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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

WhizzoCalc is a registered trademark of Whizzbang Software Co., a quavering vassal of the General Plastics Division of MegaCorp.

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

FrbzzCo		2 16	25 1/2		 + 5
MegaCorp	1 84	33		 + 1/2
IntBggyWhp	  08	   1/4		-1 1/4

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

  I'm mad as hell,
ergo, I'm not going
to take it anymore.

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

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

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.

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..."

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."

[NEWSPAPER #1:]
Friday, October 7, 1983.
PC STOLE MY BABY, CLAIMS L.A. MOM
by Trudy Hack
Bugle Staff

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.

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.

Bliss was restored to the Flashback household shortly after noon, when police arrived and recovered the missing child hiding under
[PART OF TEXT OBSCURED BY COMIC]
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."

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

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
[REST OF TEXT OBSCURED BY COMIC]

[NEWSPAPER #2:]
Thursday, September 29, 1983
Rowdy Vigilantes Bust Up Computer Network

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.

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.

S.E.A.F.T.O.D. Claims Responsibility

Just an hour after the incident occurred, a radical
[TEXT OBSCURED BY PHOTOGRAPH.] "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."

No Investigation Planned

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

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

[SMALL BUTTON:]
REMEMBER LOS ALAMOS!

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

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."

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.

"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."

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."

"Interactive fiction? What's that?"

"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.

"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."

"But how is it like a computer game?"

"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."

"But how?" Delwood queried?

"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."

"Can I talk to the people I meet there?"

"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."

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

"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."

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

"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 being inside the story, of actually living 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.

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

"Micro-computers in therapy sessions?!"

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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:

[NEXT FOLLOW FOUR PAGES DESCRIBING INFOCOM'S GAMES, WHICH AT THE TIME CONSISTED OF:
ZORK I
ZORK II
ZORK III
ENCHANTER
INFIDEL
DEADLINE
WITNESS
STARCROSS
SUSPENDED
PLANETFALL
THIS IS BACK WHEN ALL THE PACKAGING WAS UNIQUE, BEFORE THE GREY BOXES.]