"Hello! Isn't this a fine morning?" He nods to you, smiling.

"Hello! Isn't this a fine morning?" He nods to you, smiling.

[Leave.]

"What's so fascinating about an empty old building?"

"A-ha, but it's not just any empty old building!" He raises his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the pattering rain. All four of you turn to admire the mural before you.

"What not a lot of people know is -- this used to be the R&D department of Feld Electrical. And Feld, which now sells ink cartridges, mostly, was once a top dog in the turn-of-the-century cybernetics boom."

Hold on, what's R&D?

"Wait, what's an R&D department?"

"Apologies, it's an acronym for research and development, they don't use it anymore." He smiles brightly, laugh lines around his eyes.

"You're probably more familiar with RTD, research and technological development."

Mea culpa! You were not familiar with that one either. This man is a book head.

Look at the building looming over you.

It looks old and weathered, with seagulls picking apart its stone-and-metal carcass. Bushy undergrowth has taken hold of the collapsed rooftop; some kind of bird has set up a nest on a broken windowsill.

"I don't think I've ever heard of this Feld Electrical." (Proceed.)

"That's not surprising. Only a vestigial ink cartridge and ferrotape manufacturer remains." He adjusts his suit jacket.

"They started out as a midway electronics outfit in Königstein two centuries ago. After an aggressive move to Revachol, Feld became a global player in the emerging personal electronics market of the pre-Revolutionary era."

"Still, Tricentennial was beating them in business machines." He gestures toward the building. "But Feld had an ace up their sleeve. Or, should I say, they were developing an ace up their sleeve?..." He grins. "I'm mixing my metaphors here."

"Very interesting. Let's get back to this later."

"It was here in Martinaise -- possibly in this very building -- that they developed prototypes for a..." He stops mid-sentence, realizing you're not listening.

"What was that ace?"

"It was here in Martinaise -- possibly in this very building -- that they developed prototypes for a..." He pauses for effect. "...tape computer."

"A tape computer?"

"Mhm. An elegant folding mechanism of rollers and ferrotape ribbons, portable enough to be a take-it-home solution, revolutionizing business machines, possibly even bringing them to the average consumer."

"Which is a feat of engineering even today's giants Rehm, ICN, and ZAMM haven't achieved yet." He grins, admiring the sentence he just produced.

He assumes something like a combat stance, facing the wind.

"What happened?"

"Indeed, what?"

"The Revolution?" The boy wipes his nose on his sleeve.

"Unfortunately their moonshot project never made it to the market." He nods. "Feld's move to Revachol backfired. The Revolutionary government liquefied their assets and expropriated those very advanced prototypes. Possibly from this very building... or one of the adjacent ruins." He pauses, pointing to the other building, then continues:

"All of this was built by Feld, even the boardwalk. Wild Pines built Martinaise proper as a resort for their middle management, Feld built this side of town for R&D."

"What did the revolutionaries do with those advanced tape computers?"

"They used them for military communications," he says, while his son looks up, idly chewing on the corner of his würm-themed colouring book. "But also to write and send out press releases. The most notorious example being Le Décret de Mars."

"What was that?"

"What's the March decree? I mean the radio transmission sent out to news agencies and world governments by the newly-created Commune of Revachol on the 7th of March in the year '02."

A short-lived legislative foundation for a short-lived utopia.

"It's a beautiful piece of text, actually. A singer-songwriter I know -- Charette -- called it a love poem to Revachol on her political concept album 'Bons baisers d'Insulinde'. You should read it. Every local library in Revachol stocks a copy of the decree."

"I tried to get Mikael to memorise it." He looks at his son, who starts giggling, his face hidden behind the book. "Tried to. Someone was much too interested in würms to be paying any attention."

The kid takes a peek at the green and silver würm on the cover of the book. Already forgetting about this part of the discussion.

"What happened to the engineers, the company people?"

"Oh, I'm afraid it didn't end well for the boys." He smiles again, as if he's somehow personally responsible for this bleak turn of events. "But this story is a bit too dark for little Mikael here. Now if you were to ask about tape computers..."

He means that 'the boys' got shot by the communists. 'The boys' were bourgeois.

(Turn to Mikael.) "He means they all got shot in the head because they were bourgeois. Now, do you know what the bourgeoisie is?"

"Officer!" He sounds disappointed. "I told you this chapter of history wasn't on Mikael's curriculum yet. Let's keep this kid-friendly."

The boy looks first at you, then back at his father, confused.

(Turn to Mikael.) "He means they all died at the hands of the communists."

"Tape computers, right."

"Tape computers." He nods, wind tousling his suit jacket.

Wait, is he saying that we should just bypass the excesses of the Revolution?

"How did those tape computers work?"

"Actually, no one knows. No one even knows what a computer made entirely of tape would look like! But word has it they were very elegant -- exquisite, alien-looking turn-of-the-century hardware..." He raises his finger, remembering something.

Buckle up!

"Ten years ago, I did a little... freelancing, I guess you could say. I was a special consultant for an exhibition at the Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre in Vredefort, Oranje. It raised the same questions, and we had lengthy discussions with Paul Ockermann, who was head curator at the time -- this was before the twins Keith and Guy Joost joined the team -- trying to..."

Wait. Did he just say Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre?

He did it! He said Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre like it's the most natural thing in the world.

What the hell is a Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre? And who the hell are Keith and Guy Joost?!

This is all ninsy-pinsy garbage for sissy-people!

"Okay. Back to... where were we? Tape computers, I think."

"Yes -- tape computers. And Feld Electrical."

"Okay. The Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre? Paul Ockermann? Keith and Guy Joost? What are you talking about?"

"The Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre for Contemporary Arts." There it is again -- those words. "The exhibition itself drew on Lagerman's notion of memory and so there were some parallels, that's why the head curator Paul Ockermann chose to..."

"You're making this up." (Turn to the lieutenant.) "Kim, is he making this up?"