> u
You climb up awkwardly into the hanging forest of fabrics, grappling sturdy sailcloths and worming upwards from one oversized bolt to the next. The soft orange walls undulate gently with your passage. Silks as light as smoke swirl about like eels. Lanterns are distant glows behind the layers, a queue of hazy orange globes running through the guts of this maze. The walls appear to bend and close around you like the shells of an oyster. You climb and wriggle your way along the maze, squeezing through the tight spaces between bolts. It doesn't take long to find the King.

Hanging with the Silk King
This place is a clearing of sorts in the hanging maze, a huge cylinder of a space that extends down to expose the Tunnel's promenade far below. The clearing is ceilinged with hanging bolts of fabric. You cling to a sailcloth along the periphery like a drowning child. The Silk King is a bloated testicle of a man, his naked form girdled in bolts of blue fabric, contrasting vividly against the orange light, and suspended from the textile ceiling in the center of the clearing. A silver tray of roasted beetles hangs beside the King.

> get key
(You would like to have that key, indeed. But the grotesque presence of the Silk King makes you hesitate. If you don't first succeed...) Reclining in his harness, the King takes a pinch of roasted beetles from his tray, sprinkles the delicacy onto his outstretched tongue, and commences to chew noisily, his jowls quivering in salivary delight. The movement reveals a glittering key at his throat, hanging from a thin chain.

> get key
(And the task of obtaining the key presents a severe problem of accessibility, as the King is suspended in the middle of the clearing.) You fidget nervously.

> get key
The Silk King regards you suspiciously. Several tiny flesh-colored somethings begin to crawl over his naked bulk like spiders. "What are you up to, little one?" he says warningly. The somethings are tiny women, you realize, unclothed creatures traversing the grotesque geography of the Silk King. You suddenly feel extremely

In Silk Tunnel
Silks and sailcloths of every shade of orange hang low over the promenade, crowding the long stretch of the ceiling like oversized gonfalons. Lampposts pierce and crack the flagstones underfoot, and elevated lanterns glow hazily through fat baroque braids and fabrics as thin as beetles' wings, filling the north-south corridor with a dusty orange light. Mercantile booths crouch unsteadily beneath the low draperies on irregular flagstones, congregating in dense knots along the walls or cutting thin queues down the center of the Tunnel. Automations gesticulate rigidly behind counters spattered with oil and paraffin, hawking piece goods and peculiar commodities: genital perfumes, olives and cheeses in various states of tasteful decay, insects, lubricants, cosmetic powders. Each booth contains the same selection of products with little variation, as if a single commerce program were assigned to the automatons collectively. Tiny shadows scurry about in the deeper shadows and textile detritus between the booths. Motes of dust wander in the air like subaqueous driftage. Loose threads lie along the grout and in the spaces that separate the flagstones. The Tunnel is not crowded with overeager buyers, and the few customers that wander about appear to vibrate like the rapid flitter of hummingbirds' wings, grey and black figures smudged into the air with peculiar smoke.

> get key
"You're not a paying customer!" the Silk King cries, clutching the key in a tight fist. He floats away from you, carried by his hanging girdle of blue fabrics to the far end of the clearing, where he squeezes out of his harness and into a tight orifice between textiles. You hear giggles and a terrible tearing noise from above, and everything falls upward suddenly. You lean back instinctively, throwing your arms above and behind you in an attempt to grab ahold of the rapidly ascending wall of fabrics. Unfortunately, this is quite difficult, as you have thrown yourself into a backwards somersault. Furthermore, you seem unable to release the textile vine that had supported you moments ago. You spin down along the side of the clearing, the streamer of fabric following your dizzying descent. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know this to be a terrific show. You feel the insteps of your feet whap against the wall of fabrics with each somersault. You lift your toes up, curling your feet into hooks. Your eyes nearly fall out of your head when everything stops moving and stays upside-down, your feet hooked firmly in the hanging wall. You squeeze awkwardly into the wall and stumble downward through the tight pockets of the textile maze, until you are disgorged unceremoniously onto the promenade...

In Silk Tunnel (Again)
Silks and sailcloths of every shade of orange hang low over the promenade, crowding the long stretch of the ceiling like oversized gonfalons. Lampposts pierce and crack the flagstones underfoot, and elevated lanterns glow hazily through fat baroque braids and fabrics as thin as beetles' wings, filling the north-south corridor with a dusty orange light. Mercantile booths crouch unsteadily beneath the low draperies on irregular flagstones, congregating in dense knots along the walls or cutting thin queues down the center of the Tunnel. Automations gesticulate rigidly behind counters spattered with oil and paraffin, hawking piece goods and peculiar commodities: genital perfumes, olives and cheeses in various states of tasteful decay, insects, lubricants, cosmetic powders. Each booth contains the same selection of products with little variation, as if a single commerce program were assigned to the automatons collectively. Tiny shadows scurry about in the deeper shadows and textile detritus between the booths. Motes of dust wander in the air like subaqueous driftage. Loose threads lie along the grout and in the spaces that separate the flagstones. You notice a bolt of blue fabric hanging among the textiles overhead; it is a startling pigment in a sea of orange. The Tunnel is not crowded with overeager buyers, and the few customers that wander about appear to vibrate like the rapid flitter of hummingbirds' wings, grey and black figures smudged into the air with peculiar smoke.

> pull bolt
A muffled whimper is heard somewhere overhead as you pull gently on the bolt of blue fabric.

> pull bolt
A low, muffled moan is heard somewhere overhead as you pull firmly on the bolt of blue fabric.

> pull bolt
A muffled grumble is heard somewhere overhead as you pull hard on the bolt of blue fabric: "Who is pulling on my testicles?"

> pull bolt
Delightfully, you grasp the bolt of blue fabric with both hands and swing from it. You disengage from the bolt and back away quickly from the sound of something big tumbling about overhead like an elephant. A bloated testicle of a man comes crashing and cursing out of the hanging fabrics, landing with a fleshy impact on the promenade. The Silk King moves weakly on the cracked flagstones, his eyes staring blankly into the space above him. Bolts of blue fabric frame his crumpled form. The Silk King moans as several loose threads in the flagstones wriggle alive and elongate, leaping up like thin snakes and crisscrossing over his nude body. You quickly snatch the key from the King's neck. He is soon covered in something like a thin cocoon.

There is but one last thing to do...

By the Green Door
This is the end of the Tunnel, and it is dark here. And quiet. The green door awaits, luminous, lending a chlorophyll tinge to the darkness.

> unlock door with key
The green door opens, and a bloated testicle of a man oozes into the room.

"Ah, not again!" he says. "Get back in that Tunnel and be a good customer like the rest of them, will you?"

The Silk King sprays his crotch liberally with a perfume that soon befouls the entire area.