Maybe one of these pine trees cushioned his fall...

He's dead.

Perhaps the mountain will keep a little of your voice. For company.

When you type in a sequence of characters it recognises as a command, the machine will react.

With any luck, it can show you the signal that goes directly to the prisoner's intercom.

You should be able to pull up a directory of all network terminals. Try 'DIRECTORY' or 'NETWORK'.

This is not the first time you've hacked into a phone terminal, though it is the first time you haven't been able to delegate the task to asset RADIAN.

RADIAN's fingers danced, each input a new incantation. The ember of his blunt pulsing with every keystroke. A sorcerer within his haze.

With the notable exception of the Miracle Line, which remains on a wired connection.

It could conceivably let you tap into the Miracle Line.

There is only one place in Portofiro that PA could be referring to -- Party Alley.

NETWORK should get you the list. Then it's just a matter of finding what you're looking for.

There -- close to the centre, amid the hundreds of black squares, there is a single asterisk, blinking slowly. It can only be the Renotel Artery's location.

Easy. The Pitol Tract -- an industrial wasteland devoid of people or signals.

When Nestor's space program was abandoned, so was the Tract.

Former Supreme Leader Nestor cleared out an entire neighborhood to build the hub of Portofiro's space program 30 years ago. When the program was abandoned, so was the Tract.

Specifically the dual centres of Bootleg Bazaar and Party Alley, immediately surrounding you.

Beneath the city's murmurs, the soft rustle of read/write heads gliding across a disk.

The Renotel technician had such a device -- the Voskol Auto-Negotiator. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

The Renotel technician had a device that did exactly that. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

That Renotel technician you met earlier was carrying a device. Must be that.

Must be a security measure. A Renotel employee could get you through -- or, at least, their tools could...

You're looking for an intercom, not a phone -- there must be something that differentiates them.

You might as well be staring at the remains of coffee at the bottom of a cup.

A pointillistic map of the island, drawn in phone terminals.

Dormant stars waiting for ignition.

It's a background process. Users wouldn't be able to keep up if it was foregrounded.

Must be the faulty intercom.

Keep it to yourself. That way, no one will think to fix it.

Nothing you do can interrupt the mechanised processes going on unseen.

The Renotel technician had such a device -- the Voskol Auto-Negotiator. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

The Renotel technician had a device that did exactly that. Maybe he'll let you borrow it.

That Renotel technician you met earlier was carrying a device. Must be that.

Must be a security measure. A Renotel employee could get you through -- or, at least, their tools could...

Renotel. A diversified communications company local to the state of Portofiro. Immediately recognisable by its dolphin logo.

A wound in the city's flesh. An orifice where the metal veins that twist and knot below your feet are exposed for a moment.

Relays clack in a series of deep, satisfying clicks -- like pistol chambers locking into place.

Connect with the machine, tap into the invisible substructure of the city.

Whoever's using these isn't trying to get better at writing poetry -- they're trying to get better at reading it.

It seems they lack an artist's spirit.

No one in this establishment has a chance at understanding your art. Perhaps no one does.

This is the cheat sheet of a complete amateur.

You at least deserve to be judged by someone with an eye that has been trained by years of experience.

This promotes the analysis of soul-work as if it were a logic puzzle. It's pity-inducing.

There should never have been any doubt about that. You are possessed with art.

Scancions, used to represent stressed and unstressed syllables. Prosodists have fought over whether they're worth anything for millenia.

Did you hear it? The song in your head? 'Twas the sacred art of versecraft, inaccessible to all but the most radiant of hearts.

Really you just need to be able to count to ten or so.

The same pen hanging from the subeditor's neck.

The Editor-in-Chief said she's the janitor of this building. That means she sets the door codes.

Checks