Start of a transcript of SpaceWhale presents: ----------------------- A TRAIN TO PICCADILLY ----------------------- An attempt to remember by Marco Innocenti Release 2 / Serial number 250122 / Inform v6.42 PunyInform v5.12 > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > x compressor Basically, a wheelbarrow with a motor on top and a series of pipes. One of the pipes is particularly long. > get pipe The pipe comes off with ease. > x plane It is a sleek plane, with elliptical wings and a long nose. A glass hood protects its cockpit, which is now closed. I bet this is a Spitfire. Nice piece of metal. > x cockpit It is a sleek plane, with elliptical wings and a long nose. A glass hood protects its cockpit, which is now closed. I bet this is a Spitfire. Nice piece of metal. > x hood It is a sleek plane, with elliptical wings and a long nose. A glass hood protects its cockpit, which is now closed. I bet this is a Spitfire. Nice piece of metal. > open hood The hood is blocked, there is only a small gap. > put pipe in gap Sounds like an idea. Not without effort I manage to plant the pipe in the gap of the hood and now it sticks out of the cockpit like a placeholder. > push pipe Yes. The pipe can work very well as a lever. Just pull it to... Ich hab's geschafft! The cockpit is now open. Inside I find a nice British uniform. > put on uniform (first taking the British uniform) I am now wearing the British uniform. > i I am carrying a British uniform (worn), a long pipe and a magic cylinder. > x cylinder It's a fusion of the three objects I found: a kind of magic cylinder made of gold. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > x plane It is a sleek plane, with elliptical wings and a long nose. A glass hood protects its cockpit, which is now open. I bet this is a Spitfire. Nice piece of metal. > break plane Violence isn't the answer to this one. > break cockpit Violence isn't the answer to this one. > get in cockpit I enter the parked airplane. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR (in the parked airplane) A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > undo Previous turn undone. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR (in the parked airplane) A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > nw First, I'd have to leave the parked airplane. > undo Previous turn undone. > undo Previous turn undone. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR (in the parked airplane) A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > undo Previous turn undone. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR (in the parked airplane) A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > undo Previous turn undone. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR (in the parked airplane) A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > undo Previous turn undone. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR (in the parked airplane) A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > undo Previous turn undone. > undo Previous turn undone. > undo Previous turn undone. > l [UK, 1938] HANGAR A large room with a ten-meter ceiling, exemplarily empty, except for an airplane and a series of trench bags piled haphazardly in one corner, as if the war could never develop in here. The exit is to the northwest. An old compressor lies among the bags. > i I am carrying a British uniform (worn), a long pipe and a magic cylinder. > nw [UK, 1938] AIRFIELD Smooth and gray under a blue sky, the runway runs east to west. Across it, a handful of people are talking to a middle-aged man whose cigar shoots voluptuous clouds into the sky. A control tower is visible to the northeast, while a dark hangar opens to the southeast. A soldier is patrolling the entrance to the hangar. > ne [UK, 1938] BY THE TOWER I am on the runway. The tarmac is hot. The control tower is to the northeast. To the southwest is back to the hangar while to the northwest I can go around the people with the cigar-man and reach what I believe is his plane. > nw Existence is a matter of minutes: in the end, even the longest epics are played out between the small hands. This time, every little delay accumulated makes me get by the man with the cigar's plane just a few turns of the clock too late. When I'm within earshot, it begins to take off. History waits for no one and trying to shout STOP at a group of British soldiers doesn't prove particularly functional to my cause. At least, this time, it's bullets from His Britannic Majesty that take me off the stage. [I'm dead, it looks like. Want to try again? Y/N]y [Last command undone] [...] [UK, 1938] BY THE TOWER I am on the runway. The tarmac is hot. The control tower is to the northeast. To the southwest is back to the hangar while to the northwest I can go around the people with the cigar-man and reach what I believe is his plane. > ne [UK, 1938] CONTROL TOWER At the end of a short staircase, I find myself on the upper floors. A decidedly spartan room, with large windows looking out over the runway and the surrounding fields for miles. A table along one wall holds a radio, a flight log, and a fixed pair of panoramic binoculars. The exit leads down. > x log It is a flight log of the military airport. I browse through it slowly... [...] There are many pages of incomprehensible data, such as dates and times followed by acronyms and abbreviations. The most recurring words are "test" and "random". I have no idea what they mean. Some messages seem to be encrypted: perhaps they are people's names, perhaps they are acronyms, perhaps something else. Here too it goes into the incomprehensible: Ack, Toc, Harry, London, Emma. [Continue? (Y/N)]y A page of coded commands. Most are crossed out: Runway clear: XXXXXXXX Runway occupied: ORANGES. Stable climate: XXXXXXXX Acceptable climate: Harry Unpredictable/dangerous climate: XXXXXXXX Yellow flag: PIP There are dozens of them, but almost all are redacted. Next to the line about dangerous climate, someone drew a woman playing... the lyre. Another wave of horrible deja vu. Underneath the woman is written "Fell a soldier's heart," the first word underlined. [Continue? (Y/N)]y Pages and pages of notes and diaries in English. Everyday stories for a military airport. It must have been boring here. Things will change, my friends. They will change a lot. [Continue? (Y/N)]y Some pages are all technical manuals. This one, for example, explains how the tanks of some models work. In the case of this illustration, there are three tanks: the first, the largest, is the "flight" one, in the sense that it is the one with direct draw (or at least that's what I understand from an all too technical English); the second is the reserve, small but still capacious. The last, very small, is the emergency one, which should never be used--in fact, very often, it is left empty. For a plane to take off without alarms, the best situation indicated, if you can't have all the tanks full, is for the flight and reserve tank to be loaded with the same amount of fuel. What a mess: it seems like a puzzle to confuse the enemy. [Continue? (Y/N)]y At the end of the log is a full page of military alphabet. Ack for A, Beer for B, then Charlie, Don, Edward, Freddie, Gee and up to Yorker and Zeta. > l [UK, 1938] CONTROL TOWER A decidedly spartan room, with large windows looking out over the runway and the surrounding fields for miles. A table along one wall holds a radio, a flight log, and a fixed pair of panoramic binoculars. The exit leads down. > x bino Sorry, I don't understand what "bino" means. > x binos Sorry, I don't understand what "binos" means. > x binoculars A fixed, rotating pair of binoculars to see up close what's out there. I can look in them and investigate a little. > look in binoculars With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's green right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > l [UK, 1938] CONTROL TOWER A decidedly spartan room, with large windows looking out over the runway and the surrounding fields for miles. A table along one wall holds a radio, a flight log, and a fixed pair of panoramic binoculars. The exit leads down. > x radio The radio for vehicle communications. The microphone shaft ends up in a bunch of disconnected wires. Someone--the saboteur, I would say--must have torn it out. A special keyboard, very similar to that terminal I found at MIT, but far more rudimentary, is connected with dozens of wires to the radio itself. I can probably still type a few commands, if not more advanced messages. > type emma The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > type edward The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > type mike The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > type mike The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > type ack The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > l [UK, 1938] CONTROL TOWER A decidedly spartan room, with large windows looking out over the runway and the surrounding fields for miles. A table along one wall holds a radio, a flight log, and a fixed pair of panoramic binoculars. The exit leads down. > d [UK, 1938] BY THE TOWER I am on the runway. The tarmac is hot. The control tower is to the northeast. To the southwest is back to the hangar while to the northwest I can go around the people with the cigar-man and reach what I believe is his plane. > nw Existence is a matter of minutes: in the end, even the longest epics are played out between the small hands. This time, every little delay accumulated makes me get by the man with the cigar's plane just a few turns of the clock too late. When I'm within earshot, it begins to take off. History waits for no one and trying to shout STOP at a group of British soldiers doesn't prove particularly functional to my cause. At least, this time, it's bullets from His Britannic Majesty that take me off the stage. [I'm dead, it looks like. Want to try again? Y/N]y [Last command undone] [...] [UK, 1938] BY THE TOWER I am on the runway. The tarmac is hot. The control tower is to the northeast. To the southwest is back to the hangar while to the northwest I can go around the people with the cigar-man and reach what I believe is his plane. > ne [UK, 1938] CONTROL TOWER A decidedly spartan room, with large windows looking out over the runway and the surrounding fields for miles. A table along one wall holds a radio, a flight log, and a fixed pair of panoramic binoculars. The exit leads down. > u The exit is down. > x plane With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's green right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > x book I can't see any such thing. > read log It is a flight log of the military airport. I browse through it slowly... [...] There are many pages of incomprehensible data, such as dates and times followed by acronyms and abbreviations. The most recurring words are "test" and "random". I have no idea what they mean. Some messages seem to be encrypted: perhaps they are people's names, perhaps they are acronyms, perhaps something else. Here too it goes into the incomprehensible: Ack, Toc, Harry, London, Emma. [Continue? (Y/N)]y A page of coded commands. Most are crossed out: Runway clear: XXXXXXXX Runway occupied: ORANGES. Stable climate: XXXXXXXX Acceptable climate: Harry Unpredictable/dangerous climate: XXXXXXXX Yellow flag: PIP There are dozens of them, but almost all are redacted. Next to the line about dangerous climate, someone drew a woman playing... the lyre. Another wave of horrible deja vu. Underneath the woman is written "Fell a soldier's heart," the first word underlined. [Continue? (Y/N)]n > type fyvie The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > type oranges The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > look [UK, 1938] CONTROL TOWER A decidedly spartan room, with large windows looking out over the runway and the surrounding fields for miles. A table along one wall holds a radio, a flight log, and a fixed pair of panoramic binoculars. The exit leads down. > x plane With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's green right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > x lamp With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's green right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > read log It is a flight log of the military airport. I browse through it slowly... [...] There are many pages of incomprehensible data, such as dates and times followed by acronyms and abbreviations. The most recurring words are "test" and "random". I have no idea what they mean. Some messages seem to be encrypted: perhaps they are people's names, perhaps they are acronyms, perhaps something else. Here too it goes into the incomprehensible: Ack, Toc, Harry, London, Emma. [Continue? (Y/N)]y A page of coded commands. Most are crossed out: Runway clear: XXXXXXXX Runway occupied: ORANGES. Stable climate: XXXXXXXX Acceptable climate: Harry Unpredictable/dangerous climate: XXXXXXXX Yellow flag: PIP There are dozens of them, but almost all are redacted. Next to the line about dangerous climate, someone drew a woman playing... the lyre. Another wave of horrible deja vu. Underneath the woman is written "Fell a soldier's heart," the first word underlined. [Continue? (Y/N)]n > type pip The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > x lamp With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's green right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > read log It is a flight log of the military airport. I browse through it slowly... [...] There are many pages of incomprehensible data, such as dates and times followed by acronyms and abbreviations. The most recurring words are "test" and "random". I have no idea what they mean. Some messages seem to be encrypted: perhaps they are people's names, perhaps they are acronyms, perhaps something else. Here too it goes into the incomprehensible: Ack, Toc, Harry, London, Emma. [Continue? (Y/N)]y A page of coded commands. Most are crossed out: Runway clear: XXXXXXXX Runway occupied: ORANGES. Stable climate: XXXXXXXX Acceptable climate: Harry Unpredictable/dangerous climate: XXXXXXXX Yellow flag: PIP There are dozens of them, but almost all are redacted. Next to the line about dangerous climate, someone drew a woman playing... the lyre. Another wave of horrible deja vu. Underneath the woman is written "Fell a soldier's heart," the first word underlined. [Continue? (Y/N)]n > type fell The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > x lamp With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's green right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > read log It is a flight log of the military airport. I browse through it slowly... [...] There are many pages of incomprehensible data, such as dates and times followed by acronyms and abbreviations. The most recurring words are "test" and "random". I have no idea what they mean. Some messages seem to be encrypted: perhaps they are people's names, perhaps they are acronyms, perhaps something else. Here too it goes into the incomprehensible: Ack, Toc, Harry, London, Emma. [Continue? (Y/N)]y A page of coded commands. Most are crossed out: Runway clear: XXXXXXXX Runway occupied: ORANGES. Stable climate: XXXXXXXX Acceptable climate: Harry Unpredictable/dangerous climate: XXXXXXXX Yellow flag: PIP There are dozens of them, but almost all are redacted. Next to the line about dangerous climate, someone drew a woman playing... the lyre. Another wave of horrible deja vu. Underneath the woman is written "Fell a soldier's heart," the first word underlined. [Continue? (Y/N)]y Pages and pages of notes and diaries in English. Everyday stories for a military airport. It must have been boring here. Things will change, my friends. They will change a lot. [Continue? (Y/N)]y Some pages are all technical manuals. This one, for example, explains how the tanks of some models work. In the case of this illustration, there are three tanks: the first, the largest, is the "flight" one, in the sense that it is the one with direct draw (or at least that's what I understand from an all too technical English); the second is the reserve, small but still capacious. The last, very small, is the emergency one, which should never be used--in fact, very often, it is left empty. For a plane to take off without alarms, the best situation indicated, if you can't have all the tanks full, is for the flight and reserve tank to be loaded with the same amount of fuel. What a mess: it seems like a puzzle to confuse the enemy. [Continue? (Y/N)]y At the end of the log is a full page of military alphabet. Ack for A, Beer for B, then Charlie, Don, Edward, Freddie, Gee and up to Yorker and Zeta. > type fell The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did. > x lamp With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's green right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > type freddie The radio makes a two-tone sound, like some kind of distorted music. It's probably Morse. I have no idea what I just did, but something definitely happened outside. I need to check with the binoculars. > x lamp With the binoculars I can see the whole area. From here, the man with the cigar looks even bigger. To his north is a plane ready for takeoff, and that must make him very happy. Turning toward the start of the runway, I can see a lamp hanging on a pole. It's red right now. No obvious sign of the saboteur, even from up here. > d [UK, 1938] BY THE TOWER I am on the runway. The tarmac is hot. The control tower is to the northeast. To the southwest is back to the hangar while to the northwest I can go around the people with the cigar-man and reach what I believe is his plane. > nw [UK, 1938] THE EDGE I sneak up behind the plane ready for take-off, on the other side of the runway. The countryside opens up to the north to infinity. This could be the outer edge of my adventure. The control tower is to the southeast. An airplane with an innovative shape is here ready for takeoff, its bulk a nice shelter from the people on the other side. > x plane It's something I've never seen. Perhaps an experimental model that the cigar man incident halted in development. A hatch on the lower part of the cockpit is surmounted by a large sticker that reads "Per Ardua Ad Astra". > open hatch I open the hatch. Inside, the protagonist of this story finally appears: a complex explosive device is wired to the plane's engine, ready to explode in history. > get device If my sixth sense is still working, fiddling with this bomb without a clear idea will cause it to detonate. > x bomb The bomb is stuck in the engine and virtually impossible to remove quickly. A strange orange object is connected to it by an endless series of electrical wires. > x object It's a rounded object, bright orange, with a small glowing screen and a keyboard with consecutive keys. I've never seen anything like it, it seems to come from the time and space of the three nexuses that I carried with me between dimensions. On the front it has the logo "Speak & Spell". Some of the keys are dirty. > x keys Some letters are dirty with grease, probably used several times by careless hands. The dirty letters are: C, H, I, L, R, U. > type u I have only one option: a wrong password would ruin all my efforts so far. Maybe I should take a closer look at the bomb. > x bomb The bomb is stuck in the engine and virtually impossible to remove quickly. A strange orange object is connected to it by an endless series of electrical wires. > x wires The bomb is stuck in the engine and virtually impossible to remove quickly. A strange orange object is connected to it by an endless series of electrical wires. > x object It's a rounded object, bright orange, with a small glowing screen and a keyboard with consecutive keys. I've never seen anything like it, it seems to come from the time and space of the three nexuses that I carried with me between dimensions. On the front it has the logo "Speak & Spell". Some of the keys are dirty. > type ulrich I have only one option: a wrong password would ruin all my efforts so far. Maybe I should take a closer look at the bomb. > x logo I can't see any such thing. > x keys Some letters are dirty with grease, probably used several times by careless hands. The dirty letters are: C, H, I, L, R, U. > x screen Science fiction: these are letters that form and come to life, in blue on a black background. Like tiny smart light bulbs. Stuff from the future, no doubt. > x bomb The bomb is stuck in the engine and virtually impossible to remove quickly. A strange orange object is connected to it by an endless series of electrical wires. > look under bomb I find nothing special. > look behind bomb I find nothing special. > pull wires If my sixth sense is still working, fiddling with this bomb without a clear idea will cause it to detonate. > l [UK, 1938] THE EDGE The countryside opens up to the north to infinity. This could be the outer edge of my adventure. The control tower is to the southeast. A complex explosive device burrows into the engine like a horror monster. An airplane with an innovative shape is here ready for takeoff, its bulk a nice shelter from the people on the other side. > i I am carrying a British uniform (worn), a long pipe and a magic cylinder. > put cylinder on bomb I can't put things on top of that. > x cylinder It's a fusion of the three objects I found: a kind of magic cylinder made of gold. > x object It's a rounded object, bright orange, with a small glowing screen and a keyboard with consecutive keys. I've never seen anything like it, it seems to come from the time and space of the three nexuses that I carried with me between dimensions. On the front it has the logo "Speak & Spell". Some of the keys are dirty. > say ulrich I think you wanted to say "say something to someone". Please try again. > say ulrich to bomb I can only do that to something animate. > spell ulrich That is not a verb I recognize. > type churchill Bingo. The password is correct, and while I can't be sure of it from the bomb's response (pretty much none, except that the Speak & Spell goes off, leaving the device in darkness), the cold warning of a gun barrel resting on the back of my neck certainly bears witness to it. I raise my hands, slowly. A voice I never thought I'd hear taunts me from behind: "You shouldn't have gotten this far..." I turn around, and see the mirror of my soul reflected in a face too tired to be real. [...] "I HOPED you wouldn't make it." Lev Nemov, my contact in Berlin, looks more disconsolate than disappointed. "And what does that mean," I tease. "Where should I have stopped to take those doe eyes off your face? At any point, I would have died, right?" A smile, this time sardonic. "Well, that's true. But at least you would have saved yourself the worst part of the trip..." It's my eyes, this time, that open wide. [...] "The worst part..." I want to spit in his face. I'm out of saliva. "Do you know the fucking things I've seen, this last day? Have you been there?" "No." He looks down, then points at me again. "I've only seen the part the Soviet allowed me to. And for a few days. My time is this here, not the one you lived." The chatter on the other side of the plane fades away. I don't think they heard us: maybe we've only just gotten to the goodbyes. "A world of rubble, that's what I saw," I spit in his face. "And then the world across the sea, reduced to a white desert. While you were playing the good little soldier for the wrong side of History. The one that shouldn't exist." Someone is boarding the plane on the other side. [...] "Don't talk to me like you're my boyfriend. We were comrades for only twenty minutes. And don't fool yourself: this world here isn't all roses and flowers either. War runs through the continuum seamlessly: it runs through all of us in every era. Do you know what the Wall is? You're a Berliner, you should have seen it. And you should have seen the Prague Spring, or the Hungarian conflict. Or the Irish civil war. There is no perfect world, Gromov. Not yours, not mine. There is only the possibility of implementing the one you prefer." The cockpit opens. Nemov is too busy ranting to notice. I feel the plane rise and fall behind me twice. Someone has boarded, at least two people. [...] "You know my name isn't Gromov, right?" Talking, that's all I can do right now. "Yeah, and I don't give a der'mo. Who do you think cares? You're just a little pawn in a book that was never even written. Insubstantial, inconsequential, useless." Mechanical noise. Someone's going to start the plane soon. I absolutely have to do something. [...] "If there's one thing this whole story has taught me," I tell him, giving him the biggest smile I've ever expressed, "it's that sometimes one person, no matter how insignificant, can change everything." There are many grand gestures I could enact, the majority of which would mean more to me than to him. In the end, I decide to use the most pragmatic one. For the Stalnaya Gvardiya, for the man who just boarded this plane, for the Revolution, with a clean slam from below I close the hatch behind me. A second later, the plane starts and a dozen armed guards emerge and point all their guns at us. [...] Gromov, my little Gromov, Maksim Gromov. I wanted you to fail, will you believe it? No, I don't believe you. I don't believe a word you say. There are shouts, then he raises the gun towards me. Half a second, and I'm gone. Time is running backwards. I don't know what year it is anymore. I don't know the day anymore. Long live the Revol--- [...] "Hit! We've hit him! Take off immediately!" "His Excellency, you must take him away! Sir Churchill, take him away!" More gunfire. I don't know how I can hear it. [...] In the end it's just silence. The plane takes the runway. I see everything through a frosted glass. A song is playing somewhere. It's the one I heard in my head as I jumped from one part of the world to another. "There's a train to Piccadilly..." [...] "And it goes, and goes, and goes..." [...] London, 1940. It's June 4th. [...] I am now leaving the Underground. London is a most extraordinary city. I have spoken to the people, I have asked them what they would do in my place, whether they would stand defiant, shoulder to shoulder, against the dark tide of tyranny or bow, as Sir Neville suggests, to the yoke of surrender and shame. Their position has invigorated me. They stood unanimous and unyielding, even the women holding their babies around their necks, even the very old. "We shall fight." And for how long, and how far, if they come all the way here, to our streets, to our beloved Piccadilly? "Forever." So be it, I have made up my mind. "I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone..." [...] "...We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender. --Sir Winston Churchill Speech to the House of Commons." ---- The well-dressed man closes the gazette and puts it back on the table to his right. He turns and looks out the window. It is a beautiful morning, the clouds have cleared and the war seems like an old memory. There is reconstruction to be done, that is certain, but none of this will ever stop the indomitable spirit of the British people. He lights a cigarette. Bad habit, he reproaches himself. But other thoughts are already running through his head. He picks up the strange object, the one the RAF recovered from that incident at the airfield in 1938 and that was delivered to him this morning by Air Marshal Sir Charles Portal. He turns it between his fingers. It is a cylinder formed by several concentric rings, heavy enough that it could really be made entirely of gold. He looks at it, and asks it a question that is almost existential. "What are you, strange contraption? And what arcane machinations do you hide?" It's September 1946, and all is well. *** YOU HAVE RESCUED THE OLD *** Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE, see some suggestions for AMUSING things to do or QUIT? amusing Did you try: - random passwords in the Logikautomat (i.e.: JOSHUA) - showing up to people wearing the rubber suit? - showing objects to the various NPCs? Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE, see some suggestions for AMUSING things to do or QUIT? quit