text: > look around
  The barber is still here, snipping away happily at his bald client. You sit on the bench next to the stand of dye, waiting.
  
  > Go west
  Heading out on a track west from the village street, you soon come across the picturesque fairytale woods that had seemed so pleasant from a distance. Up close the uniformity of colour and the crude blobs of green on brown are somewhat unsettling.
  
  In the midst of the woods stand a Buddhist monk and a lumberjack engaged in a heated discussion as to whether a tree falling down in a forest makes a sound if nobody is around to hear it. Their debate is punctuated by the occasional felling of a tree at the blade of the lumberjack's axe.
  
  The woods become more sinister looking to the west and the village street is back to the east.
  
  > talk to the monk
  ". . . now listen here, don't be a dosh-garned fool," the lumberjack is saying as you approach, "-- of course the tree makes a sound when it falls down. Why, the sound permatriculates no matter who is listening."
  
  "I am afraid," says the Buddhist monk, evidently not at all afraid, "that you haven't thought this over enough. After all, how do you know it makes a sound if no one is there to hear it?"
  
  [1] Can my philosophical know-how help you resolve this tricky issue? [2] Do you mind if I borrow that axe, Ms Lumberjack, sir?
  [3] I'm not going to get involved in further silliness. . .
  
  > 1
  "I do not believe so," the monk says bowing his head slightly, "the logical net you seek to cast across the world, neither of us care for it -- though for different reasons I do assure you."
  
  [1] What reasons are these?
  [2] Look, I know the answer -- I can resolve this straight away.
  [3] Oh, never mind. . .
  
  > 1
  "I'll tell you one good reason," the lumberjack offers, "no kind of philosophistrical trap-clap will convince me that a falling tree don't make no sound. Now let me tell you one thing," she says, preceding to tell you two things, "I've seen more trees fall down than you've had hot dinners and they all make a 'creak . . . creak . . . creaaaakkk! . . . whumph!! . . . thud!!!' sound as they go."
  
  The Buddhist looks unconvinced.
  
  [1] I agree with you, Ms Lumberjack -- the tree does make a sound.
  [2] Nonsense. The tree makes no such sound if no one's there.
  [3] I don't think it's something we can really know.
  
  > 3
  You explain that it is perpetually undetermined -- it is only decided one way or the other when there is an observer. You can only tell if the tree is making a sound if you are present, and you being present decides the fact that it makes a sound. Before you are there the sound exists only in potential.
  
  "That's what I've been trying to explain to my wood-cutting associate here," says the Buddhist, "but she simply will not listen."
  
  The lumberjack shakes her head in dismay, saying, "That's the biggest load of nonsensication that I ever did hear."
  
  [1] Is there not some way I might convince you of this?
  [2] I'll just leave you two too it, shall I?
  
  > 1
  The Buddhist monk seems to think on the matter for a few moments. Finally, he begins: "My tree-felling friend's chief argument seems to rest upon the supposed fact that a sound is always made whenever a tree is felled. If this premise were undermined then perhaps we would come to some resolution."
  
  Before you  ask him how this might be achieved he continues: "Perhaps you could create a situation in which a tree is felled and she does not hear a sound.
  
  > talk to Lumberjack
  You decide to leave the pair to their discussion until you can find a way to resolve their argument.
  
  > get the axe
  That seems to belong to the lumberjack.
  
  > give Burden to Lumberjack
  (first taking the Burden of Proof)
  The lumberjack doesn't seem interested.
  
  > go west
  You head further to the west until you reach a dead-end of brambles, bracken and blackened lightning-struck trees. You hear a raven caw malevolently in the middle distance and a damp shiver sneaks down your spine.
  
  Turning east you can just about make out happier looking trees. All that you can see in this part of the woods is a mess of brambles.
  
  You swear you just heard one of the trees stifle a cough.
  
  > listen
  You nearly jump out of your skin as a tree behind you makes spooky ghost noises.
  
  Something seems to be laughing under its breath -- but there are only trees here.
  
  > listen
  "Oi! Over here!" shouts someone behind you. You look around -- but there's nothing but trees.
  
  You nearly jump out of your skin as a tree behind you makes spooky ghost noises.
  
  > look at the brambles
  The brambles spiral in a spiky and heavily-stylised manner around the base of the lightning-struck trees, surrounded by cloying bracken. Peering closely, you can just about make out a rocky formation beyond the brambles.
  
  Was that a tree you just heard mumble under its breath? It seemed terribly rude.
  
  > listen
  Was that a tree you just heard mumble under its breath? It seemed terribly rude.
  
  Something seems to be laughing under its breath -- but there are only trees here.
  
  > listen
  You swear you just heard one of the trees stifle a cough.
  
  You swear you just heard one of the trees stifle a cough.
  
  > search the trees
  You find nothing of interest.
  
  Something seems to be laughing under its breath -- but there are only trees here.
  
  > look at the formation
  There seems to be some sort of collection of rocks, perhaps even a small cave, beyond the brambles to the west.
  
  Something seems to be laughing under its breath -- but there are only trees here.
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  a Burden of Proof
  a phial of black dye
  a sack (open)
  the invitation to the state of naturist camp
  file of Platonic forms
  cruise tickets for the Ship of Neurath
  an informative leaflet
  a fifty pence piece
  a lighter
  a Chinese key
  a manual
  
  You nearly jump out of your skin as a tree behind you makes spooky ghost noises.
  
  > Burn brambles
  This dangerous act would achieve little.
  
  You nearly jump out of your skin as a tree behind you makes spooky ghost noises.
  
  > Light brambles with lighter
  You consider indulging your subconscious pyromaniac for a moment, but decide to repress the urge instead on the grounds that it would do no good. No doubt this will cost a fortune in future psychoanalysis bills.
  
  "Oi! Over here!" shouts someone behind you. You look around -- but there's nothing but trees.
  
  > read the leaflet
  Take a cruise upon the fabulous Ship of Neurath. Let your sense-data be amazed as the ship is reconstructed before your very eyes. In the words of V.W.O. Quine:
  
  "Where a beam is taken away a new one must at once be put there, and for this the rest of the ship is used as support. In this way, by using the old beams and driftwood the ship can be shaped entirely anew, but only by gradual reconstruction."
  
  The ship sails annually across the dark ocean without shores or lighthouses, strewn with many a philosophic wreck.
  
  You nearly jump out of your skin as a tree behind you makes spooky ghost noises.
  
  > go to the west
  Getting ripped to shreds by malicious-looking herbage isn't your idea of a good plan.
  
  "Oi! Over here!" shouts someone behind you. You look around -- but there's nothing but trees.
  
  > go to the north
  You channel your will to power to summon a path in that direction. Sadly, nothing happens: you can't go that way.
  
  You swear you just heard one of the trees stifle a cough.
  
  > Go south
  You channel your will to power to summon a path in that direction. Sadly, nothing happens: you can't go that way.
  
  "Oi! Over here!" shouts someone behind you. You look around -- but there's nothing but trees.
  
  > look at the trees
  Although they are mere lumps of carbon they seem ill-meaning and twisted. Indeed, their knots and gnarls, from particular angles, seem to form faces, complete with eyes, noses and mouths. You swear one of them just winked at you.
  
  You nearly jump out of your skin as a tree behind you makes spooky ghost noises.
  
  > talk to the trees
  You look at the trees with suspicion.
  
  [1] Hello?
  [2] (leave the tree alone)
  
  > 1
  "You know, talking to trees is probably a sign of madness," say the trees, conversationally.
  
  [1] I don't think that applies when the tree talks back.
  [2] Talking trees? What's next? Lichen that whistle show tunes?
  
  > 1
  "You know, trees don't actually talk," the trees reply. The voice is rather high-pitched.
  
  [1] I think that the evidence shows that they do.
  [2] You're probably right.
  
  > 1
  "A bloody empiricist are you now?" the trees say, with a little cawing sound.
  
  [1] Hey! What have you got against empiricists?
  [2] That's rich coming from a group of trees.
  [3] Well it's true -- apparently some trees can talk.
  [4] Unless my senses deceive me . . .
  [5] Was that a caw I just heard?
  [6] You're just bitter because you haven't got eyes.
  [7] Actually, I'm a level seven phenomenologist with a plus two blade of Obfuscation.
  
  > 7
  The trees are silent and suddenly you feel very silly.
  
  *** Run-time problem P10: Since the fairytale trees is not allowed the property "greeting", it is against the rules to try to use it.
  
  You swear you just heard one of the trees stifle a cough.
  
  > 6
  The trees are silent and suddenly you feel very silly.
  
  *** Run-time problem P10: Since the fairytale trees is not allowed the property "greeting", it is against the rules to try to use it.
  
  Something seems to be laughing under its breath -- but there are only trees here.
  
  > 5
  "No," the trees say with what sounds like a ruffle of feathers.
  
  [1] Trees don't caw or ruffle feathers. You're no tree at all, are you?!
  [2] Are you some sort of bird hiding amidst the trees?
  [3] Your smooth-talking ways don't fool me, Sen?r Tree!
  
  > 3
  "Oh alright," says a voice from amidst the trees, "you've got me, I'm not a tree, or several trees for that matter."
  
  From behind the trees hops a curious looking raven. The raven is strange in two ways. Firstly, it has a rainbow plumage. Secondly, it can talk.
  
  [1] So, do you come here often?
  [2] Like the plumage -- very colourful.
  [3] Do ravens often talk?
  [4] Do you know anyway past all this bramble?
  
  > 2
  "Do you?" the raven implores, "I hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. None of the other ravens will go near me. I wish I could be rid of it once and for all."
  
  [1] So, do you come here often?
  [2] Do ravens often talk?
  [3] Do you know any way past all this bramble?
  
  > 2
  The non-black raven hops to another branch, saying, "When they've got something to say, of course they talk."
  
  [1] So, do you come here often?
  [2] Do you know anyway past all this bramble?
  
  > 1
  "Lately, I've been coming here a little more often than I used to," says the non-black raven.
  
  [1] Do you know any way past all this bramble?
  
  > 1
  The raven cocks its head to one side, "Maybe . . ."
  
  [1] Maybe? Maybe you could tell me then?
  
  > 1
  The raven cocks its head to the other side, "Maybe . . ."
  
  [1] Maybe if I go on some inane quest for you?
  
  > 1
  "Maybe if you find me some way of turning my plumage black like the other ravens?"
  
  [1] Super! That's exactly what I wanted to do with my day.
  [2] Oh alright. It's probably inevitable anyway.
  [3] No way, Jos?. Why don't you help me first?
  
  > 3
  "How abouts I peck your eyes out first, then you help me?"
  
  [1] Oh alright.
  [2] No, I refuse. I've had enough. No more stupid quests.
  
  > 1
  "Caw! Try and hurry though, I ain't gots all day."
  
  > give the dye to the raven
  "Not bad. Not bad. But you're forgetting one thing-- I don't gots hair," the raven swoops down and takes the bottle off of you. "Until you get something better, I'll take it as down payment."
  
  > Go east
  In the midst of the woods stand a Buddhist monk and a lumberjack engaged in a heated discussion as to whether a tree falling down in a forest makes a sound if nobody is around to hear it. Their debate is punctuated by the occasional felling of a tree at the blade of the lumberjack's axe.
  
  The woods become more sinister looking to the west and the village street is back to the east.
  
  > go the Theatre
  You try the theatre doors, but they're fastened shut.
  
  > listen
  The babble and gossip of a busy market town.
  
  > pull handle
  A tinny voice speaks from the mouth of the pump! "Welcome to the Intuition Pump 3000! Thank you for choosing the Intuition Pump for all your intuiting needs. Got a tricky problem you can't solve, or an object you don't know what to do with? Simply hold the puzzler in your mind's eye and pull my handle -- which is to say, PUMP ABOUT the topic! Be amazed as intuitions flow through your mind about the puzzles, objects and people that are bothering you. Happy intuiting!"
  
  How extraordinary. Could be useful, though -- better remember to come here and PUMP ABOUT a problem when you're stuck.
  
  > pump about the bucket
  You pull the pump's handle, concentrating furiously. You realise that pitch can be used for making things look black, as well as as a sealant.
  
  > Pump about Burden
  You pull the pump's handle, concentrating furiously. In a flash of inspiration, you wonder what would happen if you could do something like give a burden of proof to the invisible pink unicorn.
  
  > go east
  You make your way along the cobbled path leading east of the village to the hills beyond. The path begins winding up the hill steeply, but just as you find yourself out of breath from the climb, you find the path levelling out. Then, just as you start finding the leisurely walk a little dull, the path steepens again into a challenging climb. Finally, just as you wish you could reach wherever it is you're headed next in this disconcerting fantasy world, you crest the hill. In the way that happens too often here, you are met by a complete non-sequiteur of a situation.
  
  There's a great pyre here very slowly catching alight. Tied to a stake in the centre of the fire is a handsome woman looking deeply determined, though you suppose she'd look less composed if the fire wasn't so pitifully poor. At the base of the pyre, an imposing, bushy-bearded man in an ornate uniform is interrogating her intensely, in a way that appears to be making her all the more resolute.
  
  From here, you could head west, back to the village, or further into the hills to the north.
  
  > talk to Man
  "Who the devil are you, and what are you doing to that poor woman?" you greet the man forcefully.
  
  He turns to you and declaims, with the light of madness in his eyes, "I be the Zombiefinder General!"
  
  [1] Right. And what are you doing to that poor woman?
  [2] Right. And what exactly is a Zombiefinder General?
  
  > 1
  "What, her?" he asks, gesticulating furiously at the bored-looking woman. "She be no woman! She be a zombie -- and she will not confess!
  
  [1] Perhaps she bain't, sorry, isn't a zombie.
  [2] Fair cop.
  
  > 1
  He cuts you off saying, "That be exactly what a zombie would say!"
  
  [1] Surely, if she confesses to being a zombie you will kill her.
  [2] You're probably right. I'll just leave you to it then...
  
  > 1
  "Of course!" he says with relish. "But I'd do it humanely -- Splash her with some holy sauce, no problem."
  
  [1] Would that harm a non-zombie?
  [2] Not holy sauce! You fiend!
  [3] Sounds reasonable. I'll be sidling off now.
  
  > 1
  "It might be harming their best dinner jacket," he muses. "And perhaps their wallet when they get the dry cleaning bill. Other than that, no."
  
  [1] Then why don't you just do that to her anyway?
  [2] I can understand now why it would be a cruel and unusual to subject someone to that.
  
  > 1
  "That be defeating the whole point of a fair interrogation!" he says with exasperation. "I can't just go about applying punishment all over the place without proof, no matter the benefit. The whole institution of justice would break down -- and such an institution be generally maximisin' well-bein' more than the well-bein' caused by breakin' the rules in particular instances."
  
  [1] I don't think breaking the rule this time will erode the principles of justice.
  [2] Ah, you are of course absolutely correct.
  
  > 1
  He looks at you scornfully, "It starts off with a few people sayin' 'Oh, Justice won't suddenly break down if you pour some Arrabbiata sauce on some girl that may otherwise burn to death' -- but it's a slippery slope! Soon you'll be wantin' to routinely sauce people up before they get on flights, or shake a little holy parmesan at them when they go to the library. I may be a Zombiefinder General, but even I wouldn't want an erosion of civil liberties to come about through the war against zombies."
  
  [1] (give up)
  [2] You've convinced me! I'll be off now.
  [3] Surely burning at the stake is an erosion of civil liberties?
  
  > 3
  He seems to have already thought long and hard about this issue, and replies instantly, "Burning at the stake is already an erosion of civil liberties and I be going to try as hard as I can to prevent future erosions. Now, please be on your way." He shoos you along, having tired of the conversation.
  
  [1] (leave)
  
  > 1
  The Zombiehunter glares at you from beneath his orange eyebrows.
  
  [1] Incidentally, what exactly is a Zombiehunter General?
  
  > 1
  "It means," he growls, "That I find zombies. Have you seen any zombies, perchance?"
  
  [1] No, I don't think so.
  [2] Why do you ask?
  
  > 2
  "That village down there is crawling with the buggers," he replies gruffly. "Zombieing all over the place, them and their qualia-free brains."
  
  [1] What do you want me to do about it?
  [2] Let me guess -- you want me to find the zombies?
  
  > 1
  "I would like you to retire the zombies," he says. "You know, remove them from action."
  
  [1] How would I go about doing that?
  [2] Sounds like a plan. I'll get right to it.
  
  > 1
  "Give it a good hacking over the head with a sharp implement," he explains, gesturing violently in a way that makes you take a step back. "That should do the trick. I'd recommend holy sauce, but it be a tad expensive and goes off quickly."
  
  [1] I'll get right on it.
  
  > 1
  "Do not tarry!" he shouts, "Go retire some zombies!"
  
  > talk to the woman
  You stare up at the woman tied to the stake. She is dressed in white, below her torso is wreathed in smoke like some melodramatic rendition of a vengeful god.
  
  [1] Are you alright, love?
  [2] You know, smoking is an awful habit.
  [3] Is this some sort of new-age skin treatment?
  
  > 3
  "No," she replies, shaking her head, "it's actually quite a traditional method of treatment. It's good both for the skin and also for confessions. It was once quite popular with Catholics in Spain and has celebrity endorsement from Joan of Arc."
  
  [1] You're taking this all remarkably well.
  [2] So, why exactly are you burning away here?
  [3] Now that you've tried it, would you recommend it to a friend?
  
  > 3
  She seems to give the issue some thought. "It certainly has its benefits, but I'm not sure I would have opted for this particular treatment were it offered as optional."
  
  [1] I suppose your skin is good already. It's one of your many qualities...
  [2] So, how did this situation come about?
  
  > 1
  Her face takes on a look that can be found on thumb-twiddlers, hair-fiddlers and feet-shufflers everywhere. "Um . . ." she begins, "I don't so much possess qualities, as act in a wholly consistent manner."
  
  [1] That's nice. So, how did you get here?
  [2] On a slightly different note -- why are you burning on this stake?
  
  > 1
  "That's a good question. It all started three weeks ago when . . ." Two long hours pass. ". . . and then he tied me up here and now he's trying to make me confess to being a zombie."
  
  [1] Are you a zombie?
  [2] What happens if you confess?
  [3] And it wouldn't be consistent to lie and confess to something you hadn't done?
  
  > 1
  She looks about herself and says, "Not last time I checked."
  
  [1] So what would happen if you confessed?
  [2] Oh. I was excited there for a moment...
  
  > 2
  "I'm sorry to disappoint you . . ." she starts, but you've heard the condolence speech too many times to pay attention to the rest. All you pick up on is the word "consistent" peppered liberally throughout.
  
  [1] So . . . what would happen if you wanted to leave?
  [2] Is this all about consistency?
  
  > 2
  "As a point of consistency, I'd rather die than lie. If I'm honest, which I always am, I'm a bit of a martyr for truth. I shall not admit to being a zombie, as I am not a zombie."
  
  [1] That's a tad extreme. Looks like you need proving right.
  [2] How very odd you are.
  
  > 2
  "It'll be difficult to prove that I'm not a zombie," she says with finality, "but hopefully history will vindicate me if you do not." You think it a good time to leave, given that she will soon be burning alive.
  
  > Go south
  You're on a road by the squat concrete hut that contains the Chinese Room. In smooth black tarmac, neatly painted with white lines, the road stretches north to the village in peculiarly perfect tapering perspective. Behind you, to the south, you see the road lead towards some queer-looking hedgerows at the base of the crag. To the east, as before, stretch the plains to the horizon, with the ocean, behind sand dunes, doing likewise to the west.
  
  The remains of a scarecrow droop on a pole here.
  
  > Go east
  The plains are a grassy expanse extending to the east as far as the eye can see, and probably further. Here, just a short distance east of the road, a small crowd has gathered, silently gazing out onto the wilderness.
  
  > Go east
  Ignoring the disapproving glares of the unicornists, you strike out onto the plains purposefully. Then you trip over a rabbit hole, fall flat on your face, pick yourself up, woefully brush the resulting grass strains, and then strike out again, equally purposefully, if now a little humbly.
  
  You make your way out into the wide plains. They're an extraordinary expanse of grass so green it hurts your eyes. No matter how far you walk into them -- so far that the crowd at the roadside becomes a mere speck, like a squashed fly on a motorway windscreen -- they remain as boundless as ever, stretching out in seemingly every direction.
  
  There is a peculiar juddering noise in the distance.
  
  > listen
  You listen closely to the sound, and discern the direction of approach. You wait, tense, as the sound approaches, and then -- just as you fear you're about to be crushed beneath invisible hooves -- you launch yourself into the air and land, with a dramatic thud, on the heavy, pulsing, pink and invisible mound of the unicorn's back.
  
  The unicorn tries to buck you, but you lurch forward and grab wildly -- successfully hooking an arm round the invisible pink horn on Her invisible pink head.
  
  > put Burden on the horn
  Putting things on the horn would achieve nothing.
  
  As the unicorn gallops onwards She whinnies madly and continues to buck her body furiously in an effort to throw you.
  
  > put Burden on Unicorn
  Putting things on the unicorn would achieve nothing.
  
  Unless you do something to stop the unicorn soon, you'll be thrown to the ground and crushed beneath her mighty invisible pink hooves -- and no doubt cast down to the Pastures of Short Grass and High Manure.
  
  > get Burden
  You already have that.
  
  Your body's weight is clearly causing the unicorn great distress -- but it's not enough to totally incapacitate her. You're losing your grip on her horn.
  
  > hang Burden on Unicorn
  You grip Her flanks tightly with your thighs, feeling the enormous pink muscles pulse beneath her invisible skin, and lurch forward, strecthing out your arms to loops the burden's thong over the end of Her horn. There's a trembling equine scream and she stumbles; you feel Her front legs buckle beneath her as you're thrown into a somersault over Her head.
  
  Picking yourself up from the ground, you turn around and feel your breath snatched out from your lungs by the vision before you like a baby fox from its set by a hunter's hound. The unicorn is weeping and singing, Her broken legs flailing in the air -- in her last moments she has appeared. Her skin shimmers with a mega-pinkness truly beyond your understanding; her mighty silver horn is bent in two by the enormous burden of proof.
  
  The earth cracks around Her and She seems to shrink from your sight while simultaneously expanding to encompass the entire breadth of the plain. There's a might boom and sucking of air and she vanishes, triumphantly, in a puff of logic, leaving behind her a whiff of greasy pink smoke.
  
  The plains seem terribly small now, and the crowd terribly close. They are whimpering at your approach. Before you reach them, there's a collective roar, and the sprint as one down the road, ripping their Unicornist badges from their clothes and casting them aside.
  
  The plains seem folornly empty now that the unicorn's non-existence has been firmly proven. There is nothing here for you.
  
  > go to the east
  The plains are too vast and empty for that to be a pleasurable walk.
  
  > go to the west
  You're on a road by the squat concrete hut that contains the Chinese Room. In smooth black tarmac, neatly painted with white lines, the road stretches north to the village in peculiarly perfect tapering perspective. Behind you, to the south, you see the road lead towards some queer-looking hedgerows at the base of the crag. To the east, as before, stretch the plains to the horizon, with the ocean, behind sand dunes, doing likewise to the west.
  
  The remains of a scarecrow droop on a pole here.
  
  > Go south
  Striking out south towards the castle, you soon realise what it is that lurks so strangely at the base of the crag. As the rock looms over you like ten tonne weight over a hapless clown, the road becomes a pebbly path leading into what is clearly an enormous maze.
  
  You're standing at the entrance to a vast maze built of hedges that tower six feet above you. The path seems extravagantly narrow, as if the designer wanted to prepare the unwary adventurer from the outside. Above the entrance is a painted wooden sign. It looks important.
  
  > examine the sign
  Attention, Adventurer! This MAZE is not for the FAINTHEARTED, nor for the CORRUPT. This is the MORAL MAZE, where only the truly ETHICAL shall pass. Should you find yourself LOST forever -- what can you do but PRAY?
  
  > Pray
  God is dead.
  
  > go to the north
  As you approach the village, you see that the crowd of unicornist has gathered outside the church, baying for blood. They charge the doors, which burst open, and they flood into the building. There's a moment of confused stillness, and then they come thundering out of the church, carrying the priest along bodily like a rock star at a open-air festival, only much more threateningly. You dive for cover as the crowd streams past you and mob off down the road, the priest's plaintiff cries drowned beneath their righteous anger.
  
  As they vanish into the distance they leave nothing behind them but a cloud of dust and a single dazed unicornist. Hairy and bedraggled, he looks at you in utter confusion, says "Nice day for it", and wanders off.
  
  A church, a theatre, a tavern, a barbershop, a pavement caf? -- their various changing forms clutter around, entrances facing out onto what seems (most of the time) to be an ordinary village street. Passers-by duck in and out of the buildings, stop by the water pump, or carry on to a square to the north. No-one, you notice, takes the road south -- or heads along the routes east towards the storybook hills or west into the fairytale woods.
  
  The theatre's director is here, jumping around declaiming his joy to
  a skull held tenderly in his hand.
  
  > talk to the director
  When the director spots you, he runs up to meet you, scuffing the hems of his trousers. "You, mate," he says, "Are a bloody marvel. I heard all about it! You and the unicorn, proving She doesn't exist! S'changed everyfing round here, I tell you. Look, I really owe you one. I've got this fing my grandfather passed on to me. Haven't a clue what it does, but he called it a qualiascope and sed it was the most valuable fing he owned. Looks bloody beautiful, anyway."
  
  "Listen, I've gotta get on. Got a show to produce! Catch you later, comrade."
  
  He shambles off back into the theatre, slamming the door behind him. You're left holding the arcane device in your hands.
  
  > look at the qualiascope
  It's covered in a hundred nozzles, dials and buttons; you daren't press a single one of them. There's a bit that looks like it's definitely meant to be an eyepiece, though.
  
  > examine the eyepiece
  Look through it at what?
  
  You hold the eyepiece to your eye and look through it. The scenery is rendered in black and white, but here and there are extraordinary flashes of color, and smells and tastes and sounds and feelings and emotions and . . . You put down the qualiascope, feeling queasy. You realise that what it allows you to do is see directly into other people's consciousness. Whatever they sense, you sense. Whatever they feel, you feel. It's more than you could possibly imagine. Or, indeed, would want to.
  
  > go to the east
  There's a great pyre here very slowly catching alight. Tied to a stake in the centre of the fire is a handsome woman looking deeply determined, though you suppose she'd look less composed if the fire wasn't so pitifully poor. At the base of the pyre, an imposing, bushy-bearded man in an ornate uniform is interrogating her intensely, in a way that appears to be making her all the more resolute.
  
  From here, you could head west, back to the village, or further into the hills to the north.
  
  > go east
  The hill's too steep to descend in that direction.
  
  > look at General
  A brutish-looking man, with green eyes and orange eyebrows. He's wearing a uniform covered in silver brocade, with three purple chevrons on each shoulder. It's as if he's trying to assert the vibrancy of his colourful personality through the medium of military vestments.
  
  He's determinedly interrogating the equally determined woman on the pyre.
  
  The interrogator gesticulates manically at the woman, crying "Confess!" But she merely juts out her jaw determinedly.
  
  > look through the qualiascope at the woman
  You suddenly become awash with the person's unique and irreducible subjective sensations.
  
  > look through the qualiascope at Man
  You are surprised to see the Zombiefinder General appear in black and white. According to the qualiascope he is not conscious -- he is a zombie!
  
  > talk to Zombiefinder
  "Yes?" he says, abruptly.
  
  [1] Ah... nothing.
  
  > kill Zombiefinder
  Now that you know he's truly a zombie, dispatching him as quickly as possible seems like a plan, but you'll need something sharp . . .
  
  > Go north
  You alight upon a square, around which runs someone who looks like a madman, grasping a lantern lit bright in the morning hours, and crying incessantly.This appears to be the academic quarter of the village, and so may in fact be a quadrangle, which is awfully exciting. You know it's the academic quarter, because the grass is covered with sprawling young people wearing brightly coloured clothes, dreadlocks, and organic deodorant, around whom the madman runs, crying, while they yell and laugh at him. Architecturally and geographically speaking, the buildings look like they were placed there by a commitee of village planners whose equipment budget stretched only so far as a compass. Three sides of the square are complemented by a museum, research institute and a library, to the west, north and east respectively.
  
  > look at the madman
  He has a bushy moustache and looks like the sort of guy who likes to hike.
  
  > talk to the madman
  You approach the madman, who is crying, "I seek God! I seek God!"
  
  [1] (laugh)
  [2] Are you lost?
  [3] Did you lose your way like a child?
  [4] (leave)
  
  > 3
  The madman jumps into your midst and pierces you with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cries; "I will tell you. We have killed him---you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this?
  
  [1] With the Nietzsche book, in the ballroom?
  [2] (listen patiently)
  [3] (leave)
  
  > 1
  Your comment causes the madman to lose his thread, and like a record player rudely jolted he starts his spiel anew.
  
  Your desire has passed beyond meaning.
  
  > 2
  "How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun?"
  
  [1] Perhaps we were very thirsty.
  [2] Um . . . the really big sponge merchant? That is to say -- the merhant who sells really big sponges.
  [3] We were unchaining. That's what people do when they unchain stuff. [4] Hey! One question at a time.
  [5] (listen patiently)
  [6] (leave)
  
  > 2
  Your comment causes the madman to lose his thread, and like a record player rudely jolted he starts his spiel anew.
  
  > 5
  "Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing?"
  
  [1] Stop it! You're making me dizzy.
  [2] Don't worry, I often feel that way too after a few drinks.
  [3] (listen patiently)
  [4] (leave)
  
  > 3
  "Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning?"
  
  [1] No, it's just you.
  [2] Do you ever say anything that isn't a question?
  [3] (listen patiently)
  [4] (leave)
  
  > 3
  "Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him."
  
  [1] We? What do you mean we? Leave me out of this: I'm not going to be accessory to this murder.
  [2] Sorry about the smell; I think I stepped in some unicorn muck back there.
  [3] (listen patiently)
  [4] (leave)
  
  > 3
  "How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us?"
  
  [1] I always find a nice cup of tea comforting at times like this.
  [2] A hot shower should do the trick. Shall we...?
  [3] (listen patiently)
  [4] (leave)
  
  > 3
  "What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?"
  
  [1] Festival of atonement? Is that some sort of Gregorian chant gig? [2] If we're going to be inventing games, I suggest a dynamic cross between spelunking and curling.
  [3] On the greatness scale, I think it falls somewhere between juggling with chainsaws and licking one's own elbow.
  [4] Become Gods, eh? That sounds like a super plan fit for a Superman (and/or non-gender-specific Superbeing).
  [5] (listen patiently)
  [6] (leave)
  
  > 5
  "There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us---for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."
  
  [1] Pah! I reject your patriarchal meta-narrative!
  [2] A higher history? That doesn't sound too bad.
  [3] (listen patiently)
  [4] (leave)
  
  > 3
  Here the madman falls silent and looks again at you, his listener; and you, too, are silent and stare at him in astonishment. At last he throw his lantern on the ground, where it breaks into pieces and goes out. "I have come too early," he says; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars---and yet they have done it themselves."
  
  With these final words the madman leaves the square. You see him heading in the direction of the church, and from that direction you soon hear the words, "What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?". You feel like you've overslept and woken up in a 1970"s Kaufmann translation of The Gay Science. I mean, who uses the word "sepulchers", anyway?
  
  > examine the lantern
  (the broken lantern)
  The glass part of the lantern is broken, so that the feeblest of winds would soon extinguish the fire within.
  
  > take the lantern
  (the broken lantern)
  Taken.
  
  > Light lantern
  (the broken lantern)
  This dangerous act would achieve little.
  
  > Go west
  The Odditorium is filled with a crazy array of philosophical exhibits. You wander past a brain suspended in a vat of colourless liquid and wired to some complicated electronics, and then pause to examine an old-fashioned tachyon telephone. You could spend hours in here, but your attention is alerted by a furious argument taking place at the far end of the room, beneath the hulking hull of a ship that protrudes from the wall in a most unexpected manner. There, a man in extremely piratical clothing is giving a woman in a steward's uniform a piece of his mind.
  
  > look at the pirate
  Bandana, frock-coat, dreadlocks, eyeliner -- the lot. He's either a pirate or a glam rock refugee.
  
  "Arr!" says the pirate, with a sense of obligation. "Theseus be the name o' my ship! This be just a shoddy replica!"
  
  "No, I think you'll find that this is the original Theseus, and your ship is but a pale remake," replies the steward camly.
  
  > look through the qualiascope at the pirate
  You suddenly become awash with the person's unique and irreducible subjective sensations.
  
  > examine Ship
  (the Ship of Theseus)
  The business end of a great ship is poking through the wall of the museum, with a surprised-looking mermaid stuck on the pointy bit. It might be a figurehead. The name on the prow is "Theseus".
  
  > look at the woman
  "Honestly, this is constructed entirely from the original abandoned timbers," says the steward.
  
  "Shiver your timbers!" replies the pirate, in the manner of a grave insult.
  
  She sports a uniform and a badge that declares her to be called "HallomynameisTracyhowmayIhelpyou".
  
  "You be takin' my livelihood away!" cries the pirate, his mascara running. The steward simply crosses her arms and tuts at this display.
  
  > talk to the pirate
  "What seems to be the trouble here?" you ask, approaching the arguing pair.
  
  "She be stealin' my ship!" exclaims the pirate.
  
  "He be -- sorry, is -- kicking up a fuss in my museum over a silly little name."
  
  [1] So what exactly happened?
  [2] How does one steal a ship, exactly?
  [3] And what name seems to be causing the trouble?
  
  > 1
  "It's quite simple," says the steward. "Mr Starling --"
  
  "Cap'n Starling," corrects the pirate.
  
  " -- Captain Starling here owned a rather famous ship, the Theseus. Over the years he's had to replace its timbers one by one, casting the old ones aside as he goes. We at Reichenbach's Believe-It-or-Not Ltd simply gathered the timbers together and rebuilt the original ship for display here."
  
  "Scurvy dogs that you arrr! And now the Shippin' Board be on my back about name licensin', not lettin' me an' my mates sail the seas agin 'til we can either prove Theseus be our ship an' not this barnacle-bottomed bucket or come up with another name!"
  
  "Well, splice my mainbrace," you say.
  
  [1] Why don't you just rename your ship, then?
  [2] Why don't you just keelhaul her?
  [3] Couldn't you take up macrame instead?
  [4] Couldn't the museum set up some sort of licensing agreement?
  
  > 3
  "And give up a lifetime's piratin'? Never! Besides, I can never do fiddly little knots like that properly."
  
  [1] Why don't you just rename your ship, then?
  [2] Why don't you just keelhaul her?
  [3] Couldn't the museum set up some sort of licensing agreement?
  
  > 2
  "A fine suggestion!" replies the pirate, before looking askance at steward, who has placed her hands on her hips in a very pointed fashion. "Only, er, me poor ole back is achin' somewhat today, what with the Westerly breeze an' all."
  
  [1] Why don't you just rename your ship, then?
  [2] Couldn't the museum set up some sort of licensing agreement?
  
  > 2
  "Certainly not," says the steward. "The ship -- and it's name -- belong solely to us, and we're not going to waste money, on, er, scurvy sea-dogs like this gentleman here."
  
  The pirate seems to take this rather ineffectual insult as a compliment, and swaggers a little.
  
  [1] Why don't you just rename your ship, then?
  
  > 1
  "Theseus be the finest name ever to grace a ship on the high seas," growls the pirate. "Lessen you can find a better unused name, I'm not budgin'."
  
  [1] Right. A better ship name. Fine. I'll see what I can do.
  
  > 1
  "Aye-aye!" says the steward, rather getting into the swing of things.
  
  > enter Ship
  (the Ship of Theseus)
  That's not something you can enter.
  
  > Go east
  The square seems somehow madder now the madman has left.
  
  This appears to be the academic quarter of the village, and so may in fact be a quadrangle, which is awfully exciting. You know it's the academic quarter, because the grass is covered with sprawling young people wearing brightly coloured clothes, dreadlocks, and organic deodorant. Architecturally and geographically speaking, the buildings look like they were placed there by a commitee of village planners whose equipment budget stretched only so far as a compass. Three sides of the square are complemented by a museum, research institute and a library, to the west, north and east respectively.
  
  > Go north
  Inside, the Institute is as a marvel of the limits of both modernist architecture and the persuasiveness of funding applications. The floor of the entrance corridor is covered in sticky linoleum and the walls, painted an unpleasant shade of grue, with damp health and safety posters. Three doors lead off the corridor, to the north, east and west, each with a hand-written notice.
  
  > look at paper
  Scrawled upon a scrap of paper is: "COME TO THE STATE OF NATURIST CAMP -- NASTY BRUTISH FUN FOR ALL!!!"
  
  > check what you're carrying
  You are carrying:
  a broken lantern
  a qualiascope
  a sack (open)
  a useless scrap of paper
  file of Platonic forms
  cruise tickets for the Ship of Neurath
  an informative leaflet
  a fifty pence piece
  a lighter
  a Chinese key
  a manual
  
  > look at the leaflet
  Take a cruise upon the fabulous Ship of Neurath. Let your sense-data be amazed as the ship is reconstructed before your very eyes. In the words of V.W.O. Quine:
  
  "Where a beam is taken away a new one must at once be put there, and for this the rest of the ship is used as support. In this way, by using the old beams and driftwood the ship can be shaped entirely anew, but only by gradual reconstruction."
  
  The ship sails annually across the dark ocean without shores or lighthouses, strewn with many a philosophic wreck.
  
  > Go west
  The Odditorium is filled with a crazy array of philosophical exhibits. The argument between the steward and the pirate still rages beneath the ship.
  
  > give the leaflet to the pirate
  (first taking the informative leaflet)
  (putting the qualiascope into the sack to make room)
  "Listen," you say to the pirate, "I've just heard about this cruise. It's no longer running, so the name of the boat's free -- it's "Neurath". I thought that that was pretty good. And it's being constantly remade as well, just like yours, What do you say?"
  
  "Arr," says the pirate. "You be sure this be a proper ship an' not just an allegory for the method of practising pseduo-falsification to preserve the coherency of any given epistemological system?"
  
  "Oh, certainly," you reply.
  
  "That'll do nicely then," he says, swaggering off in a haze of alcohol, fleas, and overwrought guitar riffs. You and the steward watch him go, and then she takes you by the arm. "Listen," she says, "I ought to thank you for that. We've been getting rid of some old exhibits in order to make room for the Theseus, and I've some old moral principles nobody seems interested in any more. I could let you have one, if you like.
  
  She shows you the display case, in which sits a tiny golden measuring rule, a little silver calculator, and an odd lead cube.
  
  [1] What's that golden ruler?
  [2] What's that silver calculator?
  [3] What's that lead cube?
  [4] I'll take the ruler, thanks.
  [5] I'll take the calculator, thanks.
  [6] I'll take the cube, thanks.
  
  > 1
  "That's a Golden Mean Ruler," she explains. "It calculates the perfect point between excess and deficiency of any given character trait. I don't know how well it works, but it's certainly beautiful."
  
  [1] What's that golden ruler?
  [2] What's that silver calculator?
  [3] What's that lead cube?
  [4] I'll take the ruler, thanks.
  [5] I'll take the calculator, thanks.
  [6] I'll take the cube, thanks.
  
  > 2
  That's a Utility Calculator," she says. "Punch in the details of any given situation and it'll tell you what action will produce the greatest happiness. Apparently. I don't know how a little thing can manage to work out all the possible consequences, though.
  
  [1] What's that golden ruler?
  [2] What's that silver calculator?
  [3] What's that lead cube?
  [4] I'll take the ruler, thanks.
  [5] I'll take the calculator, thanks.
  [6] I'll take the cube, thanks.
  
  > 3
  "I'm not really sure," she says, puzzled. "They call it a Categorical Imperativator, but I've no idea how it works. It's just a lead cube to me -- though it's certainly weightier than it looks.
  
  [1] What's that golden ruler?
  [2] What's that silver calculator?
  [3] What's that lead cube?
  [4] I'll take the ruler, thanks.
  [5] I'll take the calculator, thanks.
  [6] I'll take the cube, thanks.
  
  > 6
  "Certainly!" she says. "Here you go. Now, if you ever want to borrow another, do come back and we'll do a discrete swap for you."
  
  > Go east
  The square seems somehow madder now the madman has left.
  
  This appears to be the academic quarter of the village, and so may in fact be a quadrangle, which is awfully exciting. You know it's the academic quarter, because the grass is covered with sprawling young people wearing brightly coloured clothes, dreadlocks, and organic deodorant. Architecturally and geographically speaking, the buildings look like they were placed there by a commitee of village planners whose equipment budget stretched only so far as a compass. Three sides of the square are complemented by a museum, research institute and a library, to the west, north and east respectively.
  
  > Go north
  Inside, the Institute is as a marvel of the limits of both modernist architecture and the persuasiveness of funding applications. The floor of the entrance corridor is covered in sticky linoleum and the walls, painted an unpleasant shade of grue, with damp health and safety posters. Three doors lead off the corridor, to the north, east and west, each with a hand-written notice.
  
  > look at the linoleum
  It sucks at your feet as you step on it.
  
  > read north
  (the north door notice)
  "Dr A. Schrodinger -- Feline Indeterminacy Studies"
  
  > read east
  (the east door notice)
  "Dr M. Mary -- Colour and Pigmentation Research"
  
  > read west
  (the west door notice)
  "Dr T. Nagel -- Chiropteran Psychology Laboratory"
  
  > Go west
  The laboratory is a  brightly-lit white chamber, covered wall-to-wall in cabinets, posters, and counters covered with disturbing-looking instruments. A gigantic model of a bat hangs from the ceiling, spinning around gently. A white-haired man is moving fitfully around the room, grabbing instruments and examining diagrams, as he proceeds to dissect a series of what look worryingly like tiny brains. He's muttering something over and over again under his breath: "What is it like?" it seems to be. "What is it like? What is it like?"
  
  > look at the brains
  Pink and wobbly, like strawberry jelly, only with more neurones. And rather more disturbing.
  
  > say the nanananana batman
  (to Nagel)
  Just TALK TO them.
  
  > talk to Nagel
  Nagel notices you and grabs your shoulders with both hands. His eyes boring into yours, he whispers. "Can you tell me what it is like? What it is like . . . to be a bat?" This said, he seems to forget what he's doing, and returns to his dissection, muttering all the while.
  
  > look through the qualiascope at the bat
  Which do you mean, the gigantic bat model or the bat posters?
  
  > Model
  That sounds like a terrific idea -- if only you had a qualiascope.
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  a Categorical Imperativator
  a broken lantern
  a sack (open)
  a qualiascope
  a useless scrap of paper
  file of Platonic forms
  a fifty pence piece
  a lighter
  a Chinese key
  a manual
  
  > examine Imperativator
  It's a lead cube. That would seem to be it, though it feels rather heavier than it should.
  
  > take the qualiascope
  (putting the broken lantern into the sack to make room)
  Taken.
  
  > Go north
  You open the door, but hear a furious yowling coming from within. "Get back in, damn you!" cries a frustrated voice, before yelping from what sounds like a nasty bite. You decide to leave them to it.
  
  > go east
  As you enter the colour lab, the scientist inside jumps in surprise, dropping what looks like some rather sensitive equipment on the floor with an expensive-sounding crash.
  
  "Bugger!" she says in a pleasant English accent. "There goes another prism assembly." She bends down to pick up the pieces, mumbling distractedly to herself. She seems to have entirely forgotten your presence.
  
  The lab itself is filled with all manner of scientific equipment. Monitors, levers, dials and big red buttons cover the walls, while the room's desk -- pushed against the computer stacks on the back wall -- has a complicated-looking laptop-printer set-up perched somewhere in the middle, surrounded by arcane assemblies of metal and glass. Mary's gathering pieces from underneath the desk, still with her back to you.
  
  > look at the printer
  It's a swanky computer with a built-in printer. Nice.
  
  > look at the computer
  Blinking lights. Ooh, pretty.
  
  > look at the desk
  Covered in bizarre scientific equipment. A tube of black paint is sitting on one side.
  
  > get the paint
  (putting the Categorical Imperativator into the sack to make room) Taken.
  
  > get the paper
  (putting the qualiascope into the sack to make room)
  Taken.
  
  > look at paper
  Scrawled upon a scrap of paper is: "COME TO THE STATE OF NATURIST CAMP -- NASTY BRUTISH FUN FOR ALL!!!"
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  a useless scrap of paper
  a tube of black paint
  a sack (open)
  a qualiascope
  a Categorical Imperativator
  a broken lantern
  file of Platonic forms
  a fifty pence piece
  a lighter
  a Chinese key
  a manual
  
  > put the paper in the sack
  You put the invitation to the state of naturist camp into the sack.