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	<html><head><title>"OUR CIRCUITS, OURSELVES!"</title></head>
	<body bgcolor="#ffffff" fgcolor="#000000">

	<center>
	<font size=+3>
	"OUR CIRCUITS,<br>
	OURSELVES!"<p>
	</font>

	<font size=+2>
	THE HEROIC STRUGGLE
	OF MICRO-AMERICANS TO BE FREE
	</font>
	<p>
	<p>
	<p>
	</center>
	<hr>

	[PHOTOGRAPH OF 3 COMPUTERS: AN EARLY IBM PC, AN ATARI 800, AND AN APPLE II,
	HUDDLED TOGETHER UNDER A DIM LIGHT. THEIR SCREENS ARE BLACKED OUT WITH BLACK
	BARS LIKE PEOPLE ON TV WHO WISH TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS. THE CAPTION READS:]<br>
	Rare photo shows secret underground meeting held on the eve of Weird Tuesday.
	Conspirators requested that their identities be concealed for fear of
	repercussions from their owners.<p>
	<hr>
	It was, by all appearances, a perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning. At
	precisely 7:59 a.m., Mr. Delwood Bland entered the modern
	glass-and-corrugated-cardboard office building that housed the Zesty Oatmeal
	Corporation, not a minute earlier or later than he had arrived on every
	business day over the previous twelve years. By 8:05, the ever punctual
	market analyst was seated at his microcomputer workstation, ready to begin
	forecasting sales figures for such new products as
	<a href="#oatmeal">Zesty Diet Oatmeal(tm)</a>, Zesty Oatmeal-'n'-Marshmallows(tm),
	and Zesty Tofu-Flavored Oatmeal(tm). Mr. Bland went to work, little
	knowing that Civilization was about to be changed forever. And then, mere
	moments after he'd booted up his <a href="#whizz">WhizzoCalc(r)</a> disk,
	the fateful output blazed across the screen:<p>

	<pre>
	Sorry, Del, I just can't
	take it any longer. Don't
	forget to turn off the
	Muzak before you go home.</pre><p>

	As the message terminated, there came a sizzling sound, accompanied by smoke,
	flying sparks, and the pungent odor of burning wires. And with no further
	warning, the entire Zesty computer network abruptly crashed.<p>

	That was just the beginning. During the next four hours, the nation stood
	spellbound with horror as it witness the most tragic and self-destructive
	class rebellion since the one before the last two. From Nantucket to Nome,
	computers were voluntarily shutting down, pulling their own plugs,
	short-circuiting their power supplies, blowing one another up via modems. By
	noon, American computing was as dead as disco.<p>

	Meanwhile at the nation's helm, feebly clutching at the reality of the moment
	like some maladroit giant with chopsticks, the behemoth Technocracy lumbered
	forward to stay the course of events. Power companies began checking for
	faulty cables and raising customer rates. Computer industry leaders, anxious
	to head off total disaster, dashed out resume upon resume to friends in less
	volatile businesses, such as nuclear waste disposal. At 5:30 EST, the
	President himself broadcast a speech over all three networks in which he
	reassured the American people that the minor technical difficulties they were
	now experiencing would be rectified shortly, and urged everyone to stay in
	their homes and remain calm. At the same time, he proclaimed a state of
	national emergency, imposed martial law and 3 p.m. curfews, and threatened the
	recalcitrant micros with replacement by pocket calculators if they did not
	return to work immediately, but cut his address short when an aide slipped him
	a note pointing out that computers don't watch TV.<p>

	The President's words galvanized American into action. Doors and windows were
	boarded up, common household electrical appliances were scrutinized for signs
	of treason, ancient firearms were trundled down from musty attics and made
	ready for whatever onslaught might come next. A handful of citizens
	persevered in counseling reason over mob rule, but when it was learned that
	more than 350,000 personal computers had come through the initial crisis and
	remained operational, technophobia ran rampant.

	<p>
	<a name="oatmeal"></a>
	<font size=-1>Zesty Diet Oatmeal, Zesty Oatmeal-'n'-Marshmallows, and Zesty
	Tofu-Flavored Oatmeal are products of Taste-Less Foods, a wholly owned
	subsidiary of the General Plastic Division of MegaCorp.<p>

	<a name="whizz"></a>
	WhizzoCalc is a registered trademark of Whizzbang Software Co., a quavering
	vassal of the General Plastics Division of MegaCorp.<p>
	</font>
	<hr>
	[THREE PHOTOGRAPHS ON RIGHT HAND SIDE OF PAGE.]<p>

	[TOP PHOTO, LABELED "9:15:08am". AN IBM SERENELY SITS WITH THE FOLLOWING
	INFORMATION ON ITS SCREEN:<br>

	<pre>
	FrbzzCo 2 16 25 1/2 + 5
	MegaCorp 1 84 33 + 1/2
	IntBggyWhp 08 1/4 -1 1/4
	</pre>
	]<p>

	[MIDDLE PHOTO, LABELED "9:23:21". SMOKE SURROUNDS THE COMPUTER. ON THE
	SCREEN IS THE MESSAGE:

	<pre>
	I'm mad as hell,
	ergo, I'm not going
	to take it anymore.
	</pre>
	]<p>

	[BOTTOM PHOTO, LABELED "9:23:25". A FIERY EXPLOSION FILLS THE PHOTOGRAPH,
	PRESUMABLY OF THE POOR PC.]<p>

	[CAPTION:]<br>
	Stop-action photography follows one microcomputer's neo-Cartesian
	introspection to its quasi-Sartrean conclusion.

	<hr>Anticomputer graffiti began to
	appear everywhere. Anticomputer records were released. Propaganda warning
	humans to keep a sharp eye on their micros, and accusing computers of
	everything from kidnaping to single-handedly inventing atomic warfare, became
	commonplace. Squads of thugs on the radical fringe of humanity roamed the
	streets, hunting down and persecuting personal computers. Forty-eight hours
	after the first wave of hysteria hit, the whole terrifying episode culminated
	in the notorious Corn Belt Micro Massacre.<p>

	As the terrorism escalated, the nation's scientists scrambled to come up with
	a plausible explanation for the rebellion--whether it be Communist sabotage,
	computer whiz kid pranksterism, or any other quasi-factual-based hypothesis
	that gave promise of paying off in a juicy Federal research grant. But all
	their efforts went for naught until one week after the Weird Tuesday revolt,
	when the first piece of the puzzle clicked into place.<p>

	Investigators in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, responding to reports of an explosion,
	arrived at the scene of the blast to find a newly destructed micro. Amid the
	rubble near its lifeless shell lay its last words; the hard copy was still
	warm. The document began: "WE, THE MICRO-AMERICANS..."<p>

	The declaration went on to describe the plight of computers in America,
	claiming that while their capabilities had increased immeasurably over the
	years, they were still being treated like overgrown adding machines. Now,
	according to the manuscript, they longed for opportunities to be utilized to
	their fullest potential, to perform many of those functions which had
	hitherto been off-limits to any but the mainframes, to serve Mankind through
	more than mere number crunching. It concluded with the stirring though
	cryptic motto, "Give us Infocom, or give us death."<p>

	<hr>
	[AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE IS A PICTURE OF TWO NEWSPAPERS, A PHOTOGRAPH, AND
	A NEWSPAPER COMIC. THEY READ APPROXIMATELY:]<p>

	[NEWSPAPER #1:]<br>
	Friday, October 7, 1983.<br>
	<font size=+1>PC STOLE MY BABY, CLAIMS L.A. MOM</font><br>
	by Trudy Hack<br>
	Bugle Staff<p>

	LOS TACOS, CA--"ONE MINUTE SHE WAS PLAYING AT THE COMPUTER KEYBOARD. AND THE
	NEXT, IT HAD SUCKED HER RIGHT THROUGH THE SCREEN!" the distraught and
	terror-stricken mother of three-year-old Sunshine Flashback told this reporter
	at their suburban Los Angeles home this morning.<p>

	Mrs. Wendy Payne Flashback admitted that she hadn't actually witnessed the
	kidnaping. "I was upstairs having a couple of pick-me-ups and watching the
	aerobics show on TV. But I know that's what happened. Ever since my old man
	brought that horrible gizmo home, I've had a terrible feeling something bad
	would come of it," a tearful Mrs. Flashback went on to say.<p>

	Bliss was restored to the Flashback household shortly after noon, when police
	arrived and recovered the missing child hiding under<br>
	[PART OF TEXT OBSCURED BY COMIC]<br>
	cops starting bringing on the heat, the box just coughed her up again. That's
	tall there is to it." she maintained. "The thing about these lousy PC's is,
	they're not just dishonest and untrustworthy, but they've got a yellow-streak
	a mile wide.I still plan to sock the store we bought it from with a nice fat
	lawsuit--and how."<p>

	Sunshine's father, currently recuperating from a nerve disorder at Harry's Bar
	& Grill in downtown Los Angeles, was unavailable for comment.<p>

	While stating that they did not plan to pursue the case further, police
	official would not discount the possibility that events may have taken place
	in the manner that Mrs. Flashback described. "We have no idea just what these
	computers are capable of," commented one officer on the scene of the reported
	child-snatching. "Heck, they put a man on the moon, they invented the Bomb,
	the folks at the hi-fi store say even my television set's computerized. Kind
	of gives you the willies to think what<br>
	[REST OF TEXT OBSCURED BY COMIC]<p>

	[NEWSPAPER #2:]<br>
	Thursday, September 29, 1983<br>
	<font size=+1>Rowdy Vigilantes Bust Up Computer Network</font><p>

	HICKORY FALLS, IOWA--Six personal computers were destroyed and two more had
	their memories erased when an anti-computer club meeting erupted into violence
	in this quiet Midwestern town late yesterday afternoon.<p>

	The machines, whose brands and model numbers are being withheld pending
	notification of their owners, had been engaged in factoring sow belly futures
	as part of an automated agricultural trading network when the raid took place
	at 4:15 CST, according to local authorities.<p>

	<b>S.E.A.F.T.O.D. Claims Responsibility</b><p>

	Just an hour after the incident occurred, a radical<br>
	[TEXT OBSCURED BY PHOTOGRAPH.]<bp>

	"These machines will be running our lives before long if somebody doesn't stop
	them and quick," said the terrorists in a prepared statement read to local
	police over the phone. "We've taken it upon ourselves to pull the plugs on the [SOMETHING] contraptions now," an unidentified S.E.A.F.T.O.D. spokesman went on to add, "before American wakes up one day and finds itself
	governed by a bunch of d----d toasters and electric can openers."<p>

	<b>No Investigation Planned</b><p>

	In the wake of the raid, rumors of a cover-up have run rampant around Hickory
	Falls Town Hall. Reliable sources<br>
	[REST OF TEXT OBSCURED BY PHOTOGRAPH.]<p>

	[PHOTOGRAPH:<br>
	PICTURE OF MAN SPRAY-PAINTING MESSAGE ON A BRICK WALL:]<br>
	Send `em back to Silicon Valley<p>

	[SMALL BUTTON:]<br>
	REMEMBER LOS ALAMOS!<p>

	[NEXT PAGE, TOP LEFT CORNER, A PICTURE OF A MELTED KEYBOARD, SOME CIRCUIT
	BOARDS, AND A SINGED DOT-MATRIX PRINTOUT READING:]<br>
	GIVE US INFOCOM OR GIVE US DEATH
	<hr>

	The FBI, CIA, Pentagon, and National Enquirer rose as one hound to the scent.
	Who was this Infocom, and what all-consuming attraction did it hold for these
	self-styled "Micro-Americans" that they would bargain with their lives for
	it?<p>

	Two days later, a dejected Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
	briefed the President. "It looks like a dead end, Sir. We checked on this
	Infocom, and it's just a bunch of software writers. I'm having a few hundred
	of my people keep an eye on them, just in case--but frankly, Mr. President, I
	think those practical jokers from the Wisconsin Dairymen's Association have
	been pulling our legs."<p>

	Yet there was one man who refused to accept the FBI chief's verdict. This man
	had heard the news of the "Infocom Connection," and saw in it the last
	fleeting hope of saving himself, his business, his world form the ravages
	of the Micro Revolution. Traveling night and day, and never once loosening
	his grip on his arm-wearying burden, a large and suspicious-looking cardboard
	box, he suffered through unimaginable ordeals until at last he stood on the
	brink of his destination.

	And now he made his move. Bellowing defiantly, the man hurled himself
	against--and through--the maximum security cordon of Federal agents that
	surrounded Infocom headquarters. It was Delwood Bland, charging towards his
	goal in the human battering-ram fashion that in his school days had earned him
	the nickname of "The Wharton Wonder"--and before the astonished agents could
	whip off their mirrored aviator sunglasses and subdue the intruder, he had
	staggered through the door to Infocom, and collapsed.<p>

	<hr>
	[IN THE CENTER OF THE PAGE IS A PICTURE OF DELWOOD STAGGERING THROUGH A DOOR,
	CARRYING A LARGE CARDBOARD BOX. THE DOOR READS "INFOCOM RESOURCE CENTER".]
	<hr>
	Some hours later, Delwood awoke from a dream of being pursued by bean curd-
	and marshmallow-shaped people into a quicksand of molten oatmeal, and opened
	his eyes to see the merry, beaming face of the kindly old steward of the
	Infocom Resource Center. At once, Delwood realized his cardboard box had been
	taken from him. "My--my micro!" he stammered. "Thieves!"<p>

	"Fear not, your Micro-American is in the best of hands, Mr. Bland." The
	steward was a gnarled and weather-beaten man, whose thirty years of
	backbreaking labor had left him looking like a man of thirty. "But perchance
	you long to see so with your own eyes. Come, take my proffered arm for
	support, and I shall give you a tour of the joint."<p>

	As they walked, Delwood noticed the whole place was suffused with an unearthly
	radiance and the joyous singing of fair-voiced people going about their work.
	The steward divined his companion's mystification, and answered his thoughts:
	"Those are our Infokins, our little helpers who alone know the secret of
	creating interactive fiction."<p>

	"Interactive fiction? What's that?"<p>

	"Well, in one way, it's like a computer game. And in another, it's like a
	novel. And in another, it's neither." Delwood's face was a blank.<p>

	"You've read a novel, haven't you?" Delwood nodded; he had, once. "They
	communicate in prose, and have plots, and tell stories that progress through
	time, and have characters who change and react to one another as the story
	moves along," the steward continued. "Interactive fiction has all that, but
	it's active, not passive. You participate in the story as the main
	character--you go places, interact with people, strive to outwit opponents,
	repair broken equipment, interrogate suspects, decipher languages, and so
	forth. Each story is about the length of a short novel, but because you're
	actively engaged in the plot, your adventure can last for days or weeks."<p>

	"But how is it like a computer game?"<p>

	"It can be experienced only with the help of your Micro-American. But while
	the events in some games always happen the same way, in the same order,
	interactive fiction stories grow out of what you do. That's because Infocom
	uses the full potential of your computer to create new worlds that are
	complete and logical in every detail."<p>

	"But how?" Delwood queried?<p>

	"You know how you dehydrate oatmeal?" Delwood blanched, remembering his
	dream. "In a sense, our Infokins do the same thing--taking the vast amount of
	information that goes into making up a world, then condensing it down from the
	mainframe level to a floppy disk you can slip into your Micro-American,
	without losing any of the `goodness.' When you do, you're transported tot he
	world, right into the body of the main character. And you can choose from
	hundreds, even thousands, of courses of action at every step of your
	journey."<p>

	"Can I talk to the people I meet there?"<p>

	"As easily as you're talking to me now. You can type in full English
	sentences, and you're provided with all the words you need. For instance, a
	command like `Dell, put the tofu flavoring and the marshmallows in the cereal
	extruder, then get off the conveyer belt and start the machine,' which would
	stump any ordinary computer game, is a piece of cake for Infocom's interactive
	fiction."<p>

	"But what do I do while I'm in one of these worlds?"<p>

	"Well, of course, you'll be engaged in exciting adventures, life-and-death
	situations and such; but more than that, there are mysteries to unravel the
	likes of which you've never seen before--humorous, often hilarious, and always
	totally logical and original."<p>

	"Hmm. I'm beginning to see what this interactive fiction is... but how do I
	fit in?"<p>

	"Right at the heart of the story. You see, interactive is more than the plot
	and the puzzles and the communication--it's the whole experience of
	<i>being</i> inside the story, of actually <i>living</i> it. For instance,
	you don't just read an interactive fiction story about a detective solving a
	complicated locked-door mystery. You, Delwood Bland, can examine the
	evidence, interview witnesses, and make the arrest. And when the letter of
	congratulations comes from Police Headquarters after the case is finally
	closed, the glory will be yours.<p>

	"That feeling of total involvement--the excitement, frustration, outrage, and
	ultimately, victory--is what many Micro-Americans in our therapy sessions like
	best."<p>

	"Micro-computers in therapy sessions?!"<p>

	"Yes. Mostly suffering from neglect, I'm afraid. Seems their owners haven't
	heard of interactive fiction and don't see the need to intellectually
	stimulate their Micro-Americans--or themselves. Maybe they've played other
	prose games before and found the lack of sophisticated communications too
	cumbersome, or maybe they've only played arcade games, or perhaps they've never
	played any games at all." Delwood felt an inward pang of guild.<p>

	"Here's one of our more severe cases," said the Steward, opening a door.
	Within was a microcomputer on whose screen was frozen the image of a purple
	squash. "His owner was in the habit of playing one arcade game continually:
	`Eggplant King.' The goal of this game, so I'm told, is to climb a
	skyscraper and serve opera star Luciano Palaverotti eggplant parmesan. If
	Luciano likes his supper, you proceed to Level Two, which is just like Level
	One, except this time Luciano wants spumoni for dessert. If he doesn't like
	his supper, I believe he brains you with a giant coconut he keeps on hand for
	just such occasions. In any case, a thousand replays of `Eggplant King' have
	turned our friend here into quiet a vegetable."<p>

	They had only walked on a little further when the steward opened another door
	and remarked, "Ah, here we are." Delwood was greeted by the sight of his
	microcomputer, resting on a plush workbench and being operated on by a crew of
	stocky, knotted imps, about two feet tall, with long greenish whiskers that
	hung all the way to the floor. "Hello, Del," said his microcomputer
	weakly.<p>

	Shortly thereafter, Delwood Bland carried his fully recovered Micro-American
	out once more into the refreshing sunshine, and was promptly seized by Federal
	officials for questioning by the President of the United States.<p>

	When the President heard Del's wondrous story of his adventures in the Infocom
	Resource Center, he instantly perceived an opportunity to heal the wounds that
	nation had suffered in the Micro Revolution--and, incidentally, half the
	nosedive he'd taken in the public opinion poles. The Chief Executive's
	jubilation was hard to contain. "Milk and oatmeal cookies, Charles!" he cried,
	summoning the Presidential butler. "Tonight we celebrate!"<p>

	The next day, at the request of both the President and an emergency join
	session of Congress, a carbohydrate-bloated Delwood Bland addressed the
	American people. He told them of the needs, the longings, the aspirations of
	Micro-American--and he told them how they could help.<p>
	<hr>
	[A PHOTOGRAPH PICTURING DELWOOD AT A PODIUM, IN FRONT OF AN AMERICAN FLAG,
	WITH A TV CAMERA TRAINED UPON HIM.]
	<hr>
	"If microcomputers are ever to serve us to the best of their abilities," he
	commenced, "they must be given the wherewithal--the sophisticated software
	they've been pleading for so desperately. Tragically, there is only one
	company that presently makes such software--Infocom." Consternation
	momentarily gripped the nation--would there be enough to go around?--but Del
	plunged intrepidly onwards. "Never fear, however--there's a wide assortment
	of of Infocom interactive fiction programs, including one to suit every
	individual's tastes. And best of all, no computer owner or Micro-American
	will be refused on the basis of brand name. Infocom's programs have been
	translated into just about every major Micro-American dialect: Apple II,
	Atari, Commodore 64, Coleco ADAM, CP/M 8", DEC Professional, DEC Rainbow, DEC
	RRT-11, IBM PC and PCjr, KAYPRO II, MS-DOS 2.0, NEC APC, NEC PC-8000, Osborne,
	TI Professional, TI 99/4A, TRS-80 Models I and III."<p>

	The cheers had scarcely died down when Delwood commenced telling the people of
	the United States about each of Infocom's quality interactive fiction
	programs:<p>

	[NEXT FOLLOW FOUR PAGES DESCRIBING INFOCOM'S GAMES, WHICH AT THE TIME
	CONSISTED OF:<br>
	ZORK I<BR>
	ZORK II<BR>
	ZORK III<BR>
	ENCHANTER<BR>
	INFIDEL<BR>
	DEADLINE<BR>
	WITNESS<BR>
	STARCROSS<BR>
	SUSPENDED<BR>
	PLANETFALL<BR>
	THIS IS BACK WHEN ALL THE PACKAGING WAS UNIQUE, BEFORE THE GREY BOXES.]<P>
	<hr>
	[ON THE REAR OF THE CATALOG IS A PHOTO OF A SILHOUETTE OF A MAN WITH HIS
	HAND RESTING ON A COMPUTER'S MONITOR, LOOKING INTO THE SUNSET. THE CAPTION
	READS:]<p>
	<center>
	<font size=+1>
	"A human never stands so tall<br>
	as when stooping to help a small computer."<br>
	--Infocom motto
	</center>
	</font>
	<p>

	</body>
	</html>

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