. You know, this is never going to work. There are sound scientific reasons why -- oh FINE.

We hand over some of your money -- I guess I should console myself that it is yours -- to the girl.

"Thanks!" she says brightly. Tucking the bill into her pocket, she gives a little skip and heads off across the oval to accost some other innocent.

You just enriched some random television network, you understand. That money won't do a lick of good to anyone else.

>south

Samuel Johnson Hall
This is the main building for Language Studies. This is not to be confused with Language Engineering, which is the department that handles devices for the manipulation of language-objects; it is also not to be confused with Linguistics, English Literature, or Comparative Literature, all of which have their own buildings and faculties. Language Studies applies itself to questions of linguistic efficacy chiefly at a social and anthropological level.

That's to say that we study how the ability to change things based on their names affects daily life and society.

The department office, with several professorial offices leading off of it, is to the southeast. To the southwest is the seminar room, where many of the upper-level courses occur, and which also contains the department library; downstairs is the basement, where the graduate students and junior instructors are kept.

On the wall hangs a framed photograph of Professor Waterstone, with the words SHAPLY CHAIR in big letters underneath. 

>se

Language Studies Department Office
This big, slightly drab area holds such useful objects as the mailboxes and the secretary's computer. On ordinary days the secretary would be in as well, presiding over affairs. The offices of individual professors lie north and west.

The department printer also sits on the u-shaped desk. 

This corner office was won in a battle of wills with several other departments during the most recent rebuilding drive. Professor Waterstone is fond of reminding the others that he was the one to obtain this favorable position whenever there is a disagreement about procedure.

>north

Waterstone's Office
A very finicky, neatly arranged room, in which one never feels quite at home.

Professor Waterstone is sitting here. Waterstone is my dissertation advisor. (He insists on the "o" spelling.) He's an expert in the history of linguistic and orthographical power, but he's politically kind of reactionary. "Don't meddle" is pretty much his motto.

We can see an invitation on a desk. It's from Dental Consonants Limited. Their design of stationery is unmistakable.

In front of Professor Waterstone is a small laptop. 

He looks up at us gravely. "I don't believe we've met," he says. "Can I help you?"

I'd like to make up some excuse, ask whether he met the activists, or ask why he is working on Serial Comma Day.

>excuse
"I'm a prospective student," we say. Immediately I regret it: we look too old to be an undergraduate prospective, and Waterstone would know all the graduate prospectives personally.

He raises an eyebrow. "At your age?" 

"I took some time off school," we remark. 

Some professors would greet this with warmth or sensitivity or at least good manners. Waterstone says, "Well, in that case, it is to be hoped that you spent those wasted years on some valuable activity. What did you need from me?"

I'd like to say that we just dropped by to meet him.

>say that we just dropped by to meet him
"I just dropped by to meet you," we say. "I had heard good things about your teaching."

"I rarely teach undergraduates," he remarks. "You would spend your time more profitably by making the acquaintance of the teaching assistants or perhaps" -- and here he enunciates the name with distaste -- "Professor Brown."

There's a brief pause.

"Look, I really must work on this," says Waterstone, chasing us to the door. "Perhaps someone else in the department can answer a few of your questions. I believe I saw Professor Higgate earlier, and Professor Brown is usually in his lab downstairs. I'm sure he's not working on anything too urgent. Goodbye!"

The office door closes with measured firmness behind us.

Through the window in Waterstone's door, we can see him turning the lock. When he catches us watching he gives a tight, unfriendly smile and goes back to his desk.

A moment later the printer whirs thoughtfully.

Language Studies Department Office
This big, slightly drab area holds such useful objects as the mailboxes and the secretary's computer. On ordinary days the secretary would be in as well, presiding over affairs. The offices of individual professors lie north and west, though the north door is closed.

The department printer also sits on the u-shaped desk. 

>nw

Samuel Johnson Hall
This is the main building for Language Studies. The department office, with several professorial offices leading off of it, is to the southeast. To the southwest is the seminar room, where many of the upper-level courses occur, and which also contains the department library; downstairs is the basement, where the graduate students and junior instructors are kept.

On the wall hangs a framed photograph of Professor Waterstone, with the words SHAPLY CHAIR in big letters underneath. 

>down

Samuel Johnson Basement
Dank and malodorous: there are no windows down here, and the drainage is terrible.

The stairs up are here; the lecture room at the east. Immediately south is the Graduate Student Office, and southwest is Professor Brown's office. The most interesting of all is the small door west, trying to look inconspicuous, but locked with a keycard lock: it's where the department stores its most dangerous licensed equipment.

A large open carton stands against the wall right between Brown's lab door and the interesting door. "Recycling," reads the sign over the carton. "Place your lab-created items here for processing." The large carton contains a banana. 

>south

Graduate Student Office
A small windowless room divided into cubicles for individual graduate students.

A tiny refrigerator stores lunches (sometimes) and looted leftovers from department receptions (when available). On top of the fridge there is a coffee-maker.

My cubicle is the one with the swivel-chair, towards the back of the room by the water cooler. I cleared everything subversive out of there ages ago, and now I do most of my work at home in the apartment. It's safer that way.

We can see a sticky on the swivel-chair. I half recognize the handwriting, but I'm having trouble placing it. One of the other grad students, but I'm not sure which.

>remove y from sticky
We reset the device to y. With a distinct whiff of sap, the sticky turns into a stick. It is about two feet long. It's stripped of its leaves and fairly sturdy.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the stick is a faint, greenish image of a sticky.

>get stick
We get the stick.

>open refrigerator
We open the tiny refrigerator, revealing some cream and a silver platter.

>get shrimp tail
We take the shrimp tail. There's no meat left; just the remains of one shrimp tail with the flesh bitten off.

>remove c from cream
We reset the device to c. There is a smell of anise, and the cream turns into a ream. One ream, which is to say 500 sheets, of generic printer or copier paper. The sheets are an attractive milky color.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the ream is a faint, greenish image of some cream.

>get ream
We get the ream.

>go to Language Studies Department Office
We have a brief walk. 

Language Studies Department Office
This big, slightly drab area holds such useful objects as the mailboxes and the secretary's computer. On ordinary days the secretary would be in as well, presiding over affairs. The offices of individual professors lie north and west, though the north door is closed.

The department printer also sits on the u-shaped desk. 

>put ream in printer
We pull up on the little catch and draw the drawer out. It's empty.

The ream fits exactly into the depth of the drawer. We adjust the plastic clamps that hold pages in place until everything is snug.

>close printer
The paper-drawer slides back into place with a click.

The printer whirs as though clearing its throat, and then begins to spit pages rapidly into the output tray.

>read draft
It's fifteen pages double-spaced, and appears to be the draft of a talk Professor Waterstone is preparing to give at a convention. I immediately notice, however, that several portions of the speech are marked with angry triple asterisks -- Waterstone's way of marking up parts of text that need serious revision.

The talk concerns "homonym shame": the anxiety felt in the Victorian era, and still manifested at times in modern culture, about objects that shared the same name as (and therefore theoretically might be converted into) something rude. Methods of disguising the legs of pianos and crotches of trees occupy a good portion of Waterstone's exposition, and there is a page-long aside on methods of  making sure that donkeys are known by that name and not by the alternative.

To judge, however, from the angry asterisking, Waterstone is still looking for at least one more example of an object susceptible to double-entendre that has been successfully rendered innocent by some linguistic modification.

The monocle pings happily as we sight the draft document with the crosshairs.

>go to Samuel Johnson Basement
We walk. 

Samuel Johnson Basement
Dank and malodorous: there are no windows down here, and the drainage is terrible.

The stairs up are here; the lecture room at the east. Immediately south is the Graduate Student Office, and southwest is Professor Brown's office. The most interesting of all is the small door west, trying to look inconspicuous, but locked with a keycard lock: it's where the department stores its most dangerous licensed equipment.

A large open carton stands against the wall right between Brown's lab door and the interesting door. "Recycling," reads the sign over the carton. "Place your lab-created items here for processing." The large carton contains a banana. 

>sw

Brown's Lab
Professor Brown, the Reification of Abstracts researcher, is hunched over his work table. Brown is only barely a professor at all -- actually, his working title is Senior Lecturer, and he holds a yearly contract which the University has the option to renew at whim. This prevents him going elsewhere while ensuring that he never has a fully-funded lab of his own. All the electrical equipment down here is tinker-toys compared to the stuff he really wants; in fact, half of it he built himself with components he bought with his own money.

I know all this because Brown cornered me in the hallway one afternoon and talked to me for twenty minutes straight about the pressures of academic job-hunting in the current political climate. I tried to get him to stop, but he's like a wind-up toy.

"Don't touch anything, please," he says, without looking up.

We could ask what he is doing.

>ask whether he can fix the letter-remover
"Could you fix my letter-remover to make abstract objects as well?"

"It's not difficult, you just-- oh, stay here, I'm not supposed to bring students into the rectification room."

He takes the letter-remover and steps out into the hallway. I can hear him using his keycard on the door, going into the little room west of the hallway, doing something there. (Don't bother thinking we're going to cosh him and take the keycard. I'm sure there's a better way, and I don't cosh people.)

He comes back in a minute.

"There," he says. "Should be abstract-enabled now."

We could ask what he is doing, ask what he thinks of the letter-remover, or thank Professor Brown.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now forty-eight.]

>go to Language Studies Department Office
It's a quick walk. 

Language Studies Department Office
This big, slightly drab area holds such useful objects as the mailboxes and the secretary's computer. On ordinary days the secretary would be in as well, presiding over affairs. The offices of individual professors lie north and west, though the north door is closed.

The department printer also sits on the u-shaped desk. On the output tray is a draft document. 

>west

Higgate's office
Higgate got about 30% finished with a stylish decorating scheme and then got distracted, leaving everything in a unsettled state. A few of her books are arranged on a very nice rosewood bookshelf, which looks Asian and is ornamented with small figurines; all the rest of her library is stacked higgledy-piggledy in plastic cartons.

Professor Higgate is sitting at an oval table, on which are spread an ugly yellow book, a sugar bowl, a teapot, and a romance novel in some heavily accented language. Higgate is the second reader on my dissertation committee, and a conlang expert -- that is, Constructed Languages. It was a seminar with her that really got me thinking about utopian linguistics, and she's been very supportive, though cautious. She and Professor Waterstone don't always get along that well.

She looks up when we come in. ".i xu do se bangu la lojban." Higgate asks. She's asking whether we speak Lojban. For the present, I think it will raise fewer questions if we say no.

>say no
"I'm afraid I don't understand," we say, smiling faintly.

Her face falls. "Ah! I was hoping you'd be here for Conversational Lojban Tea." The room is conspicuously lacking other Lojban conversationalists.

We want to ask how Professor Higgate is doing.

>ask how we might return a book
"I need to return this book to the department library," we say, holding out The Problem of Adjectives.

"Oh! Yes, all right," she says. "Did you like it? It's a good overview of the subject, didn't you think? I'm afraid the author once annoyed Professor Waterstone at a conference, or we might have had her around to speak at one of our colloquia..."

Higgate stands, patting herself down as though worried she has forgotten something.

"After you," says Higgate. "I assume it's safe to leave for a minute; if anyone is coming for Lojban Tea we'll see them in the hall." She walks past us through the office door.

We walk a little behind Higgate, who has a very long businesslike stride despite her heels.

She fiddles with her keys for a moment before finding the right one. "Here you go," she says, pushing the door open.

Language Studies Seminar Room
They recently redid this room, and whoever picked the decorations had postmodern tastes.

Professor Higgate waits a little absent-mindedly nearby, looking over the bookshelf. On the bookshelf are History of the Standards Revolution and Lives of the Lexicographers. 

A massive plexiglas case takes up one corner of the room. In the plexiglas case is a compact but high-powered late model synthesizer. 

The big table at the center of the room is an irregular polygon, with one chair pushed up to the shortest side. I think the shape is intended to undermine traditional conceptions of academic hierarchy, but in practice it  just means that whoever gets to seminar late has to sit with a table angle jabbing him in the stomach.

There's a brief pause.

"I'd offer you some cucumber sandwiches," Professor Higgate says. "But I'm afraid I ate them all."

We could ask which conlangs she knows.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now fifty-one.]

>return book
We take a moment to find the proper place for the book.

The sound of discussion comes from down the hall: two voices speaking in Lojban, and then a male voice interrupting. "Do you have a license for this conversation?" it asks.

"Excuse me," Higgate says. "I'd better go see to that."

She waves and heads back northeast.

[Your score has gone up by two points and is now fifty-three.]

>open case
We squeeze ourselves against the wall and angle to reach the screws with the screwdriver. I start on the first screw when--

"Is someone in the Seminar Room?" asks a male voice in the hall. "I thought I heard something."

"I don't think so."

There's a listening silence from outside. We hold absolutely still.

Finally the footsteps move away again. It's probably safe to try again now, when I'm feeling a tiny bit calmer.

>open case
We awkwardly and silently squeeze against the wall and angle ourself so that we can reach the screws with the screwdriver. It's annoying work, but eventually we do work all the screws free enough that the case could be opened.

We open the plexiglas case.

>get crossword
We take the crossword. It looks like it's been snipped out of Chard-Farmer's Weekly, but it hasn't been filled in at all.

>put gel on crossword
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the crossword. With an audible SPLORT, the crossword becomes a word and a cross. 

>put key in synthesizer
Voices from the hallway. I freeze. For a moment we hear them all too sharply: "You check downstairs, I'll ask the professors." It's a conversation of security guards, or police, or Bureau Officers. Someone is being looked for.

Then it's over. We put the key into the synthesizer.

>put card in synthesizer
We put the card into the synthesizer.

>turn on synthesizer
The synthesizer hums like a microwave oven for 43 seconds, then pings. Inside there is a keycard.

An electronic pass card with a powerful-looking stripe down the back side.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the keycard is a faint, greenish image of a key and a card.

[Your score has gone up by one point and is now fifty-four.]

>get keycard
We take the keycard.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now fifty-seven.]

>put gel on as
We dip out a fingertip-coating quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the as. With an audible SPLORT, the as becomes a pastis. An anise-flavored liqueur. It's an acquired taste, but now that I've acquired it, I like to exercise the acquisition as frequently as possible. You may not be as big a fan, for which I apologize in advance.

>remove i from pastis
We reset the device to i. There is a distinct spearmint flavor, and the pastis turns into some pasts. It looks from the side like a shard of glass, but seen straight on, it captures previous events. At the moment it is replaying us inserting the monocle into the backpack.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the pasts is a faint, greenish image of a pastis.

>remove t from pasts
We reset the device to t. There is a flash of psychedelic colors, and the pasts turn into a pass. A Bureau of Orthography visiting pass, a very valuable commodity in these parts. Forging one is grounds for imprisonment. There is a picture on the front that looks more or less like us, though with considerably more hair.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the pass is a faint, greenish image of a pastis.

>put pass in synthesizer
We put the pass into the synthesizer.

>put word in synthesizer
We put the word into the synthesizer.

>turn on synthesizer
The synthesizer hums like a microwave oven for 43 seconds, then pings. Inside there is a password.

A glowing series of numbers and figures in the air, which changes and flickers now and then. Probably responding to its surroundings. It seems unstable just now.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the password is a faint, greenish image of a pass and a word.

>get password
We pick up the password.

>go to Samuel Johnson Basement
We hike. 

Samuel Johnson Basement
Dank and malodorous: there are no windows down here, and the drainage is terrible.

The stairs up are here; the lecture room at the east. Immediately south is the Graduate Student Office, and southwest is Professor Brown's office. The most interesting of all is the small door west, trying to look inconspicuous, but locked with a keycard lock: it's where the department stores its most dangerous licensed equipment.

A large open carton stands against the wall right between Brown's lab door and the interesting door. "Recycling," reads the sign over the carton. "Place your lab-created items here for processing." There is a banana in the large carton. 

>remove w from wrap
We reset the device to w. There is a smell of anise, and the wrap turns into a rap. A pulsating ball of angry air.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the rap is a faint, greenish image of a wrap.

The rap includes the phrase "colder than a rifle shot, restoration to the real".

>drop rap
I'll just leave that in the carton; less likely to be disturbed there.

We set the rap in the carton, where it ought to provide a helpful distraction for the time being.

It describes the pleasures of a swimming pool full of Cristal.

>west
We unlock the small door with a swipe of the keycard.

We open the small door.

Rectification Room
This is where equipment is brought for a tune-up, or to have its legal limits reinstalled (or, on rare occasions, removed). Access to these abilities is tightly controlled by the Bureau.

The reclamation machine stands near the door, ready to improve forbidden objects for the use of registered departmental users. It's very ordinary looking, a simple machine with leads able to attach to various linguistic equipment, and to read and rewrite the programming.

>turn on computer
The reclamation computer chimes cheerfully.

A box on the screen invites us to type a password to proceed.

The monocle pings happily as we sight reclamation security with the crosshairs.

The password flickers meaningfully, then stabilizes.

>enter password
We carefully key in "4tsaj39nbtz". The password field vanishes.

At the top of the screen is the message STATUS: REMOVING LEGAL LIMITS ON ANIMAL-CREATION.

The following options are visible on the screen:

1: RESTORE ABSTRACTION LIMITS
2: REMOVE ABSTRACTION LIMITS
3: RESTORE ANIMAL-CREATION LIMITS
4: REMOVE ANIMAL-CREATION LIMITS
5: QUIT

The monocle pings happily as we sight the reclamations operation program with the crosshairs.

>type 4
The reclamation machine slides open. The computer gives a warning noise that appears to mean "If you are really sure, okay..."

>put remover in machine
We drop the letter-remover through the machine. There's a brief flash and hum from the machine, just as though it were making a photocopy. Then a recording of a woman's voice speaks, loudly and cheerily: LIFTING LEGAL LIMITS NOW -- a point that might draw undesired attention our way if it weren't masked by the noise outside.

The letter-remover comes out again looking exactly the same as when it went in. But it should now be able to make living creatures at need.

The reclamation machine clanks shut. The security program comes up again on screen.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now sixty.]

>go to Language Studies Department Office
It's a brief walk. 

Language Studies Department Office
This big, slightly drab area holds such useful objects as the mailboxes and the secretary's computer. On ordinary days the secretary would be in as well, presiding over affairs. The offices of individual professors lie north and west, though both doors are closed.

The department printer also sits on the u-shaped desk. There is a draft document on the output tray. 

>remove l from clock
We reset the device to l. With a distinct whiff of something objectionable, the clock turns into a cock. It stares back at us malevolently through one eye.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the cock is a faint, greenish image of a clock.

The cock clucks.

>show cock to Waterstone
Waterstone is unable to hear you through the closed door, which is presumably the purpose of closing it, so let's try knocking instead.

Waterstone glares at the cock. Then he picks up a marker and writes on a piece of paper, "Yes, but how to change its name to something innocent?" Having held up this sign for a minute, he crumples it and goes back to work.

If he were a cartoon there would be a thundercloud over his laptop.

The cock lets out a half-crow.

>go to Seminar Room
We walk. 

Language Studies Seminar Room
They recently redid this room, and whoever picked the decorations had postmodern tastes.

The bookshelves lining the walls contain the department library. There are The Problem of Adjectives, History of the Standards Revolution, and Lives of the Lexicographers on the bookshelf. 

A massive plexiglas case takes up one corner of the room. In the plexiglas case is a compact but high-powered late model synthesizer. 

The big table at the center of the room is an irregular polygon, with one chair pushed up to the shortest side. 

We can also see some screws here. 

I shut the door so that we don't get interrupted.

The cock clucks.

>put cock in synthesizer
We put the cock into the synthesizer.

The cock lets out a half-crow.

The cock makes some attempts to flutter out of the synthesizer, but doesn't get much lift and gives up for the moment.

>put tail in synthesizer
We put the shrimp tail into the synthesizer.

The cock clucks.

The cock makes some attempts to flutter out of the synthesizer, but doesn't get much lift and gives up for the moment.

>turn on synthesizer
The synthesizer hums like a microwave oven for 43 seconds, then pings. Inside there is a shrimp cocktail.

A floridly red concoction of tiny shrimps in sauce. I've always considered it vulgar.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the shrimp cocktail is a faint, unappetizing image of a cock and a shrimp tail.

>get cocktail
We get the shrimp cocktail.

>go to Language Studies Department Office
We have a short walk. 

Language Studies Department Office
This big, slightly drab area holds such useful objects as the mailboxes and the secretary's computer. On ordinary days the secretary would be in as well, presiding over affairs. The offices of individual professors lie north and west, though both doors are closed.

The department printer also sits on the u-shaped desk. There is a draft document on the output tray. 

>show cocktail to Waterstone
Waterstone is unable to hear you through the closed door, which is presumably the purpose of closing it, so let's try knocking instead.

Waterstone looks at the shrimp cocktail, briefly arrested by some thought. He gets a monocle like mine out of his drawer. He looks through it at the shrimp cocktail, notes the cock and the shrimp tail; grins. He gets up and comes out of his office.

"This is perfect," he says. "One more example to put into my talk -- but I really should be going -- should be able to get a ride from my wife -- if I leave now -- Here, you can have this if it interests you. I won't have time to use it." He sets an invitation down on the desk.

"Come back and talk to me again later," he adds. "We can discuss your goals as a student. And now I really have to go -- should have gone hours ago." (There, see: he can be a nice man. More or less.)

He locks his door again and goes out. I think he is actually humming something.

>wait

Before we can do anything, Waterstone pops his head back in. "What you did there -- not strictly within the rules. But I admire, shall we say, Realpolitik. You'll go far. Ignore Brown, but you'd probably do that anyway. Never talk to Higgate at all. I will see you later."

And he pops back out.

>get invitation
We take the invitation. It is a white card, like a wedding invitation, with swirly script lettering. "You are invited," it says, "to a demonstration of a new T-inserter not available to the general public -- Serial Comma Day -- Bureau of Orthography."

Smaller, meaner sans-serif lettering across the bottom adds: "Bring this card for admission."

[Your score has gone up by ten points and is now seventy.]

>go to University Oval
We make the brief hike. 

University Oval
This is the center of the university, a broad grassy oval shaded with sycamore trees and surrounded by buildings in brick or white stone.

Immediately south of here is the building where I spend most of my time, Samuel Johnson Hall. 

A sign lies on the grass, abandoned by its owner. 

There are a couple of officers lounging by the university gate. We won't be able to go by without being seen.

As I'm taking this in, you notice hubbub behind us. We move out of the way as more officers escort Professor Higgate from the building.

"There's been a mistake," Higgate is saying coolly. "That conversation was conducted under a special license for research in constructed languages. I can produce a copy --"

The officer leading her says, "We're acting on information." He gives a quick, revealing glance in the direction of Professor Brown, who is also coming out of the building.

>wait
Time crawls by. We're looking as harmless and inattentive as humanly possible.

"Alex Rosehip," says the officer with Higgate. The back of my neck prickles. "What can you tell me about his constructed language?"

Higgate stops moving forward and the officers stop with her. "It really is a masterpiece -- the root words are all based on resources common in the tropics. Dirt and mud are highly productive terms, as are many common pests. The syllables are consonant-dense but still relatively easy to pronounce. In my view, it's the most credible proposal ever put forward in utopian linguistics."

The officer smiles faintly. "Isn't that a bit like 'the world's most credible proposal for a perpetual motion engine'?"

>wait
Time crawls by.

"Whether it works or not, I am sure it's not intended as an attack on the Anglophone efficacy," Higgate says. "Alex has a fine mind but very little gumption. And he loves Atlantis."

"As far as you're aware," the officer replies.

"Obviously," Higgate snaps. "I can only tell you what I know of Alex from five years of close supervision."

The officers look at one another, then back at her. "We're going to need to continue this conversation in depth."

A stricken expression crosses Higgate's face.

>wait
Time crawls by.

"I'd like to make a call," Higgate says.

"Not possible," says the man at her elbow.

"I assert my right to a friendly witness," she says firmly. They ignore her.

The officers sweep Higgate away into a windowless van. "Mobile Conversation Unit," says the side of the van in bright cheery letters. "The Bureau Is Listening to YOU!"

The van pulls away into traffic. Brown strolls away in the other direction, not meeting anyone's eye. It's not easy getting tenure around here.

>go to Tall Street
It's a fair walk out from under the sycamores in the Oval and up Long Street. 

Tall Street
Tall Street is full of families, some reaching as far as the old park at the east end of the street.

They're gathered around a hanging cardboard figure in front of the Bureau of Orthography. The children, and a few of the adults, are taking turns hitting it with sticks, hoping for a shower of comma-shaped candy. This is a common holiday activity, but from the disgruntled comments and the petulant expressions of the children, it has already been going on longer than is strictly fun.

Another child takes a whack at the hanging figure. She bounces away from the blow, but does not break.

>wear shred
We gently remove the monocle.

We tie the shred over our eyes. To be honest, it only partially obscures our vision; we still have a pretty good idea where everything is.

The latest child's attack swings wide of the figure.

>hit figure with stick
We take a good swing with the stick and connect, finally, with the hanging Atlantida figure.

There is a resounding crack!

The crowd roars with approval, and dozens of small bodies surge around us so that I almost lose our balance. We push our shred up out of our way.

The ground is covered with glitter and candy and confetti; the Atlantida has broken open at the torso.

The children gather their heaps of candy and a few scoops of glittery confetti as well, but eventually trickle away again with their parents, returning through the park or down side streets or to their cars.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now seventy-three.]

>south

Rotunda
Echoing space, marble floor, eye-like skylight many meters above us: so far, the Rotunda might belong to any 19th-century government bureau of means and self-importance.

What sets this one apart is the lettering, each sigil no bigger than a flea, carved over every inch of the walls. Inscribed here is, in fact, the entire text of A New Orthodox Orthography, which means that if we had a great deal of patience and many rolls of butcher paper, we could take rubbings and wind up with our very own volume.

We don't, of course. There are better things to do. More important places to go. The administrative part of the bureau is away to the south, and there is an exhibit of letter tools to the east, which is open to the public.

Near the street entrance is a sizable informational bulletin-board advertising the services of the Bureau; and next to this, pushed back to be out of the way, is a bin. In the bin is a shuttle. 

>put gel on password
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the password. With an audible SPLORT, the password becomes a word and a pass. 

There is a long whistle, a peppery burst. The fireworks must have started outside.

>remove t from twig
We reset the device to t. With a distinct whiff of the faintest whiff of shampoo, the twig turns into a wig. A surprisingly realistic wig, cut to about the shoulder. It looks like our hair, but a good bit longer.

There is a distant roar like a hissing dragon.

>put origin paste on pass
We smear some of the Origin Paste onto the pass. Nothing obvious happens, of course, but that is the whole point.

It sounds as though the sky is making popcorn.

>put origin paste on wig
We smear some of the Origin Paste onto the wig. Nothing obvious happens, of course, but that is the whole point.

The sky is temporarily very quiet.

>wear wig
We settle the wig on our head and adjust our hair underneath.

There is a deep boom of cannon fire.

>south
Before approaching the secretary ahead, we try to hide all our illegal things in the backpack.

Antechamber
The most important task of any government bureau is to keep away time-wasters, irritants, and uninformed members of the general public, who might distract the diligent workers within from their important tasks. The Bureau of Orthography is no different.

An instructive notice details the criteria for entry to the Bureau proper.

Here to guard access to the rest of the building is a secretary on a tall stool. The secretary is carrying the Regulation Authentication Scope and wearing a pencil skirt and a plain white top. 

We can go north to the Rotunda and east from here.

She turns her eyes towards us but doesn't say anything.

We want to ask whether she enjoys her job.

>show invitation
We show our pass to the secretary.

The secretary raises her Authentication Scope to look at the pass. There is a moment of silence. The scope does nothing.

"That will do," the secretary says of our pass. Then she inspects the invitation with the monocle. "Most of the visits were earlier in the day," she says. "Quite a fracas there was this morning."

"The invitation doesn't state a particular time," we say.

She deflates momentarily and goes back to inspecting. "There's another problem. This invitation is for Professor Waterstone. They're watermarked individually to avoid fraud. You're not Professor Waterstone."

"He sent me to do some research in his place. I'm a student of his."

She frowns. "Invitations to inspect highly secure machinery are not transferrable," she says. "And how should I know whether you stole it?"

>show pass
I'm handling this.

"Professor Waterstone is a busy man," I say. "If you want me to tell him you wouldn't cooperate, I'm just as happy not to work on Serial Comma Day. But if DCL wants his endorsement or advice, they'll have to work within his schedule. If you are going to turn me away, however, I would like the opportunity to speak with your manager."

The secretary scowls. "Fine. I'll contact Waterstone." She places a call -- on speakerphone, no less -- glaring all the time.

"Waterstone here," says the phone. There's background traffic noise. Waterstone must be on the road already. Figures he would have a car phone. Most people aren't allowed, here.

"I have a student here attempting to use your invitation to enter the Bureau," says the secretary. "Was it stolen?"

"What? Oh that. No."

"You're saying you gave your invitation away."

"Yes I did," says Waterstone. "And I have been a research partner to DCL since before you were born."

"Sir, you are aware that this is highly irregular!"

>wait
Sure, hang in there. I'm pretty sure that what we need here is to act as much like Professor Waterstone himself as humanly possible.

The secretary is still talking. "You personally vouch for this student? You know her well and are sure of her trustworthiness?"

"Known her for years," lies Waterstone, annoyed. There's a click as he hangs up.

"What a delightful man," remarks the secretary.

She looks over our other visible possessions (the word, the shrimp cocktail, the keycard, the cross, the stick, the ring, the screwdriver, the map of Slangovia, the roll, the tub, and the backpack) and deems them acceptable. She makes us sign a book, for which we use a signature of your invention. Finally: "Go in, descend to the basement, and present yourself at the secure section downstairs. Be advised you will be under video surveillance as you approach. Any attempts to modify or steal Bureau property, to gain access to rooms to which you have not been expressly invited, to eavesdrop on conversations of Bureau employees, or to leave objects of your own behind in the Bureau, may result in your arrest and prosecution.

"Have a nice day!"

I'm inclined to ask whether she enjoys her job.

[Your score has gone up by five points and is now seventy-eight.]

>east

Bureau Hallway
This is a long hallway with many doors leading off, the business of the bureau being varied and all-encompassing; it is for all essential purposes the chief organ of government in Atlantis, since only a few topics are brought to citizen referendum.

We can go east, west to the Antechamber, and down from here.

>down

Bureau Basement South
We have descended into a windowless underground passage. The hallway runs north from here, and for an eerily long way -- the tunnels must extend well beyond the above-ground profile of the building.

Propped in the corner are some articles that were probably meant to be used as part of the Serial Comma Day Fair, but got confiscated instead: a seer automaton and a plywood cutout depicting Atlantida.

We can go north and up to the Bureau Hallway from here.

>turn on automaton
The seer cranks to life, looks us up and down with painted wooden eyeballs, and in a tinny voice, says, "I predict you will become BIG. Much bigger than you were yesterday."

>north

Bureau Basement Middle
The hallway continues both north and south, flanked by doors painted immutable colors: hyacinth, celadon, chartreuse.

The cute security door at the north end is solidly shut. 

An adorable video camera hangs in the left corner above the door. 

>north
The guards have apparently been instructed to allow us in, because as we approach, the door slides open.

The door seals behind us as soon as we are through.

Bureau Basement Secret Section
The heightened security on this side of the door is obvious everywhere we look. The floor is tiled in paisley tiles. The light fixtures give off pale pink light. The walls are covered in frog leather. The doors are locked with padlocks the size of handbags, locks decorated à la Louis Quinze, combination locks made of solid gold. There is not a bare noun in sight.

The cute security door at the south end is solidly shut. 

The hallway runs from south (comparatively normal) to north (deeply frightening). Just west is the equipment testing room.

>west

Sensitive Equipment Testing Room
A room with no windows, no cameras, no recording equipment, and barely any furniture.

A rock sits in one corner of the room. 

At the center of the room is a gleaming new T-inserter Machine. This is a state of the art device: letter removal has been well understood for decades, but insertion is much more dangerous and difficult, fraught with ambiguity. 

>put gel on rock
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the rock. With an audible SPLORT, the rock becomes Brock. He looks a bit haggard to me, but I don't think anything too horrible has happened to him. So perhaps you can stop worrying.

Brock stands, dusting himself off. He looks us up and down without expression, without any sign of recognition. "What day is it?" he asks.

"Still Serial Comma Day," you say. "Brock, it's me. And Alex, but I'm here."

The waxen look melts and he grins. "Thank god. It's harder than you'd expect being a rock."

We could suggest we get out of here, complain about Brock's recklessness, or rejoice that Brock is okay. Then again, we could just get to work so we can be out of here faster.

>suggest we get out of here
"You've been a lump of igneous all day," you say. "It's getting dark out there. If we don't get out now, we're going to get caught by some janitor with a privative affixer."

"I didn't have time to run the tests I wanted to run on the T-inserter. It'll take three minutes and then we can go. We need to do abstracts, animates, and a stability check."

Brock roots around in his pockets and fishes out a sign. "I picked this up in the hallway, if it's any use," he says. He tosses it in the corner.

We want to insist on leaving immediately or accept Brock's lunacy. Maybe it's not worth it, though.

>accept lunacy
"I suppose it's pointless to argue," you say. I'm glad this makes you feel warm and fuzzy. "Let's do this thing and get out."

"You know it."

He runs a hand over the brass plate.  "It's weird -- you have a different face but the expressions are still yours. It's like you have a really good rubber mask on."

He runs a hand over the brass plate. "First we should see whether this thing can reify abstracts."

We could complain about Brock's recklessness or discover why Brock got stuck here. Or, then again, there's always finishing the job.

>discover why Brock got stuck here
"How did this happen?"

"How do you think? I hung back after a demonstration earlier, trying to collect the extra information I needed, but before I could finish, they'd noticed I was missing from the group and sent someone back to look for me. And better to go inanimate than to be definitely caught in human form."

He's looking at us, but when I look back, he cuts his eyes away. "I've half a mind to explore a little while we're down here just about unsupervised," Brock says reflectively.

I glare at him.

"I know there's no time," he says. "But there are supposed to be all sorts of things in the Bureau sub-basement that have never seen the light of day. DCL projects that went wrong, secret government experiments, possibly a buried command center."

My response would be to complain about Brock's recklessness or ask what buried command center he heard of. Or, then again, there's always finishing the job.

You have a fleeting thought of how it started with Brock.

[MEMORIES will list your currently active memories]
>complain about recklessness
"This was rash, even for you," you say. "Wandering into the heart of the Bureau with no back-up and no escape plan, when we had a timed extraction to complete? You could've taken me and Slango down with you."

"Sweetheart, don't," Brock says. "Don't do this now. You're not yourself."

I'd like to remind Brock that synthesis was necessary because of him. Or, then again, there's always finishing the job.

>remind Brock that synthesis was necessary because of him
"Not myself," you repeat coldly. "I wouldn't need to be synthesized if Andra's face hadn't been caught on film. And whose fault was that?"

Silence. "I'm sorry that that happened," he says, very deliberately. "But you're not breaking up with me down here, with a spy inside your head. We'll do this later if we do it at all."

Brock is looking at everything but us. I look away again.

My response would be to defend Alex or accept his advice. Or, then again, there's always finishing the job.

>put roll into inserter
There is a loud and satisfying pop from the machine as it turns the roll into a troll.

Grey skin, yellow teeth, green eyes. Legs as big around as tree trunks. A pot belly, speaking of a great deal of food eaten raw.

"No problem creating creatures," Brock says judiciously.

He pauses, listening for noises outside. "If it can't do abstracts, the market value is going to be a lot lower because of the limited-depth trees."

The troll gets out of the T-inserter machine.

[Your score has gone up by one point and is now seventy-nine.]

>put gel on troll
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the troll. With an audible SPLORT, the troll becomes a roll. 

He's studiously looking around the room. This is like a very surreal blind date.

>remove g from sign
(opening the backpack)
We reset the device to g. With a distinct whiff of sulfur, the sign turns into a sin. An abstract representation of pettiness of spirit and obsession with needless detail, embodied by the image of a grey-skinned bureaucrat and a huge heap of papers.

>put sin into inserter
(first taking the sin)
There are two small pops from the machine as it turns the sin into a stint.

The flickering images represent a period of time spent in the military: a young person in a uniform, smartly waving goodbye to hazily-sketched parents; a duration of training and mostly boring patrol work; release from service, with a few mild commendations and some pocket money.

"Right. It's good on abstracts, then," Brock says, contemplating the stint.

He stands back, regarding the T-inserter thoughtfully. "Next we need to look at the stabilization performance," Brock says. "Inserters sometimes run into trouble if there's a case where the same base word could be expanded to multiple derivatives -- for instance, if you S-inserted CREAM, it wouldn't know whether to make CREAMS or SCREAM or SCREAMS."

>remove s from stint
We reset the device to s. There is a flash of yellow light, and the stint turns into a tint. A neon shade of orange, as though someone had watercolored that bit of air.

He cranes to look around at the back of the machine, but doesn't find anything interesting. "Some inserters," Brock goes on, "have controls to let you insert the minimum or maximum possible number of letters."

>remove n from tint
We reset the device to n. With a distinct whiff of fresh air, the tint turns into a tit. A small, harmless-looking bird.

He eyes the tit. "Oh for a homonym paddle."

The tit clambers out of the T-inserter machine.

>remove t from tit
We reset the device to t. There is a mint green cloud, and the tit turns into an I. It's an abstract that looks like a bit of mirror. When I look at it I see Alex, my proper self, and not just restored to my usual body, but photo-retouched to be that bit smarter and freer of skin-blemishes, well-dressed. It's like looking in the mirror at reality as it should be.

You doubtless see yourself too -- as you are, or perhaps as you want to be.

He cocks his head to look at the I. "I have surprisingly good hair for someone who has just been a rock."

"Objects in mirror may appear more attractive than they are," we remark.

>put I into inserter
(first taking the I)
There are two small pops from the machine as it turns the I into a tit.

Of course, there were other options there: the T-inserter could have made two words. But it seems to be disambiguating to the tit. The question now is whether it would do so consistently or whether its behavior is underdetermined; we don't have time for a really thorough trial set, but checking a couple more times may be indicative.

Brock is looking at everything but us. I take some comfort from the idea that he wouldn't hit on me if I were in my own body.

The tit clambers out of the T-inserter machine.

>remove t from tit
The tit gives way to the now-familiar I.

>put I into inserter
(first taking the I)
There is a loud and satisfying pop from the machine as it turns the I into an it. It's itself. It. The epitome of itness. Philosophers would pay millions.

There now: the T-inserter has constructed both tit and it. Not very stable, it seems. Slango will be interested to know that.

"Check," says Brock. "And that's all we need here. Now..." He hesitates. "One person escaping is easier than two, I suppose."

You start to object, but I say, "Yes, you'd better return to petrified form." You know I'm right. He'll be easier to carry.

A little grimly, he produces his own letter-remover and repeats the B-removal that made him in the first place. Once again we're alone in a room with a rock.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now eighty-two.]

>get rock
We pick up the rock. Heavy, dark, and roughly hexagonal, like a slice of basalt column.

>east
We take the roll.

Bureau Basement Secret Section
The heightened security on this side of the door is obvious everywhere we look. The floor is tiled in paisley tiles. The light fixtures give off pale pink light. The walls are covered in frog leather. The doors are locked with padlocks the size of handbags, locks decorated à la Louis Quinze, combination locks made of solid gold. There is not a bare noun in sight.

The cute security door at the south end is solidly shut. 

The hallway runs from south (comparatively normal) to north (deeply frightening). Just west is the equipment testing room.

"Alex." 

I can't help it: I stop and turn. It's too ingrained in me. And it's my father's voice.

He's wearing his ordinary work clothes, but he looks strained to the point of fracture. And someone could come out of any of these doors at any moment.

"Your mother told me about meeting your supposed girlfriend at your apartment. She was puzzled by that, but I knew what must have happened," my father says, in a very low voice. "I deleted the record of your unauthorized synthesizer draining the power grid, which, by the way, could get me dismissed."

I'm inclined to deny everything.

>deny everything
"You must have me confused with someone else."

He sighs. Not deceived even a little; weary that we tried.

Somewhere down the hall a clock ticks loudly. "I didn't tell your mother what I suspected, but when it comes out you've& defected& I won't be able to keep this from her. And you're giving up your career. Mine too, possibly; we'll all be under suspicion, I suppose.

"It's pointless. You could have done a great deal for the Bureau from within. I was trying to help you see that."

I'd like to lay out our reasons or be comforting.

>lay out our reasons
"I want to do something that matters," I say. "I don't see my work making a speck of difference here."

"You mean you don't see my work as important," he says. "Got that from your mother, I imagine."

No one speaks for a moment. The silence is almost eerie.

"So your partners in crime are, what, smugglers? Industrial saboteurs? That's wonderful. Finally some role models."

We could quibble or deny being a spy.

>quibble
"We prefer to think of it as ensuring that important technology does not remain the sole property of a restrictive hegemony," we say. 

"Okay, around here we still call that theft," Father says. We stare at each other, breathing hard.

"You've left enough traces that people will know someone came in here today."

>wait
Time passes.

"Here's what we're going to do, Alex. You're going in there--" (he points at a door to the southwest) "--and I'm going to call for backup to arrest the first person that comes out. That could be Alex, it could be whoever-else-you-are, it could be both of you in this same body.

"If it is Alex who comes back out, I can't possibly save your university career, but we might be able to make a case for clemency." What he means by that-- oh. Yes. I understand now.

He gives us a hard shove. We're half inside the room when we hear his last remark:

"Alex... don't try to escape back through the Rotunda. If you really can't come home, then head north. I've never seen it, but supposedly there's an emergency exit up there."

Then he's gone.

Cold Storage
Shelves on both sides of the room are full of objects on stands: objects that used to be men and women, and in a few cases even children. The stand labels preserve their original names.

A duty roster is posted prominently. 

If this goes wrong, we could wind up living in here permanently. So we'd better figure whom to send out, and do it fast.

>put gel on rock
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the rock. With an audible SPLORT, the rock becomes Brock. 

"Hello," Brock says.

You're silent. I'm not letting you act again. You're not stopping me.

"We're still inside the Bureau basement," I say. "We just need to head out, separately."

He looks puzzled. "Aren't we safer together?"

"No," I say.

>no

"But--"

"Look, just trust me, this once," we say.

Brock backs out the door. Loud sounds of an arrest ensue. I hear my father's voice, and two other people. Then finally the sounds die away.

A faint spell comes over me and I feel dizzy.

>ne

Bureau Basement Secret Section
The heightened security on this side of the door is obvious everywhere I look. The floor is tiled in paisley tiles. The light fixtures give off pale pink light. The walls are covered in frog leather. The doors are locked with padlocks the size of handbags, locks decorated à la Louis Quinze, combination locks made of solid gold. There is not a bare noun in sight.

The cute security door at the south end is solidly shut; there's no sign of anyone still waiting on this side of it. 

Going south through the security door isn't an option; our only way out is north. Just west is the equipment testing room, and southwest is Cold Storage.

>north

Wonderland
The ridiculous décor continues, now so extreme that I cannot even put a name to the things around us. They might as well be extrusions from a nightmare by Dali, or by Dr. Seuss. Offices are accessed by hatchways that seem to have come from submarines, or through passages resembling the sphincter of a great whale, or up ladders decorated with human teeth.

An open archway leads to storage space east of here.

Hanging in the air at the north end of the hallway is an odor. 

>east

Equipment Archive
The ceiling is mirrored, perhaps to make it harder for anyone to sneak around without being noticed among the shelves.

The equipment shelves here display an assortment of obsolete, broken, foreign, or otherwise unusual letter tools. On the equipment shelves are an accent flipper, an umlaut punch, a Catalan punt volat needle, some broken components, and some lamb granulates. 

The functional area continues to the south, and the hallway is west.

>put gel on granulates
I dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the lamb granulates. With an audible SPLORT, the lamb granulates become some anagram bullets. Heavy, high-impact stuff. Anagramming requires a great deal of force to break the linguistic cohesion of the word or phrase being modified. On the other hand, it's the one process that is routinely effective even on adjective-adhering nouns.

>get bullets
I take the anagram bullets.

>put component in punch
(first taking the broken components)
I put the broken components into the wire basket of the umlaut punch. There is a hum as the punch warms up, then a bang! as the tines come down sharply, tattooing the broken components.

Briefly the broken components appears as the Viking metal band Bröken Cömpönents, before fading back to itself: there just isn't enough energy to hold the conversion, given Bröken Cömpönents's fading reputation. The reunion tour wasn't a big success.

When they are gone, a power chord remains in the air.

The repeated power chord makes it sound as though some heavy equipment is being used in here even when it's not.

[Your score has gone up by one point and is now eighty-three.]

>remove h from power chord
I reset the device to h. There is a flash of psychedelic colors, and the power chord turns into a power cord. This is the heaviest-duty cabling I've ever seen in my life: thick as a snake, covered in yellow sheathing, with a massive plug at each end.

>get power cord
I take the power cord.

>south

Display Reloading Room
This area is more or less empty. Hazard tape marks off an area of the floor to indicate that I shouldn't stand there.

A black and white tv monitor is embedded in the wall.  

There is a small black push-button on the wall. 

>push button
A heavy clunk sounds. On the tv monitor, I see the display case black out.

Then there is a groaning of moving metal, and part of the ceiling lowers. This is, apparently, how displays are swapped out for the tools exhibit upstairs: the display platform is lowering to our level, providing access. This brings the Model T, the Etymological Reversing Chamber, and the anagramming gun down into the room.

>get gun
I get the anagramming gun. Anagramming guns are illegal now, of course, because of their desperately unpredictable behavior. This one is a huge heavy thing, though not quite an artillery piece, because of the colossal amounts of power required and all the stabilizers needed to try to collapse the letters back down to a single phrase.

>load gun
(with the anagram bullets)
I would not know how to do this, but you have sufficient expert skill that we've got the gun loaded up in no time.

>go to Wonderland
I hike. 

Wonderland
The ridiculous décor continues, now so extreme that I cannot even put a name to the things around us. They might as well be extrusions from a nightmare by Dali, or by Dr. Seuss. Offices are accessed by hatchways that seem to have come from submarines, or through passages resembling the sphincter of a great whale, or up ladders decorated with human teeth.

An open archway leads to storage space east of here.

Hanging in the air at the north end of the hallway is an odor. 

>shoot odor
(with the anagramming gun)
The gun fires ruggedly into the odor, which shatters and then reforms as a door. It is part of the north wall, and currently closed.

[Your score has gone up by one point and is now eighty-four.]

>open door
I open the door, revealing a room beyond.

>north

Oracle Project
This is nothing less than the command center for a massive propaganda campaign. Paintings of Atlantida and polling charts cover the walls, dating back to the second world war and continuing straight through to the present.

There are a paperweight and an inciting fable on the long table. 

I can go south to Wonderland and east from here.

>put gel on paperweight
I dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the paperweight. With an audible SPLORT, the paperweight becomes a weight and a paper. 

>get weight
I pick up the weight. Shaped like a headless pyramid. "0.5 kg" is stamped in the top together with the seal of the Bureau. It's an official weight, intended to reassure citizens that they were getting a genuine standard measure.

>east

Surveillance Room
A surveillance computer is mounted on the wall, an impressive flat screen readout displaying current activity. 

Another room lies to the east. The door I came through is west, and there is also a spiral staircase down.

>down

Tunnel through Chalk
This passage has been cut through natural cliff rock and looks older than the Bureau itself. The walls are rough-hewn, exposing sedimentary strata. Here and there it looks as though someone has actually excavated a favored rock or relic.

Blocking the far end of the corridor is a metal portcullis. It is currently lowered. From the pulley above the portcullis hangs a counter. 

I can go east through the portcullis (closed) and up to the Surveillance Room from here.

There's a faint tang of salt air.

>get counter
I pick up the counter. One of those devices with a press-button to increment a number, to assist with counting things like the number of people attending an event. There's also a loop to let the user wear it over one finger. The counter currently reads 17.

The air stirs with a breeze from the east.

>up

Surveillance Room
A surveillance computer is mounted on the wall, an impressive flat screen readout displaying current activity. 

Another room lies to the east. The door I came through is west, and there is also a spiral staircase down to the tunnel.

>east

Workshop
A room whose importance is obvious from how clean it is and how little furniture it is allowed to have.

A programmable dais sits in the middle of the room. It has the raw look of lab equipment rather than a nice smooth commercial instrument. 

A specialized wall socket is built into the east wall, clearly not part of the ordinary power system for the Bureau. 

I can go east and west to the Surveillance Room from here.

>plug cord into wall
I plug the power cord firmly into the wall socket. The other end remains free and not plugged into anything.

>plug cord into dais
I plug the power cord firmly into the dais socket. Both ends of the power cord are now plugged in, so the dais is connected to the wall socket.

>east

Generator Room
The walls are lined with concrete. Yellow paint lettering says CAUTION: HIGH ENERGY EQUIPMENT and DO NOT OPERATE WITHOUT TRAINING.

A first aid station is built onto the wall. It is closed. 

Most of the room is taken up with a gigantic boiler installation that is currently off. The locking mechanism is a brushed steel bucket, currently empty. 

>put stick in bucket
There is a churning noise from within the brushed steel bucket, and a moment later I see inside some stock. Pale brown stock, still warm and steaming slightly.

This appears to have unlocked the mechanism. With a growl, the boiler comes to life.

Ice flashes into steam within the boiler and the meters twitch.

[Your score has gone up by one point and is now eighty-five.]

>west

Workshop
A room whose importance is obvious from how clean it is and how little furniture it is allowed to have.

A programmable dais sits in the middle of the room. It has the raw look of lab equipment rather than a nice smooth commercial instrument. 

A power cord snakes across the floor, connecting the dais socket to the wall socket. 

I can go east to the Generator Room and west to the Surveillance Room from here.

>flip switch
I give the switch a strong twist and turn it to synthesize.

>put counter on dais
I put the counter on the programmable dais.

>put weight on dais
I put the weight on the programmable dais.

>pull lever
The programmable dais glows vibrant blue for five seconds, leaving behind a counterweight.

A very substantial hunk of metal with a ring at the top end, suitable for attachment to a hook or rope.

>get counterweight
I take the counterweight.

>go to Tunnel through Chalk
I make the walk. 

Tunnel through Chalk
This passage has been cut through natural cliff rock and looks older than the Bureau itself. The walls are rough-hewn, exposing sedimentary strata. Here and there it looks as though someone has actually excavated a favored rock or relic.

Blocking the far end of the corridor is a metal portcullis. It is currently lowered. There's a pulley and hook arrangement above the portcullis, but the hook is empty. 

I can go east through the portcullis (closed) and up to the Surveillance Room from here.

>put counterweight on hook
I hang the counterweight on the hook. The portcullis shifts slightly but doesn't rise on its own. Perhaps with a little help, though.

>open portcullis
I open the portcullis.

There's a faint tang of salt air.

>east

Personal Apartment
At a guess, this is a room hardly anyone ever visits, or even knows about. Though the ceiling and one wall are bare cave, the rest has been paneled and  graciously decorated in the style of the end of the 18th century. Oil paintings on the walls depict great men and women of Atlantis gone by: Phyllida Shaply, Amelia Landison, Clarence Arbot, Jon Rosehip. An antique bed stands in the center of the room.

The metal portcullis guards the way back. It is currently raised. From the pulley above the portcullis hangs a counterweight. 

There are a stack of files and a rubber stamp on the inlaid desk. 

Air and sunlight stream in from the east.



Please press SPACE to continue.
 

























"Don't move, Alexandra, or I'll split you in two."

A very tall woman with Bureau-blue eyes steps into the room from the east, carrying a restoration gel rifle. Her face is ageless, her mouth full-lipped but proud. We've never met, but I recognize her at once.

Atlantida moves the rifle a fraction and fires through the portcullis at the counterweight. With an audible SPLORT, the counterweight becomes a weight and a counter. 

The weight falls to the ground.

The portcullis crashes shut.

>shoot rifle with gun
She sees us moving the gun into position, and our reflexes are slower than hers.

She fires again. The pellet hits us, cold and hard, in the shoulder. It stings like hell and for a moment I think our clavicle is broken. I put our hand over the wounded spot.

Our hand.

Atlantida lowers the rifle, surprised. "Fused," she says. "Isn't that interesting. And so recently, too. If the gel rifle won't separate you, nothing will." She smiles, not warmly. "Pity. You would have been easier to deal with separately. Cold Storage for Andra, house arrest for Alex."

Fused? We should be two pieces by now. Maybe she has an explanation? But you seem to be focused on her gun hand. How can you be so calm?

>shoot rifle with gun
The gun fires ruggedly into the restoration gel rifle, which shatters and then reforms as an infertile astrologer. She's a woman with long grey hair, well past menopause.

The infertile astrologer falls awkwardly to earth and looks around in confusion.

"Today is a day of revelation," announces the astrologer.

"Oh, bravo," says Atlantida. "Could you possibly have made a less useful ally?"

>put gel on astrologer
The astrologer is still a little too far away to reach. She's moving towards us, though. If we wait, perhaps...

The astrologer looks at me. "Gemini, am I right?"

Atlantida smiles with half a mouth. "You've arrived on a difficult day. In the ordinary course of things, I keep things quiet: the spirit of democracy, but none of the sordid wrangling and bribes and corruption and compromise. It's only when the spirit of the island itself is threatened, that we have to resort to such extreme measures."

The infertile astrologer sidles closer to us, smiling and making hand signs that I think are supposed to represent Aries. Old bat.

I'd like to ask whether the protesters feel the same way.

>put gel on astrologer
I dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the infertile astrologer. With an audible SPLORT, the infertile astrologer becomes a restoration gel rifle. 

Atlantida realizes that the restoration gel rifle is now a couple of meters away from her. 

She presses a button on something in her hand. Far away, a high-pitched bell rings.

"Did you have anything else you wanted to ask me? I so rarely get to talk with ordinary citizens. Only ones with clearance, and those about to go into Cold Storage. A last interview with Saint Peter."

>shoot Atlantida with rifle
We sidle over and casually pick up the restoration gel rifle as though we were just curious. Or maybe had an insatiable urge to tidy up.

Her eyes follow the gesture. "Don't you dare, you little traitor," she says. "I have been your mother, your father, your waking up and your going to sleep, your teachers and your lovers and your friends. I am the integrity of this island. Change me and you change Atlantis forever."

"Maybe it's time," I say. "Maybe part of the business of democracy is having the arguments--"

You don't let me finish. I shoot the restoration gel rifle at Atlantida. With an audible SPLORT, Atlantida becomes an atlantida. It's a sort of shellfish, vaguely like a clam or scallop but bigger and with different ridges.

>get atlantida
I pick up the atlantida. It's heavy as a rock, because it has been fossilized.

There's a distant sound of movement. Someone is looking for us.

>east

Private Solarium
A window in the north wall, cut out through the cliff face, gives a view of tranquil sea under a darkening sky. 

Left on a coffee table (as though waiting for maid service) is a silver tray. On the silver tray are some jacks, a cloth napkin, some crumbs, and a dirty coffee cup. 

On the chaise longue is an ebook reader. 

>remove s from jacks
I reset the device to s. There is a mauve cloud, and the jacks turn into a jack. A heavy-duty jack, suitable for raising cars or other substantial objects.

>get jack
I pick up the jack.

>west

Personal Apartment
At a guess, this is a room hardly anyone ever visits, or even knows about. Though the ceiling and one wall are bare cave, the rest has been paneled and  graciously decorated in the style of the end of the 18th century. Oil paintings on the walls depict great men and women of Atlantis gone by: Phyllida Shaply, Amelia Landison, Clarence Arbot, Jon Rosehip. An antique bed stands in the center of the room.

The metal portcullis guards the way back. It is currently lowered. From the pulley above the portcullis hangs a counter. 

There are a stack of files and a rubber stamp on the inlaid desk. 

Air and sunlight stream in from the east.

>open portcullis
I slip the jack under the portcullis and raise it a few feet -- enough for me to slip past.

>go to Workshop
It's a brief walk. 

Workshop
A room whose importance is obvious from how clean it is and how little furniture it is allowed to have.

A programmable dais sits in the middle of the room. It has the raw look of lab equipment rather than a nice smooth commercial instrument. 

A power cord snakes across the floor, connecting the dais socket to the wall socket. 

I can go east to the Generator Room and west to the Surveillance Room from here.

I definitely hear footsteps. And voices.

>flip switch
I give the switch a strong twist and turn it to swap homonym.

>put atlantida on dais
I put the atlantida on the programmable dais.

>pull lever
The programmable dais glows deep red. Almost at once Atlantida is lying on the surface. She looks very similar to her earlier self, but the differences are there. The eyes are grey now. A tattoo of a writhing squid encircles her left wrist. Her face is younger.

She gets to her feet.

"You'd better leave, quickly," she says. "I'll make sure your friends get out, but it will be easier if we don't have to explain you as well."

I could ask how to fix the fusion.

>go to Personal Apartment
I hike. 

Personal Apartment
At a guess, this is a room hardly anyone ever visits, or even knows about. Though the ceiling and one wall are bare cave, the rest has been paneled and  graciously decorated in the style of the end of the 18th century. Oil paintings on the walls depict great men and women of Atlantis gone by: Phyllida Shaply, Amelia Landison, Clarence Arbot, Jon Rosehip. An antique bed stands in the center of the room.

Atlantida stands nearby, urging me to hurry out via the Private Solarium. I think she's enjoying her role as conspiratorial heroine. 

The metal portcullis guards the way back. It is currently raised a few feet by a jack. From the pulley above the portcullis hangs a counter. 

There are a stack of files and a rubber stamp on the inlaid desk. 

Air and sunlight stream in from the east.

Someone is coming into the workshop upstairs. There's at most a few seconds before they'll be down the tunnel.

>get jack
I acquire the jack.

The portcullis crashes shut.

The portcullis should at least slow down anyone coming after us. Though that's only moderately comforting.

>east
She follows. "Go, go," she says. "You've done good work today. Atlantis is grateful."

Private Solarium
Atlantida stands nearby, urging me to hurry out via the Private Solarium. 

A window in the north wall, cut out through the cliff face, gives a view of tranquil sea under a darkening sky. 

Left on a coffee table (as though waiting for maid service) is a silver tray. On the silver tray are a cloth napkin, some crumbs, and a dirty coffee cup. 

On the chaise longue is an ebook reader. 

From the other room, the noises make it sound as though someone is using a metal torch to dismantle the portcullis bar by bar.

>north
I open the tall window.

As soon as we're through, Atlantida closes the window behind us, and we hear it lock. No evidence that we came through here, now.

Precarious Perch
From up here there's a handsome view of the sea, which isn't so far down really. But it's a scramble down a nearly sheer cliff for the first bit, until I make it down to the rockfall below, and it would be easy for a careless person to injure herself.

It's hard to see through the tall window to the room behind: mostly it reflects the sea.

>down
It's a nasty business lowering ourselves over the edge, with little to hold onto up here; scrabbling around with our toes for good holds; letting go with one hand to descend a little further...

But after some minutes of this painstaking process the cliff begins to slope outward more, and it's no longer a question of climbing down a face, but rather of scrambling down over boulders. And then... 

Abandoned Shore
There's a little inlet of shore here, mostly boulders with little sand, completely cut off from the dock area and sheltered by the curve of the rock so that it wouldn't be visible from the sea unless someone were very close in.

There is a squid in the tidal pools among the boulders. 

A bollard is bolted to one of the rocks, which is curious considering the otherwise unused and inaccessible look of the spot. 

An old but still serviceable kayak is drawn up and firmly shackled to the bollard. 

>remove l from bollard
I reset the device to l. With a distinct whiff of raw wood, the bollard turns into a board. It's a fairly generic plank -- sort of pine, by the looks of it, though constructed things tend to be a little vague on niceties such as species -- and looks like it's designed to be part of a new deck or somesuch thing.

>remove d from board
I reset the device to d. With a distinct whiff of sweaty animal, the board turns into a boar. In the old days they used to hunt these animals, and I can understand the impulse. It's like a pig, but even uglier and bristlier, with long dangerous-looking tusky teeth coming out of both its top and bottom jaws.

The boar gives us a very nasty kind of look, and then -- without any provocation, I'm sure -- starts running right at us.

>remove b from boar
I reset the device to b. Our hand is less than steady, but I manage to wave the letter-remover accurately enough.

The boar vanishes with a pop, and an oar falls harmlessly to the ground. It's a light sort of oar, almost a paddle. Still probably not the ideal thing for use with a kayak, but it'll do.

>get oar
I acquire the oar.

>enter kayak
I get into the kayak.

>north
With some awkwardness, I manage to push off and begin to laboriously row for open sea.

Open Sea (in the kayak)
The water stretches in all directions, but I can see off to the north where Slango's yacht is anchored, ready to bring me back aboard. Its metallic blue shape almost blends in with the water.

If I were further around the island to the east, I might be able to see bits of the drowned city: both the buildings that were legitimately destroyed when the land sunk into the sea, and the areas where during the Civil Dispute of Standardization the authorities dumped unwanted foreign archaeological artifacts. But here I'm afraid it's just shellfish and sand down there.

>north
I come around to the aft of Slango's yacht and give a good shout. With the help of a ladder and a hand up from Slango himself, I soon have the kayak stored, and ourselves and our possessions on deck.

Before we can really start a conversation, Slango has a rough go at us with a washcloth and a tub of restoration gel. He is determined to separate you from me before he has a real talk with either of us; and it's not until a number of swipes in that he realizes how wrong things are.

"This isn't working," he remarks, tossing the gel and washcloth aside.

"We're fused," I explain, not very coherently. "Something happened. I don't know if it can be fixed."
"And Brock?" Slango demands. "Have you got him?"

I shake our head. "But he'll be released soon," I say. "I'm pretty sure I've seen to that."

"Pretty sure," Slango repeats.

I just look at him.

"Okay," he says, though it isn't. "Okay." And he goes to the cockpit and fires up the engine, while we watch the lights of Atlantis get farther away and finally dim.


Please press SPACE to continue.
 
























In the rocking boat, with the sound of the motor beneath us, you dream

of a ceremony on a clifftop with our two families seated looking on, and us in a long white dress, carrying a bouquet of scrabble tiles, walking down an aisle alone to be formally unified with ourself

of wearing a suit and meeting with some very rich men to talk about how to bring my language to Africa, and Brock giving us advice about how to handle them

of gathering all the indigenous languages, all the little dying languages, all the languages shoved aside because they lack linguistic efficacy, into a firefly bottle, where their letterforms flicker desperately



Please press SPACE to continue.
 
























72 hours later

Your Bunk (aboard the True Macaque) (on your bed)
Amazing: it's even tinier than my apartment, and the bed isn't even a twin in width. Across from the bed is a built-in bench, with portholes above, just at the waterline.

Your wardrobe door is firmly closed, which is helpful because otherwise it is tricky walking around in here. 

[Your score has gone up by fifteen points and is now one hundred.]

>open wardrobe
I open your wardrobe, revealing a wig, a shred, a ring, a monocle, a backpack, a sundress, a black turtleneck, some trousers, and a swimsuit.

>wear trousers
(first taking the trousers)
I put on the trousers. Close-fitting and dark colored, useful to wear when going places sneakily by night.

Odd patterns of light dance on the ceiling, reflected through the portholes from the water outside.

>wear turtleneck
(first taking the black turtleneck)
I put on the black turtleneck. It averts attention and is useful on jobs.

>fp
I get off your bed.

Galley (aboard the True Macaque)
Smaller than the kitchen in a comfortable house, but carefully and elegantly fitted, with an electric stovetop, a convection oven/microwave, a tiny refrigerator, a sink: enough, in short, to serve the crew of three on long trips. I guess even a fairly big boat is still small on the inside, eh?

There's even a little washing machine, for items too big to hand-wash in the sink.

On the built-in table are a newspaper and a pan. 

On the port wall, built-in shelves hold a battered selection of games.

The wake of what must be quite a large ship raises the True Macaque and then lowers her again.

>read newspaper
It's the Chard-Farmer's Daily from Atlantis. A huge headline is splashed across the front:

"REFERENDUM ANNOUNCED!"

The picture on the front shows the Atlantida statue decked out with lights like a Christmas tree and people posing next to her for pictures.

My father has been promoted, apparently, to something called the Provisional Committee for Orthographic Reform. He is quoted as saying that the amnesty for Cold Storage prisoners is an important step forward. "Of course, government by citizen referendum brings its own problems, and further constitutional work may be needed if we mean to bring Atlantis in line with the European Union."

Slango comes in, with Brock behind him. "Bad news," he says. "We're going to have to split that payout three ways instead of two. The new Atlantida has a perverse sense of humor. She express-mailed Brock to Mallorca for us. In rock form."

Brock bends down to massage his right thigh. "Turns out it's not comfortable having spent the night in a cardboard box, even if you were petrified at the time. Things to know and learn."

I study his face. It's the face he wears when he's reserving judgment about whether or not to be incredibly pissed off. You're the one who knows how to read that face, but I'm a little relieved to see it too.

"My father might've been inanimated instead," I say.

"Slango mentioned," Brock says.

"He's a lot older. I thought he might have some heart trouble or... or not deal with it well."

Brock studies us for a moment more. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a huge gummy candy shaped like a squid.

"Want one? They used them as packing material in my shipping box. We've got lots."



    *** The End ***


In that game you scored 100 out of a possible 100, in 342 turns, earning you the rank of Successful Revolutionary.


Achievement accomplished: Alex Rosehip award for completing the game in easy mode!


Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, QUIT, UNDO the last command, review your final SCORE, reveal what ACHIEVEMENTS you have yet to accomplish, or learn about some of the SOURCES used in creating this game?
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