Start of a transcript of HALOTHANE An Interactive Restoration Copyright 1999 by Quentin.D.Thompson. License 1999, The Theatre Of The Sensible. [Please type 'help' in times of doubt - or just for fun. To toggle between default and original colours, use 'colours on' and 'colours off'.] Release 1 / Serial number 990928 / Inform v6.15 Library 6/8 Standard interpreter 1.0 (6F) / Library serial number 981213 >restore Ok. >l Operating Room (on the operating table) This looks suspiciously like the operating room they took you to when you were much, much younger, to have your tonsils taken out. However, it's strangely empty. The only obvious exit is through a door to the west. Standing near the bed is a slightly broken trolley. A small gauze face mask, of the type worn by surgeons during an operation, lies discarded on the floor. >get mask Taken. >in You'll have to get off the table first. >get up You get off the operating table. Operating Room This looks suspiciously like the operating room they took you to when you were much, much younger, to have your tonsils taken out. However, it's strangely empty. The only obvious exit is through a door to the west. Standing near the bed is a slightly broken trolley. >in You can't go that way. >w (first opening the door) Instrument Room A small, narrow annexe to the O.R., where scalpels, forceps and the like are sterilized prior to operation. Apart from the passage to the east, back to the O.R., there are only four walls around you, that don't look very interesting, and an LCD display panel facing you. There is a faint suggestion of disinfectant in the air. Strangely, there are no instruments here, just a blue cylinder. >wear mask You put on the face mask. >open valve You open the valve, and a jet of pleasant-smelling gas escapes. However, since you're wearing the face mask, it doesn't bother you. Suddenly, under the influence of the halogenated hydrocarbon vapour, writing begins to appear on the LCD panel! >x panel The LCD display panel - judging by the fact that there are no switches, power lines or knobs in the vicinity, its supply source is a mystery to you. It seems to work just like it's meant to, displaying letters and numbers. (How exciting.) A single sentence is displayed on the panel. >read it There's just one line on the panel, which doesn't tell you much : Emergency Exit. Touch Panel to Escape. Not Verified. >touch it As you reach out for the panel, you can feel it suddenly open out and swell, until it becomes a door of sorts. Hesitantly, you step into the door..... [Please press SPACE....] First Interposition - Invasion of Privacy Driveway, Outside House You stand, hesitantly, on a futuristic-looking driveway, feeling that you've somehow been here before. There is nothing to guide you, except a door standing east of you, and a sign next to it. Even the name on the sign sounds familiar, though you can't remember why. The door to the house, not at all imposing, is closed. [Your score has just gone up by six points.] >read sign A plaque built into one of the walls, serving the function of a nameplate and little else, glowing with a dim light. It only bears the surname "Franklin", and a quotation, which seems to have been added to the plaque later: "Your Excellency has perhaps erred in trying to fight fire with fire; sometimes the simple bucket of water is as effective." You recoil in wonder, recognizing the quote as your own. >open door You open the door to the house. >in Something tells you the house is more promising than any of the unknown paths around you. >e Front Hall, in the house The front hall is large, spacious and exudes an air of good taste. A tall archway leads north from it to the rest of the house (which is dark), and a large sofa, forming a rectangular C, fills the room. In one corner is an ornamental shelf. The front door stands wide open. There's a blue shawl draped over the sofa. On the large plush sofa is a small piece of paper. You can also see a small memo here. >x shawl A simple blue shawl, with a frilled border - or at least you assume it's frilled; you're not sure what quirks fashion has acquired in time to come. Stripes of paler blue, that can only be discerned when you look closely, run diagonally across it. In one corner, in letters that glow eerily when you look at them at an angle, is a dedication : "From Edward". You assume it's a woman's garment, but - knowing fashion as you do - you're not sure. >read paper The diagram is a small graph, whose exact meaning is not obvious. It's a bell- shaped curve, like the statistician's Gaussian distribution, but with the words "Age" and "Stability" written along the X- and Y-axes respectively. Names of nations (you assume) - all of them familiar to you from your works - are written along the curve as it progresses, in the following order: "Provinces, Kingdoms, Europe, China, Colonies". You wonder if - possibly? - your semi-fictitious theories have actually taken root in the far, far future. Somehow, the idea does grab you. >read memo François, Ch.1, Lines 40 - 50. "Life is strange", the Voice observed, in a doomy voice. "Well, we have no one to blame for that", the Author replied, assertively. "After all, we have created this strangeness by ourselves." "I drown in depths", the Voice complained, obviously annoyed by the Author's cocky replies. "We create a character, and he creates another. But we have never attempted to interfere in his life..." "Except until now", the Author reminded him. "Very well, except until now. But can we allow him to interfere with his own creation?" The Author laughed. "He doesn't yet appreciate the value of his own creations. Perhaps now he will". "Déja vu", the Voice replied, irritably. "Are you trying to tell me we have created an insecure, neurotic protagonist, after all this time? After all our endeavours? All our - er - programming?" "Wait and see", the Author replied, and....... [Here the printing stops suddenly.] >e You can't go that way. >n Under the Arch Currently, you are standing underneath a tall and imposing arch, that serves as a line of demarcation between the wide hall and the more residential portion of the house. This small passageway leads further north, south back into the hall, and runs on either side to the smaller wings of the house. The sense of familiarity you felt when you first stood outside the house grows even stronger. >n You have the strange feeling that the north end of the house - probably the kitchen and dining-hall - are not exactly germane to your current situation. >e Nursery Though it hardly looks like the kind of room you spent your childhood in, your sixth sense tags this room as a nursery. It's hard to find a logical reason for your flight of fancy though; there's a table, chair, and a small but comfortable bed, but there are no bars on the solitary window, and certainly few things that look like toys. Unless they're all inside that wardrobe or the dresser over there, that is. You feel a sudden sense of disquietude, as if - this is probably sick fancy - an old friend of yours was missing from the room. On the metal table is a brief letter. >read letter In an old-fashioned, sloping, schoolgirl's hand, you can read the following: Dear Father and Mother, Something very unusual has happened - I think it's related to what you were telling me about the other day, but I'm not sure - but I have to leave for a short time, at least. Don't worry about me. As far as I know, I'm in safe hands. If you need to get in touch with me at any time, contact Mr. Author. Your loving daughter, Simone. >x table Nothing special, except that it's made of metal rather than plastic. No drawers either. >e You can't go that way. >s You can't go that way. >w Under the Arch Currently, you are standing underneath a tall and imposing arch, that serves as a line of demarcation between the wide hall and the more residential portion of the house. This small passageway leads further north, south back into the hall, and runs on either side to the smaller wings of the house. There are no lights burning anywhere, except a dim glow off to the east, and you can hear faint murmurs off to the west. >w Corridor, Down the West Wing A small corridor, leading from the vertical corridor down the middle of the house to a darkened room. You can hear voices coming from the west. >w Master Bedroom You can't see much of the master bedroom, since it's dark; you can make out the vague shadows of a writing-table and a dresser (how can you be sure that that's what they are?), and a stately four-poster. Are there two people in the bed, or are you imagining things? Only light can help you here, I'm afraid. There's a small switch on the west wall. >turn on switch Nothing obvious happens. >turn off switch It seems to be off already, if it is a switch. >x switch A small switch or button, whose function you're not exactly sure of, though you have a gut feeling that it's a light switch. The small switch on the west wall is currently switched off. >feel switch You feel nothing unexpected. >push it As you throw the switch, the two people in the bed stir slightly, and sit upright..... They look even more familiar to you now, so familiar that you feel your memory will return any moment. A man of slight build, academic in appearance, in his late forties; a quiet- looking and intelligent woman of about the same age. You know them......but you're not sure how.. "Would you mind", the man says indignantly, "explaining to us what you're doing here?" "Perhaps he's come from Mr. Author, Edward", the woman replies. And then you suddenly remember, with an almost painful clarity. Edward and Laura. Literary critics. Thermoconditioners. Their thirteen-year-old daughter, Simone. Familiar - of course. You created them......they're your characters. Characters in the prologue of.......The Decline and Fall...... And suddenly, before you can even speak, the floor seems to crumble beneath your feet... [Press SPACE......] Chapter Two - Errare Humanum Est Study Though you've never seen this room in your life, you can't help but feel a strong sense of déja vu about the entire place, as if you've either lived here once or will live here at some time in the future. Perhaps you've just moved in, because the room - apart from a solitary table and an old wooden chair - is bare. The completed manuscript of The Decline And Fall of the Colonial Empire, your new novel, lies on the table, sending waves of nausea through you. You can also see a dustbin (which is empty) here. The very sight of the manuscript irks you. You feel impelled to mutilate it in some way. [Your score has just gone up by thirteen points.] >x manuscript Well, at least it's over. But you can't help but feel it's far, far worse than your previous novel; it seems poorly written and over-ambitious, and all the characters seem to have escaped from a Reader's Digest back-issue. You know that's partly intentional - you were trying to write a little positively, just for the heck of it - but it still sets your teeth on edge. On second thoughts, perhaps a decent burial? You're not sure. >read it You turn a few pages. You laugh slightly as you pass the comic prologue, which seems to be much better written than the six hundred and fifty pages following it, but the minute you hit Chapter One, you feel like ripping the damned thing to pieces. And kicking yourself for writing such uninspired baloney. You stare longingly at the manuscript, wondering if it does deserve a second chance. >rewrite it That's not a verb I recognise. >x bin An old, broken down trash can that's been receiving your literary miscarriages for the last five years. And you're not likely to be able to replace it soon, not until you can get better sales than forty-six copies in two years. >put manuscript in bin You need to be holding the completed manuscript before you can put it into something else. You try telling yourself that someone will actually be interested in it, but you know that's self- delusion. Forty-six copies for a four-hundred-page novel is not an impressive statistic, and things can only get worse. The sooner you put the damned thing in the trash can, the better it will be. >z Time passes. >z Time passes. >get manuscript Taken. >put it in bin With a decisive sigh, you hurl the Empire and its hapless inhabitants into the dustbin. Time enough for it to be thrown out later......you haven't slept in days. You stagger to your bed, and drift away slowly....you can feel yourself floating.... [Press SPACE....] Chapter Three - Driving With Your Eyes Closed On a lonely highway, in the back seat You are bound hand and foot, completely helpless, in what would appear to be the back seat of a slightly outmoded car. The front seat is obviously occupied, but it's so unnaturally high that you can't see beyond it. Looking out of the window reveals quiet scenery, typical of the average English countryside. [Your score has just gone up by four points.] >cry Oh, you're not that depressed. You can hear voices from the front seat, and strain to listen to them. >listen to voices You can't see any such thing. >i You are carrying nothing. "Ah, yes, you're the Author. You presume to know everything", one voice says - an elderly voice, rebuking in tone, probably a man's. "But you still have to convince me." >z Time passes. "What convincing?" the man addressed as the Author says with a swagger. "Trouble with these chaps is, they can't handle reality. They create something, and are content to leave it at that - they don't realise the magnitude of the responsibility they have assumed. Creation is not static, as you know." >z Time passes. "Reality?" The older man sounds puzzled. "I wonder what you mean by that, my friend. To the people I meet every day - those I preside over, in fact, this is reality. It's all a question of one's point of view." >z Time passes. "Exactly what I do. The way I see it, friend, all of us are characters at one level or the other. We make up one level; the people we create make up the next level; and so on. You don't fit into that scheme, of course - shall we say you are above such things?" >z Time passes. "Quite right. I was years in the making. I have changed forms, assumed different identities, occupied different places, both physical and in the minds of our citizens, based on the imaginations of all those who shaped me. My essence has not changed - it is only the popular perception of me that has." >z Time passes. "Anyway, I've profiled our friend in the rear. Nothing wrong with him that a little exposure couldn't fix. He's not psychotic, or unstable, or anything like that." >z Time passes. "Then why did he destroy all those people?", the old man asks, bemused. "To leave the fates of forty-five million people hanging in the balance - that is not the act of a sane man, Author." >z Time passes. "There is such a thing as want of confidence.....Here, that 's enough! We've arrived. Take our friend out gently, Padre. Don't let him see you though. Not now." With these words, the old man - you cannot see him, still, as he shines a light in your eyes - unties your bonds, and gently but firmly escorts you out of the vehicle. You hear a faint hum of engines, and the car drives away. You now find yourself... Open Field A pleasant expanse of grass, limited in extent; to your east, west and south you see high granite walls, but a footpath leads north. The sun beams down upon you. [Your score has just gone up by eight points.] >score You have so far scored 48 out of a possible 360, in 60 turns, earning you the rank of Refugee from Postmodernism. >save Ok. >quit Are you sure you want to quit? y