An Original Article

Written in 1996 by an amused observer who had hardly touched a computer at the time and had absolutely no idea what might happen in the virtual world, but was intrigued and still is by the opportunities it offers to creative types of all persuasions.

Welcome to the Introductions, but first...a brief preamble round the prodrome:

You are in a geodesic sphere that spans the limits of your imagination, which expands or contracts as you observe it, but you don't know whether you are floating or flying because there are no horizons to anchor this fragile, high-tensile construction into the ultramarine, where windsurfers are cruising like hang gliders and vice-versa, as if they can share the same element and there is really no difference at all between water and air.

In fact, you are drifting gently in the current, holding on to a long piece of string attached to a cheap balloon, which you can't see because it is the same colour as the distance, but it is quite a pleasant sensation and you are as happy as Pooh, and humming too, probably. Which is a mistake. I'd keep quiet, if I were you, unless you want to be noticed by Air Traffic Patrol, who'll do you for flying aphony blue without a licence, and me too, for that matter, even though it has been a bog standard special effect for donkeys' years.

As long as your flying aphony blue, they can't see or hear you. You don't register on their radar, which always upsets them because you obviously havn't paid In Come Tax. So you're better off keeping your mouth shut unless you want them to know you're here and use it as evidence against you. It's Customs you know and they're very peculiar, as they always are, wherever you are.

Unfortunately I had a bit of an argument with them about it last time I was here but I'd rather not discuss it now, if you don't mind. I can show you the ropes if you're interested, though. The Trade Winds are strong here.

It's the föhn, of course, as it often is in these parts. There's nothing like a breath of fresh air, is there, except for the sweet smell of commerce rising from the Hubbub, which is right in the middle, down there. It's quite mediaeval, isn't it? So spicy and fishy and ripe that it makes your eyes water more than your mouth in my opinion. Of course we're still too high in the widening gyre to see much up here where the Gaels breeze in from Hybernia, instead of taking a circumbendibus to a logical terminus like everyone else. Listen!

The ether is throbbing so hard now the air waves
are curling like high rollers out of Hawaii Five O
and cresting the billows come gliders and galleons,
shooting the breeze in the ebb and the flow,
with all flags flying.

There are banners and standards and pennants and streamers and jacks of all types and all trades, including some you've probably never seen before or even heard of, like oriflammes and vexiloids and ancients. It is a gaudy panoply, as I'm sure you'll agree, and who am I to argue?

Actually, I havn't decided who to be yet, so I can't introduce myself because I havn't got a cognomen, or an identicon either for that matter, which is a bit like a userego, or perhaps it's an id, it always confuses me. I know you have forge one before you can register the other but you're supposed to give yourself a silly monicker first, like Silly Monica did.

Puns are compulsory, or wits, and we must coign our own currency too, unfortunately. Quid pro quos are small change here. Ten to the penny in fact. It's got something to do with the exchange rate, apparently, between the New Eidolon and the Viaboule, but that's life, isn't it. Or it always has been so far.

Meanwhile I expect you're wondering where we are, or why exactly, or something, like what is a circumbendibus when it's at home, or what are all the balloons for and why does everything keep changing colour all the time, is it some kind of semaphore, what's going on?

Well, search me! I can't speak Ensign. You're in Chymeria now, mate.

However, I suppose I could try to answer at least one of your rhetorical questions. On earth, a circumbendibus is a form of complex circularity but it's a cheap form of public transport here, which looks a bit like a pantechnicon. Phreobus Tours have got a whole fleet of them. Trip Man Wrinkle's got the franchise, or is it a monopoly, I never can tell, but it's the only way to get here, if you don't just arrive by mistake, and he's the only person I know who actually knows how to drive one.

He's been cleaning up for years now. In fact he's got it down to quite a fine art, apparently: neo classical abstract post modern expressionism or something. Mind you he used to help old Whossisname out down at the stables ages ago. You know, not that one, the other one. Thingammyjig. Wrote a very good book on stable management. Never been out of print. Well, almost never. They're probably still discussing it all down at the Canting Arms, if they're still standing, that is. That was a nice little pub. Perhaps it still is. The landlord was a decent soul. He used to be a friend of mine. You don't fancy a tincture, do you?

Follow me, in that case. I think we could make a quick detour. Perhaps we could pop into the Armory too while we're there. If it's still there, naturally. It used to be upstairs. Hang about! I think we've got company. Red kites at four-o-clock! Behind you, stupid. Duck! Pshit! Bloody kids, screaming across the static as if they own it. Perhaps they do. And Yah Boo Sucks to you, too! Insolent little sod!

Where were we? Ah, yes, the Canting Arms. After you, sir, or madam, as the case may be. We're all ombres here, when all's said and done, as it will be. It's called an om for short in the vernacular by the way. Original, isn't it? Whoever's writing this is an absolute prat. But what can you expect from an author, whoever he or even indeed she is, who's obviously got absolutely no respect for language at all, either way? Not a great deal, evidently.

You, for instance, are an omanon for as long as you choose to remain incognito, or possibly even a phemomanon, like any lady I havn't been introduced to yet, unless you're an alien, but they're usually green. See what I mean? The author's a complete idiot. Ombres tend to be purple and hum, apparently. "Om," usually, until somone tells them to stop being so pompous and shut up for Pete's sake, but God knows who he is. Aliens go "Um?" Or so I understand, since I've never actually met one. Not that I'd mind if I did, I mean, it doesn't matter to me what colour they are, most of them give in and disappear suddenly as soon as they find out how much it's going to cost them to buy their own canoe and a paddle for it. The Phoenecian drives a hard bargain. But I digress.

Look at this place! It's full of pommes, which has nothing to do with poms, incidentally, because they only come here for a bit of local colour. It's supposed to be quite picturesque apparently but I've never actually been able to see it myself, though the language is frequently graphic. Still, at least they're still standing, which is more than you can say for the regulars, who are fesswise, as usual. It's not surprising your average pomme often comes across as a bit of a stuffed shirt in the circumstances.

Maybe they're shy. Or else they're just gobsmacked. Anyway, they've all got exactly the same mon, which is basically the same thing as an identicon if you want to be Japanese about it. It's a large green spot on a purple disc about the same size as a frisbee and in plastic too, which has got "fleece me" written all over it. In code, of course. Customs give them away. It's not a pretty device, is it? I don't expect anyone explained it to them either. It's not exactly a fashion statement. Anyone with the slightest sense or taste would throw it away and invest in something else as soon as possible.

I'd recommend something custom made myself, but it's my trade, so I have to. It's all about cash flow ultimately, as you probably already know. Starsigns are popular. So are political pales. Or stripes. I can provide all the usual ordinaries and subordinaries, bars, bends, tressures and charges, in the colour of your choice, and slughoms too, if you need one. I could do you a classic blazon, if you like, or a nice little sygnet, or a proper cypher. Status cymbals are extra, though. All the best ones were bagged a long time ago. They've been kept in the Armory ever since, safely locked up with the Gamekeeper, or they were, until he found the key. Now they're all over the place. We're getting rather pissed off in the Pursuivance, I can tell you, although in the pursuivance of what you may wonder, and so do I sometimes.

Quite often, in fact. Things just havn't been the same since L'Eejyt took over at Telegnosis and restructured the entire Company. The goal posts have been moved, mysteriously. The game plan's different too, as far as I can see. It's virtually a free for all. The ground rules have disappeared. So has the ground.

That's the trouble with scribblers. I bet no one checked his or her credentials either, so what can one expect? No respect for tradition at all, probably thinks a mullet's a fish. Or a haircut. Mind you, it's not as if a visual shorthand loosely based on the corruption of an arcane language and a bit of basic chivalry has much of a future in state of the art telecommunications at the moment, but who cares, if it's cheaper? I live in hope. It has evolved gracefully after all for many years, which is more than you can say for advertising or the gutter press. It might even improve the aesthetic. It's no excuse for taking liberties and assuming copyright, though.

What on earth d'you have to do to get a drink round here? It never used to be this busy. That's the trouble with being incognito, I can't catch the landlord's eye. I'll have to go and have a word in his shell-like instead. What can I get you? A ginseng tonic? Some balm? Or would you prefer an amnesiac?