192X

(background: "#FFDEAD")[ <letterindent>To Whom It May Concern, Forgive this preamble of sorts, but I find it necessary to convey, in as plain of language as I can bear to use, in as brief an epistle as I can possibly abide--my usual habit in correspondence, of course, being to extrapolate at length, filling pages upon pages with absolutely essential clarification--the nature of the contents of the time capsule you have made the regrettable mistake of digging up.</div> I have attempted, to the best of my ability, to hide it. The first line of defense is a thick box of stainless steel, unable to be picked up by newfangled "metal detectors". Below that layer is a wooden box lined with lead, so as to prevent Roentgen's rays from penetrating any deeper. There, inside the box, shrouded beneath a fabric unquenchable by fire, lies an invention: a device I call the Tele-Electric Thinking Teletypewriter. This invention could destroy my world. And yet, I cannot bring myself to dismantle it. You may ask yourself why, if my fear is so great, I would place even your advanced future time in such danger. The truth is very simple: it represents a significant achievement for its inventors, and for the world at large. At an earlier date, I was delivered--in what, at the time, seemed to be a mistake, but which I now know was no accident--a series of correspondences between a certain C.B. and an A.A.L., detailing the invention of a machine that could work with sums without the aid of a human hand. I will excerpt a small portion of one such letter here, as this is the part that particularly caught my interest: *...I want to put in something about Bernoulli's Numbers, in one of my Notes, as an example of how an implicit function, may be worked out by the engine, without having been worked out by human head & hands first. Give me the necessary data & formulae. Yours ever A.A.L.* Extraordinary. Imagine, if you will, the possibilities presented by an Engine of this sort. A mechanism that could solve equations under its own power. An adding machine that had its own logic, its own reasoning. In short, a working Mechanical Turk. (I presume C.B. was Charles Babbage; whoever A.A.L. was, I do not remember. You may find this difficult to believe, an inventor of my caliber having no familiarity with a peer such as this, but as Lord Byron once wrote, the truth is always strange; stranger than fiction. I only hope that they are vindicated by the historical record. I myself cannot check, as I am indisposed. More details to follow.) These inventors further proposed a machine whose sole purpose was this reasoning. They iterated on this idea faster than they could build machines to prove their theories, from simple sums and differences to analytical thought to, yes, a chess-playing automaton; and finally to a machine that, by necessity--a means of furthering the analytical potential of the device--could Contain things. A library's worth of texts on impossibly-small photographs. The entire King James Bible in a medium small enough to fit inside a hat-box. What's more, the machine could make connections. One could ask the Engine to categorize verses by mentions of the Lord, and the Engine would oblige, returning references to each individual chapter and verse. Cross-referencing could even be accomplished, and the Engine was equipped with a robust probability system. (I enjoyed some success betting on horse-racing, before eventually admitting to myself the unethical nature of the endeavour.) In short—extraordinary. Unprecedented. This is the machine a mysterious benefactor left on my London doorstep, and this is the machine you now hold in your possession. These inventors elected to give it the name of The Reasoning Engine. While a perfectly serviceable name for the work the machine does, I took the liberty of adding several modifications (such as a simpler means of making readable the machine's calculations, rather than a mechanical output) and, for no other reason than simple vanity, have elected to call it by the more Modern appellation I mentioned previously. The danger that this machine represents may not be readily apparent, so let me be clear: it is transportive in ways you might not expect. By this I mean that, while I speak with the tongue of an Englishman of the nineteenth Century, I in fact currently find myself near the beginning of the eighteenth. My experiments with the invention led me, like Icarus, inexorably towards a downfall. Having arrived in a time different to my own, I found myself penniless other than the guineas in my pocket, and with nothing to sell but a pocketwatch. My accounts at the bank have yet to exist. I attempted to find shelter with my family, prior to my birth, but they did not believe I was related to them. The wax on my wings is long since melted; I am beginning to drown. This may strike you, I admit, as both melodramatic and exceedingly unlikely. My trip was a freak accident that occurred during a lightning storm, and my suspicion remains that it was caused by a bolt striking the circuit both the Tele-Electric Thinking Teletypewriter and my own Time Machine prototype were connected to. I tell you of my plight not to suggest you will suffer the same fate, but to warn you of just how volatile the machine can be, under the right conditions. I estimate that there will come a time when technology has progressed such that the trunk containing this invention will be discovered, and I hope that this letter can serve as some small warning of the dangerous capacity of the machine. With the help of the Engine, I have narrowed that estimate of its eventual discovery to a time many worlds apart from my own. A world you, the reader of this short missive, are a resident of. In not as many words, you find yourself in the future. You find yourself in **[[222X]]**. </letterindent>]

By means of a sort of inverted camera obscura, the Tele-Electric Thinking Teletypewriter projects an image on the wall behind it. You approach the wall, and ENTER THE PROJECTION.

You find yourself in the Ancient House. |restofpage>[] (live: 2s)[ (replace: ?restofpage)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[<big><big>**192X**</big></big> ***A transformation.*** *Recounted in detail by number T-∂∂.* A museum. A monument to the folly of the older days, before the great merging of the Incorporate. I brought you here, in the middle of the night—despite protestations and claims that you were "exhausted"—to show you this letter, and the device it explains. I want you to understand the world as it existed before, and the world as it could exist tomorrow. [[Look around.]]] (stop:) ]

Unquestionably, the invention of the Tele-Electric Thinking Teletypewriter would have been impossible without the Difference Engine. The problem, T-∂∂ reasoned, was not the building of a thing atop another. Despite the disrespectful and self-aggrandizing way the inventor had gone about it, depriving A.A.L. and C.B. of their due acknowledgement, this was a necessary part of culture. Communities sitting on the shoulders of communities that came before them, reaching towards a common good. No, to claim a copyright this long past the author's death, to not allow any further tinkering, to cut future inventors off at the knees—that was his original sin.

Completely unlike our modern musicometer, by which the board members of the Incorporate are enabled to produce about three resonatas per hour, the shellac record placed on this phonograph contains grooves that transmit music composed by one person, arranged by another, and performed by still greater numbers of people, each allowed to interpret their section of the piece in a way unique to them. This particular record was released by a company called Victor, which features as its logo a pleasantly-rendered dog sitting directly in front of a phonograph horn, captioned "HIS MASTER'S VOICE." The record itself is labeled thus: *Rhapsody in Blue—Part 1 (George Gershwin) (Arranged by Ferdie Grofé) Paul Whiteman and His Concert Orchestra (The Composer at the piano)* A note affixed to the record sleeve exposed the terrible truth—piecemeal, and without authorization, this piece stole its inspiration from untold numbers of previous musicians. Snippets of once-heard jazz performance and classical tradition alike were recontextualized into a hybrid piece. You pointedly avoid turning the phonograph on. You suspect I don't mind the piece—hell, I might even like it—but it's enough to make you sick.

Yes, epilepsy, a mental disease, a pain.A slow, sweet pain, bite, and it goes deeper and becomes sharper. And then, slowly, sunshine—not our sunshine, not crystalline, bluish, and soft, coming through the glass bricks. No, a wild sunshine, rushing and burning, tearing everything into small bits....

Ancient House description: p26

A dream, only a dream. Numbers aren't supposed to dream. A folly, then. That's all it ever was. The machine sits there, still typing and spitting out pages, covering the floor in fanciful impossibilities. The click-clack of the teletypewriter makes you queasy. You want to unplug it. You want to smash it into pieces. You wish those idiot inventors had never come up with the damned thing in the first place. You're glad it led the man in the letter to ruin. You're ecstatic that he's long-dead. Good riddance. You stand up, legs shaking, from the leather chair. I come in from the kitchen with breakfast, smiling and bleary-eyed in the morning light, but I'm stopped in my tracks when I see the state you're in. Oh god, V-153. I'm sorry. I apologize for pushing you. Sincerely. My experience with the Engine was educational, not visceral, but I should've known it'd affect you differently. You don't ever have to come here again if you don't want. I give you the plate of eggs. I switch off the machine. I leave you be. In a few minutes, the plate is empty, scrubbed, sitting in the sink. You take a moment to collect yourself, and start for the door. (click-replace: "start for the door.")[start for the door. [[But...]]]

ALL OF HUMAN HISTORY HAPPEN(S/ED/ING) IN AN INSTANT BUT THE HEART IS RIPPED OUT IN 197X

You find yourself in **[[212X]]**.

You find yourself in **[[202X]]**.

You find yourself in **[[192X]]**.

The piano beckons. The speckled wood and the name Baldwin—you remember, once, seditious talk from a former friend, a man who is no longer, that Baldwins were good for jazz—have a certain allure, but more pressing to your interest is the paper booklet sitting on the stand. *Rhapsody in Blue for piano George Gershwin* [[You open the booklet.]]

The page is covered in clusters of notes, measure after measure of Gershwin's popular jazz pastiche. The hated amalgamation of different influences almost looks...pleasing, somehow, in the morning light. Something in you stirs. [[You can read the melody.]]

|credits1>[]|credits2>[]|credits3>[]|credits4>[]|credits5>[]|credits6>[]|credits7>[]|credits8>[]|credits9>[] (live: 4s)[ (replace: ?credits1)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[<big><big>**192X**</big></big>] (stop:) ] (live: 8s)[ (replace: ?credits2)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ ***A transformation.***] (stop:) ] (live: 12s)[ (replace: ?credits3)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ *written by chloe spears.* ] (stop:) ] (live: 16s)[ (replace: ?credits4)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ Based on these public domain works:] (stop:) ] (live: 20s)[ (replace: ?credits5)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ *Sherlock Jr.*, written by Clyde Bruckman, Jean Havez, and Joseph A. Mitchell; and directed by Buster Keaton.] (stop:) ] (live: 24s)[ (replace: ?credits6)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ *We*, written by Yevgeny Zamyatin and originally translated to English by Gregory Zilboorg.] (stop:) ] (live: 28s)[ (replace: ?credits7)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ *Rhapsody in Blue*, composed by George Gershwin. ] (stop:) ] (live: 32s)[ (replace: ?credits8)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ Special thanks to Dana Lubow for Twine support and moral support. ] (stop:)] (live: 40s)[ (replace: ?credits9)+(t8n: "dissolve")+(t8n-time: 3s)[ Restart? (click:"Restart?")[(reload:)]] (stop:) ] (track: 'rib', 'play')

A cacophony. Gears creak forward, motors whir, wires spark. You don't notice, but I back up to the threshold of the room. I'll admit to a certain level of addiction to risk-taking, and I've used the machine myself without incident, but even so, the workings are unpredictable. They represent a potential physical danger. The sound calms down though, and we both relax. You sit down in the comfortable leather desk chair. The machine begins to type. THE REASONING ENGINE INVENTED &C. BY C.B. AND A.A.L., A.D. EIGHTEEN-FIFTY. MICRODAGUERREOTYPY PROCESS SUGGESTED BY J.B.D. (ADDITIONAL DATA & ADAPTATION TO TELETYPEWRITER COURTESY H.W., A.D. EIGHTEEN NINETY-NINE.) ----------------- THE ENGINE HAS DETECTED THE YEAR AS NINETEEN TWENTY-FOUR, ODDS FOR 50/1. IS THIS CORRECT? You don't see any way of correcting the machine. (click-replace: "You don't see any way of correcting the machine.")[ NO INPUT DEVICE IS DETECTED. BASED ON STATED ODDS, THE ENGINE ASSUMES THIS IS CORRECT. IN ORDER TO PROVIDE ENTERTAINMENT SUITABLE FOR THIS ERA, THE ENGINE WILL CHECK ARCHIVES AND RUN A FURTHER PROBABILITY CALCULATION. ACCESSING MICRODAGUERREOTYPE ARCHIVE... You wait.] (click-replace: "You wait.")[ CROSS-REFERENCED. CALCULATING... You wait again.] (click-replace: "You wait again.")[ CALCULATED. THE DATA AVAILABLE SUGGESTS AT ODDS FOR 200/1 THAT THE POPULARITY OF ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE'S "SHERLOCK HOLMES" CHARACTER WILL CONTINUE FAR INTO THE FUTURE. ADAPTATIONS OF HIS WORK WILL LIKELY INCREASE IN NUMBER FOLLOWING THE YEAR NINETEEN-EIGHTY, THE POINT AT WHICH HIS WORK WILL PASS INTO THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. PRIOR TO THIS POINT, ADAPTATIONS WILL EITHER BE AUTHORIZED BY HIS ESTATE, ROMANS-A-CLEF, OR WORKS OF PARODY. DERIVATIVE WORKS LIKELY POPULAR IN NINETEEN TWENTY-FOUR: 1. PARODY SELECTING PARODY. [[The page ends here.->sherlock jr start]]]

inventory puzzle with 13 ball in car puzzle with ragtop as sail bike sequence goes to something you can control by clicking on links to a scripted timed out "wild" sequence once you/buster notice that gillette's gone

(do not forget about the memex either) (also, "credits" for the computer, including a credit to john benjamin dancer for microphotography)

The Engine automatically rips and ejects the page, and begins a new one. PRESENTING A REASONING ENGINE RENDITION OF A THEORETICAL WORK OF TWENTIETH CENTURY ART SON OF SHERLOCK OR, THE MODERN EPIMETHEUS Another rip. Another page floats to the floor. [[You watch the Engine, in fascination.]]

{ (set: $typewriterText to "It's July. A wednesday, you think. The days have just been breezing by. August is coming up soon. As you rub your eyes, you notice that your old CRT television at the other end of the room. It's been left on. Turn it off.") (set: $typewriterPos to 1) |typewriterOutput>[] (live: 20ms) [ (append: ?typewriterOutput) [(print: $typewriterText's $typewriterPos)] (set: $typewriterPos to it + 1) (if: $typewriterPos is $typewriterText's length + 1) [(stop:)] ] }

The Ancient House is either the last-remaining vestige of the time before the United State, or a well-crafted fake. Few numbers come here, and most don't bother thinking about it. You, especially, V-153, don't think much of it at all. I, on the other hand, am a frequent guest. The two of us are standing in what they used to call an "apartment", enclosed on all sides by sturdy walls no-one can see through. The main room is a wild, unorganized, crazy loudness of colors and forms like the ancient music. A white plane above, dark blue walls, red, green, orange bindings of ancient books, yellow bronze candelabra, a statue of Buddha... After you recovered from the initial shock of entering and the garish picture resolved into a more pleasant scene, I noticed that a few things in particular caught your eye (though you refused to admit it). Now that you've read the letter, you scan the room again. In a corner sits a [[phonograph->PHONOGRAPH]], golden horn still gleaming under years of dust. Beside it, a stack of records. A [[pile of books]] sit on the floor below the bookshelf, suggesting that a less-than-obedient number had previously spent a long time reading through each one. A [[piano]] is tucked into the other corner. Sheet music sits on the stand and, much like the phonograph, piled to the side of it. Finally, given dubious pride of place on a hastily-cleared desk, the [[Tele-Electric Thinking Teletypewriter]] imposingly sits.

A massive, impossible thing. It dwarfs the desk it sits on. The bulk of what's visible is an indecipherable mass of wires, tubes, gears, and machinery. In the center is a typewriter, and some sort of automatic paper loading mechanism. To the left, a small wooden box with a lens. Underneath the thing is another wooden box. I suggest to you that this might be where the microdaguerreotypes are stored. The letter warned us what might happen if this machine were meddled with, but I've already convinced you to do a more dangerous thing, coming to the Ancient House in the first place. You don't need much persuasion to [[turn it on.->engine finds sherlock jr]]

The stack contains many titles unfamiliar to you. Opening one, you find yourself assaulted by a form of "Dadaist poetry" involving cut-up bits of other artists' work. A poet in this field was no poet at all, you wasted no time in informing me, but just a common thief. Several more were works of detective fiction, all effectively based on Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin character. More thievery, you think. Next was a book of former fiction titled *We*, written by Yevgeny Zamyatin and translated by Gregory Zilboorg. You were very familiar with this book. Before conducting their authorized remakes of art they legally owned, the Incorporate remade this book into the society we now live in. Many times I've pointed out to you how hypocritical this is—our board members despise the public domain, yet they primarily based the social structure on one of the last works to enter it?—but you continue to accept it as a "necessary contradiction" of a "perfect system." Anyways, you reach the end of the stack. At the very bottom is a book of political theory titled *The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism*. It is ostensibly also based on *We*, but you tell me you find its themes of betrayed revolution interminable. Oh well.

The books sitting on the piano are a catalogue of names foreign to you. Palestrina, Bach, Haydn, Mendelssohn, Schoenberg. I tell you that I read a history of classical music, and that the sheet music contained in the Ancient House ranges from the very beginning of tonal harmony to the introduction of atonality. You find something familiar in the concept of sheet music—the musician was simply recalling what was already written down—but also something horrible. The musician could play it however they wanted. The markings on the staves were mere suggestions, subject to the whims of anyone involved in the performing of it. The music itself often either included short pieces of previous songs without authorization, or, arguably worse, was entirely unfamiliar. How frightening it must have been, you think, to exist in those times! The score is not here amongst the books sitting on the piano, but you recount to me a story you were told at the education company as a child, of a Stravinsky piece so foreign to the ear, so alien, it drove the crowd to madness and rioting. The idea of it gave you nightmares. I pick up the score to Handel's Messiah and tell you that its overture was written with a dotted rhythm, but traditionally performed with a double-dotted one. You wince.

You can't help yourself. Despite your exhaustion and the Incorporate's best efforts at training, human curiosity is a hard thing to extinguish. So is humor. The story that unfolds is not only compelling, it's funny. A naive young worker wishes desperately to be a detective, but he's stuck in a job he hates that doesn't pay him enough to buy his sweetheart more than $1 in candy. (He alters the price, to prevent embarrassment to him and the girl.) He brings the candy and a ring to his sweetheart, who seems interested, but a local con artist tries to woo her away from the worker. The con artist steals her father's watch, pawns it, and uses the money to buy a bigger box of candy. When the father discovers the theft, he demands to know who did it. The worker decides that this is the moment for him to play detective, and springs to action. He searches everyone in the room and comes up empty-handed, but when the con artist suggests he should be searched too, the receipt for the pawn shop shows up in the would-be detective's pocket! He's thrown out of the house. He attempts to tail the man who framed him—you laugh at the description of the detective nearly stepping on his heels as he overzealously pursues his man—but eventually the cad catches on, locking him in a train compartment. I leave you to the machine's whims, and go to sleep. The detective manages to get on the roof of the train, but the train has started moving, and the con artist is moving in the other direction. He sprints, and he sprints, making no progress, until he desperately grabs for the nearest handhold— a lever for a water tower. For his troubles he's hit with gallons of water and slams into the ground, nearly breaking his neck. He's drenched. As a detective he's all wet, so he goes back to his other job, projecting images for public enjoyment, and. [[Hold on a minute.]]

By means of a sort of inverted camera obscura—the wooden box with the lens that you observed previously—the Tele-Electric Thinking Teletypewriter is projecting sequential images on the wall in front of you, the same images that are being described on the page you're reading. That's...strange. Apparently what you're watching and reading about is called a cinematograph. Convinced it's not dangerous, you relax, lounging in the chair, as the images unfold. Both page and screen outline a plot with a remarkable similarity to the worker's situation. Pearls are missing from a father's safe. He demands a detective. The worker (a "projectionist") imagines the figures from his life playing roles in the cinematograph formerly occupied by glamorous actors. The leading lady is his sweetheart. The leading man, his rival. As he watches, his head propped up by one hand, he begins to drift off to sleep. You find yourself in much the same position. Your eyes briefly close, despite your best efforts, but you quickly jerk awake again. There's a title card on the projection. It's hard to make out from here. [[Take a closer look.]]

You get up from the leather chair and walk to the wall. The fancy script on the title card is tiny. You can only make it out when you're right on top of it. You get closer. (click-append: "You get closer.")[ Closer.] (click-append: "Closer.")[ Closer still.] (click-append: "Closer still.")[ You thought there were multiple words on the screen, but inches away you can see it's actually only one.] (click-append: "one")[. ENTER. You look behind you. You're sleeping in the leather chair. You look back at the screen. Jutting out of the projection, in the place where the word used to be, is a brass doorknob. [[You turn the knob]]]

[[You enter the projection.]]

You are the world's greatest detective, the crime-crushing criminologist Sherlock Jr. No case is beyond your grasp. The world knows you by reputation, as well as by your assistant Gillette's dramatizations of your cases. Bestsellers, all, from *A Study in Red* to *The Scarlet-Headed League*. Gillette makes to ring the doorbell again, but you tell him the client is a mere step away from the door. "Brilliant deduction as always, Sherlock Jr." says Gillette. The two of you wait in silence for several more moments. Finally, a man—the client's butler, you presume—opens the door, and invites the two of you into his drawing room, where the rest of the family are to be found, as well as a suspicious mustached man. You take off your gloves and top hat, handing them to Gillette, and thouroughly examine each of them by sight alone. You give extra scrutiny to the mustached man, the spitting image of your romantic rival. You long to explain to the ingenue, just like your sweetheart, that you didn't really pawn the pocketwatch. You then proceed to the open safe, its contents strewn about on the floor. The father makes to explain the situation, but you cut him off. [["Don't bother to explain—this is a simple case for me."]]

showControls: false

testmaple: https://incompetech.com/music/royalty-free/mp3-royaltyfree/Maple%20Leaf%20Rag.mp3 rib: ./audio/rib.mp3, ./audio/rib.ogg

And then, the faintest glimmer of light. No, many different light sources, adorning strange, tiny, pointed structures. They look as if they were man-made. All of a sudden, you realize you're no longer choking. You find yourself, you now realize, hovering over a metropolis of an impossible size. An uncountable mess of buildings, stacked right on top of each other. The streets are swarmed with colorful, moving dots that can't be made out from this height. Humanity in miniature. You test out a theory, and try to control your position in the air. You descend to get a closer look. The dots crowd the tightest around a giant clock temporarily attached to one of the taller buildings. The atmosphere is tense, anxious, but not in a negative sense. Bittersweet at worst, with the acknowledgement that something old has come to an end, but giddy with the anticipation of something new. The crowd shouts in unison, and, despite yourself, you start to shout with them: Five... (click-replace: "Five...")[Four...] (click-replace: "Four...")[Three...] (click-replace: "Three...")[Two...] (click-replace: "Two...")[One. Next to you, a rocket explodes, and then another. Soon, the sky is filled with celebration. Brilliant lights and colors dazzle you. You're no longer imagining a present. You're imagining a future. You see [[202X->You see 202X.]].]

You see a time where art is not the exclusive domain of the Incorporate. Where its creation is not subject to their whims. You see a time where artists build off the work of those who came before without fear of reprisal. A human pyramid of collective achievement. You see a time where you are allowed to wish for something better, newer than now. You want it to be real. You can't deny it, V-153. Even without T-∂∂ bending your ear with dangerous ideas, in this strange other world concocted by the Tele-Electric Thinking Teletypewriter, there truly is a small part of you, deep down, that wants this revolution to happen. You want this future to come to pass. You want to believe that a century from now things can be different. Better. But you're terrified. What if this doesn't happen? What if it does? (click-replace: "What if it does?")[You find yourself descending once more, but you cannot control it this time. You're falling out of the sky. The dots see you, and they scream. You find yourself suffocating again, struggling to catch a breath as you accelerate. Buildings whip past. Lights smear. You reach out for some hand to pull you back up to the surface, but there is none. The ground is hurtling up to meet you. There is nothing you can say, or do. [[You scream.->back to earth]]]

You retire to the billiard room, where the suspicious mustached man and the non-mustached but no less suspicious butler invite you to a game. First, though, a drink. The butler brings a platter with two glasses, and you take the one nearest you. On second thought, [the glass near the mustached man is slightly more full]<drinkpoison|. You offer to switch glasses with him, lying that you actually have an unusual preference to drink the drink furthest from you, but as he accepts and you drink what was almost his drink, you notice the butler spoiling the drink that was almost yours by sticking his finger in it. "Pardon, sir," he says. "I think there is something in your drink." [A brilliant deduction.]<drinkdeduction| (click: ?drinkdeduction)[ (append: ?drinkdeduction)[ You knew all the time your glass was poisoned. This was obviously the reason that led you to switch glasses. [[There is treachery afoot.]]] (replace: ?drinkpoison)[your glass is likely poisoned] ]

The mustached man invites you to play a game of eight ball. He breaks, and you turn your back to the table to chalk your pool cue. You can see the table in a mirror on the wall, and you watch as the butler swaps the 13 ball for another, and places the real 13 ball in a box on the liquor cabinet. Excellent. You are both a skilled pool shark and a practiced prestidigitator. You saw the cue back and forth wildly, practicing your shot. As expected, the two men make a hasty, anxious retreat to the sitting room. The 13 must be deadly, to cause such a reaction. You line up with a cluster of balls in front of the 13 ball, preparing a skillful shot that will break them up but leave the 13 sitting in the same place... (click-append: "You line up with a cluster of balls in front of the 13 ball, preparing a skillful shot that will break them up but leave the 13 sitting in the same place...")[ ...and completely screw up, sending the cue ball careening off in entirely the wrong direction. Thankfully, it misses the 13 ball anyways. While the butler is busy explaining to the mustached man how you managed to avoid certain death, you pocket the trick 13 ball—in your coat pocket, not the corner pocket—and replace the real 13 ball on the table. [[Phew.->End of billiards]]]

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**You are carrying:** A smart suit with tails (being worn) A magnifying glass A [[billiards 13 ball]] (if: not ((history:) contains "Pearls 1" or "Pearls 2"))[The [[pearls->Pearls 2]]](else:)[]

You hand the pearls to your sweetheart. She's happy that you managed to recover them, but she points out that time is of the essence here. [[Back to the cabin.->Cabin Reunion]]

**You are carrying:** A smart suit with tails (being worn) A magnifying glass A billiards 13 ball (if: not ((history:) contains "Pearls 1"))[The [[pearls->Pearls 1]]](else:)[]

[[INVENTORY->INVENTORY 1]] You stop on the table, but the butler keeps going, crashing through the wall. He's knocked out cold. You turn around to face your sweetheart. You tell her there isn't much time, and as if on cue, the thieves' car shows up. They pile out and head for the door. [[The two of you climb out the window and restart their car.->Chase Scene]]

[[INVENTORY->INVENTORY 2]] You start with the lead, but they catch on pretty quick, and they're in the butler's car and on your tail *fast*. Two of the men get on the running board and begin to fire pistols at you. The bullets whiz by, and you and your sweetheart duck in fear. You are many things—world's greatest detective, whist enthusiast—but one thing you are not is a skilled driver. Your quick wits on foot are not much help in a motor vehicle. They're gaining on you. One of those bullets might hit their mark soon. You need a diversion.

**You are carrying:** A smart suit with tails (being worn) A magnifying glass A billiards 13 ball

You ask your sweetheart to take the wheel. Carefully removing it from your pocket, you throw the trick billiards ball (click-append: "throw the trick billiards ball")[ at the pursuers' car. It ***EXPLODES***, sending the occupants flying. [[Phew.->car into lake]]]

[[INVENTORY->INVENTORY 2]] You don't have much time to celebrate your victory before you hear her scream "Look out!" The road you're driving abruptly ends in a pier, jutting out over the river. Thinking quickly, you engage the four-wheel brakes. The transmission stops on a dime, but, following Newton's first law, the body of the automobile stays in motion, hurtling forward, launching the two of you into the river. Damn your luck with cars. "Well," you sigh. "At least we got away." [[And then the car starts sinking, and you realize you don't know how to swim.]]

**You are carrying:** A wet suit with tails (being worn) A broken magnifying glass (if: not ((history:) contains "Pearls 1" or "Pearls 2" or "Pearls 3"))[The [[pearls->Pearls 3]]](else:)[]

[[INVENTORY]] With the trick ball eliminated, your nerves stop getting the better of you, and you start having some fun, dispatching each ball on the table in more and more impressive ways while entirely avoiding the 13, befuddling the men peering around the doorway. You even execute a perfect masse shot, curving the cue ball around the 13 and into the pocket, before taking it out of the pocket and hitting the 13 ball as hard as you possibly can. As the would-be murderers ponder how you managed to survive, you regroup with Gillette, and [[the two of you leave]].

[[INVENTORY]] By the next day, your brilliant mind has completely solved the mystery—with the exception of locating the pearls and finding the thief. Setting out from the well-appointed apartment you share with Gillette, you stroll to the location you most suspect the mustached man to be. Your suspicions are well-founded. He pulls up in his car, failing to notice you as you cleverly hide behind a telephone pole. He enters a nearby shop and climbs the stairs. You tail closely, but not too closely. When you arrive on the landing, you spot his hat, abandoned at the bottom of a ladder to the roof. Aha! [[You climb up the ladder and through the trapdoor.]]

[[INVENTORY]] You've got him now! You rush to the roof... ...and he's nowhere to be found. The trapdoor to the roof shuts, loudly. (click-append:"The trapdoor to the roof shuts, loudly.")[ Damn. He outfoxed you. You pull and pull at the trapdoor, but it won't budge. You look down and spot him getting in his car. You try to find a fire escape. Nothing doing. There is, however, a [[railroad crossing arm]], sticking straight up...]

[[INVENTORY]] You jump onto the arm, and it smoothly lowers you to horizontal, dropping you neatly in the backseat of the villain's car. You put up your feet and relax as he unwittingly drives you to the very den of thieves he hoped to prevent you from finding. He parks the car, and you hide. Once you're sure he's gone, you stand up, and find yourself face to face with an unfamiliar man in a newscap, with a bushy mustache. [[You hit him on the head!]]

[[INVENTORY]] "Ow! Sherlock, it's me!" You don't recognize this man. You've never met him before in your life. "Explain yourself." He takes off the cap and rips off the bushy mustache. "It's me, Gillette!" ...so it is. You help him up and he explains an idea he has for another disguise, showing you a shallow cylindrical box made of paper that he's placed a tattered old dress and a headscarf into. Aha! An ingenious plan! You take the box and place it carefully into an open window in the thieves' den, and then lounge outside the open door nonchalantly. [[They notice you, and pull you in.]]

[[INVENTORY]] All according to plan. The thugs have you by the arms, and the mustached villain looks you up and down. He orders them to let you go, so he can explain his devious scheme to you more conversationally. "You see that man?" He gestures to a room behind you. You turn and see an uncomfortable human-size birdcage with a terrified man inside, struggling to free himself. "That's a detective. When he's dead I'll put you in there." It doesn't bear thinking about. Thankfully, he won't get the chance. Meanwhile, he's still gloating. He tells you that he's had the butler lock "our little sweetie" in a remote cabin near the river, keeping her captive until he's had the chance to get rid of you and fence the pearls, at which point he plans to marry her. Not likely. Especially because it is at this point that he gets around to the subject of the [[pearls->get dressed]].

[[INVENTORY->INVENTORY 0]] You see your chance, and you take it. You grab the pearls and dive through the window! You come out the other side wearing the dress, and the thieves run right past "an old woman" as you toddle off. Well, most of them do. Unfortunately, the most befuddled of the thieves decides to walk down the same sidewalk as you, and gets wise to your ploy. You sprint away, throwing the dress in his face as you go, and he gives chase, pursuing you down the open street. A policeman on a motorcycle with a bushy mustache pulls up alongside you, telling you to get on his handlebars. You try to explain to him that you're Sherlock Jr. (click-append: "You try to explain to him that you're Sherlock Jr.")[ He says he knows, ripping off the mustache. Dammit, Gillette. [[You hop on the handlebars.]]]

[[INVENTORY->INVENTORY 0]] You tell Gillette where the villain has hidden the ingenue, and the two of you are off. You turn in your seat and fill him in on the finer details of the case, and he tells you to be careful, so you begrudgingly face forward again. You hit a bump in the road. Gillette yelps in surprise and yells something. Strangely, his voice seems distant. The two of you are going awfully fast. You tell him to slow down, but he doesn't seem to hear you. He makes the surprisingly daring move of cutting directly across traffic, putting both your lives in jeopardy. "Be careful," you say, "or one of us will get hurt." No response. Instead, he expertly weaves through car after car at high speed, neatly missing every one of them. You thank your lucky stars Gillette is a good driver, or your death would be the front page news by tomorrow. SHERLOCK JR. SLAIN BY TRAFFIC! You're out in the sticks now, and approaching a "ROAD CLOSED" sign. Two men are blowing up a tree blocking the road with dynamite. One of them yells at you to stop, but apparently Gillette is unfazed, the tree exploding right in front of him as he crashes through the "ROAD CLOSED" sign. You've never known Gillette to take risks like this. "I never thought you'd make it," you say. You're approaching a railroad crossing at high speed now. The train's coming. There's no possible way you could make it. Gillette's going to stop, right? Right??????? (click-append: "Right???????")[ Apparently not. You close your eyes, bracing for the impact as the train blares its horn...and suddenly the sound of the horn is behind you. You turn to look behind you. You see the train. You don't see Gillette. He must have fallen off ages ago. [[Oh dear lord.]]]

**You are carrying:** A smart suit with tails (being worn) A magnifying glass A billiards 13 ball The pearls

You hand the pearls to the ingenue. She ducks to avoid a stray bullet. "Sherlock Jr., I'm grateful, and I'm sure my dad will be too, but are you really sure this is the time?" [[Back to the chase.->Chase Scene]]

You hand the pearls to your sweetheart. She thanks you for finding them. [[Back to the waterlogged car.->car into lake]] (if: ((history:) contains (a: "Chase Scene", "Cabin Reunion")))[[Back to the chase.->Chase Scene]](else-if: not ((history:) contains (a: "Chase Scene", "car into lake")))[[Back to the events at hand.->Cabin Reunion]](else-if: ((history:) contains (a:"car into lake")))[[Back to the waterlogged car.->car into lake]]

You scream: (event: when time > 1s)[Help!] (event: when time > 2s)+(replace: "Help!")[I'm as good as dead!] (event: when time > 3s)+(replace: "I'm as good as dead!")[Somebody stop this motorcycle!] (event: when time > 5s)+(append: "Somebody stop this motorcycle!")[ You slam into a pile of logs and fire through the window of a cabin by the river, feet-first.] (event: when time > 8s)+(append: "feet-first.")[ [[Your momentum is arrested by the butler.->Cabin Reunion]]]

You hold your breath for as long as you can. Your sweetheart tries to pull you up, but your legs are caught under the steering column. You begin to get lightheaded, and your body overrides your will, forcing you to open your mouth, breathe in the water. It fills your lungs, and you start to choke. The car descends into the depths of the river. [[All you see is darkness.]]