FANDOM


Here follows everything said in Space Quest 4 CD-rom version, in no particular order, as it is a pull from the RESOURCE.AUD file.

Text filesEdit

Space Quest IV (CD-Rom)Edit


Roger: "Real-Rustic, Dodecaphonic, AroundSound Processor. Ever notice how flat and unexciting normal stereophonic, quintophonic, and octophonic recordings are? With the Real-Rustic, Dodecaphonic, AroundSound Processor, your music will seem to come from twelve directions: In front of you, behind you, either side of you, four midpoints above you, from below you, from inside of you, and from the upstairs neighbors! 877 buckazoids." Discontinued? I wanted that!

Narrator: You can't use that here.

Narrator: Ah... the aroma of several adventure games emanates from your person.

Old Man: Data entry, 22.795. This message is to whomever may be so fortunate as to find it. I am Professor Lloyd, a lead designer in the Xenon Supercomputer Project--the ultimate in artificial intelligence."

Narrator: You slide the pre-smoked tobacco stub in your mouth, and after noticing a hint of grease, and cruel breath, decide you'll save it for a special occasion.

Narrator: It tastes like you've just scraped your tongue to shreds on the pavement!

Narrator: Forget it. The doors and windows have been sealed with welded steel plating.

Narrator: It has that unmistakably tangy aroma of pressure-treated petrochemicals.

Narrator: In the distance, the skeletal remains of once-proud structures jut weakly into the chemical-laden atmosphere.

Narrator: You have an empty jar.

Two Guys from Andromeda: See ya on the chronostream, time jockey.

Narrator: The cigar goes out.

Narrator: The water here is quite deep.

Narrator: You don't need to look at that.

Narrator: You're far too busy for that now.

Narrator: Hey, this isn't a free hint service! You need to pay for it before you read it.

Narrator: Sorry, you don't have enough memory to view the hint book.

Narrator: Yes, it's a Reveal-O-Matic Electric Hint Revealer!

Narrator: An Autobucks Teller Machine card!

Narrator: A PocketPal adapter plug!

Narrator: An obviously used stogie!

Narrator: A book of matches!

Narrator: The label on the diskette reads: "Roger Jr., Brain Tools, Stunt Flyer."

Narrator: A darn-cute bunny.

Narrator: You extract the portable power pellet from the back of the bunny's poly-plastoid torso.

Narrator: Your PocketPal now has power! Now all you need is a place to use it.

Narrator: A battery.

Narrator: An oxygen tank.

Narrator: A crummy piece of rope.

Narrator: A handy-dandy PocketPal Portable Terminal.

Narrator: You're becoming a whiz at putting on women's clothing. In a flash, you emerge looking tres chic. Could you be enjoying this just a little too much?

Narrator: So why am I standing around?

Narrator: Beef, at it's finest.

Narrator: Hey, this belongs to someone else.

Narrator: There's that Monolith Burger secret smell!

Narrator: That's a good way to put your tongue out, buddy.

Narrator: If this is flashing, you've just blown it.

Narrator: It tastes greasy.

Narrator: It smells greasy.

Narrator: This conveys the burgers from the nucleo-carbonic cooking chamber and then to the box-grabber for transport to the customer.

Narrator: Essence of Monolith Burger now coats your tongue forever.

Narrator: It smells like the Essence of Monolith Burger!

Narrator: It's more unimportant counter space.

Narrator: You must be bored! Maybe we should turn up the speed.

Narrator: Don't mess with it!

Narrator: The rest of the store seems to be pretty empty, but everything is available through the friendly SalesBot.

Narrator: It's red tubing! You have no idea what it does.

Narrator: This sucks most of the noxious gases from the room.

Narrator: It definitely hasn't been cleaned in a while. Maybe later when you get time, you can give it a buff.

Narrator: It smells like escaping air.

Roger Junior: Jump into the time rip! Do it now! You've got to! If I take the time to explain, we're both parking lot pizza! You'll understand soon.

Narrator: Now that's a clean-smelling window!

Zondra: You said you had to be free to roam the galaxy.

Big and Tall SalesBot: I am sorry, we do not accept ATM cards.

Zondra: Into the sub, flyboy!

Zondra: Well, Rog... I guess we can call it even. Thank you for ridding our fortress of that slimy, awful sea slug.

Zondra: Thoreen, is quite knowledgeable in the ways of torture.

Zondra: Wasn't he great, girls?

Zondra: I'll teach you not to run out on me!

Zondra: I'll let the two of you get acquainted. Thoreen, do your stuff.

Zondra: This is Zondra. We are approaching checkpoint six. Prepare to open the tunnel door.

Help Guy: This toggles between spoken messages and printed messages.

Narrator: Initiating formatting sequence value to 5000.

Narrator: It's the gruff, unpersonable manager of this particular Monolith Burger franchise!

Vohaul-as-Roger-Junior: Is that the best effort you can muster? All this "space hero" nonsense must be getting to you. You're getting old, Roger. I, on the other hand, am enjoying the physical joys of youth.

Narrator: Yes, it's the PocketPal, from the people who brought you the Couch Potato Universal Remote Control.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Remember this poor, wretched soul, for he is your son.

Two Guys from Andromeda: Are you sure you want to restart?

Vohaul-as-Roger-Junior: In fact, I like it so much, I think I'll keep it. I guess we'll have no use for this, anymore.

Vohaul-as-Roger-Junior: Now it's time to settle things, once and for all. You better be careful, though. Keep this in mind: If I die while in this body, that disk will be useless. Your son will never draw another breath. And if you don't defend yourself, you will never live to buff another helmet.

Vohaul-as-Roger-Junior: Come on! Show me what you've got, mop jockey!

Vohaul-as-Roger-Junior: Ah-ha-ha-hah! Hello again, Roger. It's me, your old friend, Sludge Vohaul. I've taken the liberty of "borrowing" your son's body. I had to remove him first, to make room for my mental self. His is on this disk. Say, it's most enjoyable to be in a young, healthy body, even if it's from your bloodline.

Pickle: Bite me, I'm the pickle!

Pickle: I taste like crunchy toe-jam sautéed in vinegar.

Pickle: I'm the pickle. I smell like vinegar on a spring morning.

Sequel Policeman: Halt! Wilco!

Sequel Policeman: Halt! Wilco!

Sequel Policeman: I've just completed a scan of the Labion Sector of Space Quest 2.

Sequel Policeman: No sign of presence at this time.

(Sequel Policeman speaking foreign language)

Sequel Policeman: Halt.

Sequel Policeman: Some people just won't follow instructions.

Sequel Policeman: Halt, Wilco!

Sequel Policeman: How did he get past me?

Sequel Policeman: We must search each one carefully.

Sequel Policeman: Good. I'll cover the opposite direction.

Sequel Policeman: Long, may Vohaul rule supreme!

Sequel Policeman: I shall pursue the Wilco unit. Stay and guard the area.

(Sequel Policeman speaking foreign language)

Help Guy: This icon is for talking.

Roger: "PocketPal Connector. If you are a proud owner of our ever-popular PocketPal Portable Terminal, you have no doubt noticed that, without the proper connector, it is virtually useless! Fortunately, at this moment, our exclusive PocketPal Connector is on sale for just 19.99 buckazoids. Get yours now, before the price goes up even further." Wow.

Roger: "PocketPal Portable Terminal. 'Say! Is that a complete workstation in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?' Now you can carry the power of a dumb terminal around with you without even creasing your jumpsuit. Includes Chiclet-style keyboard, and Dentyne-style mouse. 3,406 buckazoids." Huh. That sounds pretty good.

Roger: "Epi-Chia. Now you can remove unsightly Chia growth from upper lip, legs, bikini area, and small clay figurines. Painless and electronic. Almost tickles, once you get used to it." Yah-right! "Instantly cauterizes major blood vessels. Battery operated. 32-volt drycell not included. 32 buckazoids. Not available in the spiral arm."

Roger: "Dandy RecipeBeamer. Imagine the situation," OK. "The ambassador from Kerona is coming for dinner." Not to my house, he's not going to! "And all you have handy is a can of condensed Cream-of-Orat soup, and a box of nano-wafers. You punch the appropriate buttons on your RecipeBeamer, and instantly, we beam the perfect recipe to you! Over 10 trillion recipes collected from all over the universe, just to make meal planning easier. 455 buckazoids. Estimated date of uplink: November, 2803."

Roger: "Cyber-depunker. If your offspring is turning out to be 'just another rotten cyberpunk,' then you need the Dandy Cyber-depunker. Works while your child sleeps to replace black-market implants, and removes antiproductive attitudes. May cause some motor impairment and memory loss, but isn't that a small price to pay? Battery operated." 580 buckazoids? That's not a very small price to pay! "Currently under U.C.C. investigation."

Roger: "Armatroid 2500. A remote control toy for all ages. The Armatroid 2500 is a mobile robotic arm that can swivel, turn, pick up light objects, tear wings off of flies, disembowel small mammals, and perform elective surgery. Teaches hand-eye coordination, elementary physics, and self-control. 35 buckazoids." Sold out?! Man... I might have gotten that.

Roger: "Yo-Bot, the Ramboid Robot. Having Yo-Bot in the house is like having an extra playmate around. Armed to the teeth with bazookas, laser pistols, and an authentic live nuclear warhead! Responds to voice commands with an authoritative, 'Yo!'." 69 buckazoids! Discontinued!? God, all the good stuff is gone!

Roger: "Real-Rustic WhetherRadio. Hours of fun! Press the bar and get a burst of static. If you can figure out whether or not it's a radio, you're smarter than we are. Ability to pull in stations and reproduce sounds not included. 20 buckazoids. Due to delay in manufacturing, this item is not yet available." What's new with this catalog?

Roger: "Real-Rustic Universal Remote Control. Control the entire universe with one remote control! Open garage doors on other planets. Turn off crucial life-support systems on passing spaceships. Terrify primitive cultures. Requires one AAA battery, not included. 1050 buckazoids. Sold out."

Radio Shock SalesBot: Welcome to the Radio Shock Automated Catalog. Let us be your gateway to what's new an exciting in the world of 24th century electronics, through the pages of our automated catalog. You will find gifts for the whole family. For dad, look in the Electronic Gadgets for our selection of Real-Rustic stereo components. For mom, peek into the Electronic Mommy for a variety of labor-saving devices and marital aids. For sis and little brother, browse our Techno Tots toy department for the latest in electronic playboards. Shopping our automated catalog is as easy as snapping digital appendages. Using your mouse or Tab key, simply point to the menu item of your choice and press Enter, or click the mouse button. Should you get confused, simply return to the top menu and begin anew. "Thank you for choosing Radio Shock for all your electronic needs. We know you will find just what you are looking for, and if you don't, we are wrong, and you should look somewhere else," your Radio Shock Manager.

Radio Shock SalesBot: These special sale items are available for a limited time only. Availability is limited to items in stock, and as always, no returns. Some items may be demo models, scratched, dented, or just not in very good shape. No warranty, expressed or implied, apply to these items. No refund or exchange.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Take a good look, Roger!

Narrator: It looks like a slipcover for a snake.

Roger Junior: It doesn't matter now. I have to send you back to where I found you so history will properly reflect the events which brought us to this point in time. You won't remember much. This will seem like it was a weird, fuzzy dream.

Roger: Hi!

Roger Junior: The creation of the first SuperBiomech Computer was the biggest success story in our history.

Roger: Please help me, that other deal was a total misunderstanding. Anyway, as I said, I've misplaced the legs of my pants. My boots seem to be missing as well.

Hz. So Good SalesBot: PocketPal Portable Terminal. "Say! Is that a complete workstation in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" Now you can carry the power of a dumb terminal around with you without even creasing your jumpsuit. Includes Chiclet-style keyboard, and Dentyne-style mouse. 3,406 buckazoids.

Narrator: Nobody can reach that building from here with their tongue, unless they're in a Leisure Suit Larry game!

Narrator: You slide the conveniently pre-moistened stogie between your lips, apply a lit match, and proceed to nearly hack up a lung.

Trash Can Man: Max, is that you? Agent 99? I always get these lousy disguises! Will you put a word in with the Chief for me? I wouldn't mind, but these kids--all they eat is ice cream and candy bars. Do you know how many Big Chewies I've eaten in the last hour? Not to mention the wad of Big Bang Bubble Gum I got stuck to my shoephone, sheesh!

Sacks SalesBot: I suppose you'll want to try it on, now. Here, use this dressing room.

Monolith Burger Manager: No can do, what with you bein' female and all.

Sacks SalesBot: Are we right, or are we right?

Narrator: So many unanswered questions... The future should prove most interesting for Roger, if he can stay out of trouble long enough to reach it. We're glad you could help Roger get through it all. Thank you for playing Space Quest 4.

Monochrome Boy: Well, lookee here! If it ain't Mr. "Look-at-me-I'm-in-EGA". Hey, fellas, I bet I can toss him all the way up from the bottom of the stairs.

Monochrome Boy: What's this? 256 colors all for one little bitmapped wimp? What a waste of EGA, ha ha.

Monochrome Boy: Well, lookee here! If it ain't Mr. "Look-at-me-I'm-in-32-colors".

Monochrome Boy: What's this? You'd have to be a blitherin' idiot to waste all that color on one little bitmapped wimp, ha ha.

Sacks SalesBot: Appreciate it, hon.

Sacks SalesBot: Oh, it's you again. Would you stop wasting my time?

Ketchup: Hello. I'm the ketchup. Did you know there's more sugar in me than in ice cream? It's a fact.

Sacks SalesBot: Are you in need of an auditory exam, or what? Pay up, pal!

Narrator: After taking a quick look around to reassure yourself that the place is as dead as it looks, you snitch the PocketPal laptop.

Narrator: Mmm... the rich smell of robotic lubricants wafts through your smell-buds.

Narrator: It's a deep-pile wig.

Narrator: Nah, I'd rather not. You never know where it's been.

Narrator: No one can hear you from over here!

Narrator: You never noticed how much adventure game players tend to smell like potato chips, beer, and money.

Narrator: With the way this crowd smells, you'd want to lick them!

Narrator: It's the Software Excess store! "If it's soft, we're aware!"

Narrator: The software store smells of turnovers: High employee turnovers, and low product turnovers.

Narrator: If you think the store leaves a bad taste in your mouth now, wait 'til you see the prices!

Narrator: Oh, by the way, you're about to be fired.

Narrator: Probably some kind of customer detection system.

Big and Tall SalesBot: Let me know if there is anything I can get for you.

Big & Tall SalesBot: These will do for you. Try them on in the dressing room here, if you wish.

Big & Tall SalesBot: If it will let me rid the store of you, I will give you one more try. Come with me then.

Big & Tall SalesBot: It's you! Please, don't waste my time.

Monolith Burger Manager: What can I do for ya, doll?

Big & Tall SalesBot: That will be twenty buckazoids, please.

Big-eyed Crowd Dude: Beat it, jerk!

Zondra: I, uh... I know I can't blame you for backing out at the last minute. I guess I was a little overbearing. Sorry. Can we still be good friends?

Narrator: You are outside the Big & Tall Alien store.

Narrator: It looks like you've got company, Roger. Must be those armed tough guys you met on Magmetheus. Be careful.

Narrator: That was, without a doubt, one of the finest examples of bunny-snatching I've ever seen.

Narrator: The stress placed on the rope during the bunny-snatching was too much. You cast the useless fibers aside.

Narrator: A brightly-colored mechanical hare wanders about.

Narrator: It's just another vital part of the Galaxy Galleria shopping mall.

Narrator: Droid-O-Death.

Narrator: The rope is configured to function as a snare.

Narrator: You start to give the rope a tug, but you realize that the puny little rope couldn't take the strain. Besides, why would you want to catch this grotesque dude, anyway?

Narrator: Timing is a critical factor here.

Narrator: You don't have time for that, now.

Narrator: There's no room for that, here.

Narrator: As the moist surface of your oral muscle comes in contact with the fully energized force-field, you realize your mistake.

Narrator: Thousands of volts pass through your cranium, turning your brain into a quivering mass of short-circuited neurons, which effectively terminates all interpretation of sensory impulses.

Narrator: You hear a high-pitched whine from the east.

Narrator: You hear a high-pitched whine from the west.

Narrator: It's one of the Monochrome Boys! And he seems to be traveling in your direction.

Narrator: Sure, just try and stop him.

Narrator: That would be a bad move.

Narrator: Get closer, Roger!

Narrator: Yeah, the appeal is obvious.

Narrator: It's a WallMart Force Field Generation Unit.

Narrator: Not now, Roger.

Narrator: Okay.

Narrator: It's supposed to smell like a WallMart Force Field Generating Unit, but we could only do 26 different odors in EGA, so it smells a lot like the time pod.

Narrator: It has the acrid, coppery smell of ozone and wind-corroded metal.

Narrator: You've smelled a lot of forcefield generators in your time, but this is not one of them.

Narrator: The crackling smell of the forcefield generator stirs early memories of the forcefield your parents put around your playpen.

Narrator: You are unable to catch a scent from the forcefield generator. Maybe you should try tasting it, instead.

Narrator: In the distance, you see sand dunes and sky.

Narrator: Far away, you see a few forcefield generators.

Narrator: You can't quite smell the faraway dunes.

Narrator: Watching this fine youngster brings back fond memories of your youth. Little did you know that all those hours of playing Blazin' Paddles were in preparation for being a space-guy hero-type.

Narrator: Leave the kid alone! He's totally engrossed in his game.

Narrator: You inhale deeply, sandblasting the insides of your nostrils.

Narrator: The spicy scent of the dunes reminds you of a weekend you once spent on Arrakis.

Narrator: The smell of the sand fills the air all around you.

Narrator: Your nostrils flare as you inhale the fragrant aroma of cold steel with just a hint of sewage.

Narrator: This is a section of the Xenon sewer system. Fortunately, there seems to be very little of the secret ingredient usually associated with sewers.

Narrator: Your tongue's too short for that!

[[media:SQ4-Narr107.ogg|Narrator: Your tongue flaps in the breeze.

Narrator: You will not need to lick the dunes here.

Narrator: Your woefully short tongue is nowhere near long enough to taste the far-off dunes of Ulence.

Narrator: There's nothing worth tasting in the air.

Narrator: You see a whole lot of sand!

Narrator: It has the dry, itchy, uncomfortable smell of sand up your nose.

Narrator: Mmmm... the slow-roasted, whole grain goodness of sand.

Narrator: It smells like extremely hot sand and burnt nose hair.

Narrator: There's a whole lot of smelling going on, but the game still makes no scents (Scents. Get it?).

Narrator: Looks like ordinary sand to me, Roger.

Narrator: The taste is subtle and difficult to pin down, but you love the way it crunches between your teeth.

Narrator: Tastes like ordinary sand.

Narrator: This is the middle section of the Supercomputer's landing bay. The ship you hitched a ride on rests here.

Narrator: It tough to tell what the sand really tastes like when your tongue is a twitching mass of blisters.

Narrator: Yup, tastes just like you'd expect.

Narrator: You don't have time to play in the sand, Roger!

Narrator: Nice reflexes! Life is pounded loose from your body by the impact of the sandbike.

Narrator: Press this button to put the hint book away.

Narrator: Press this button to turn back one page.

Narrator: Press this button to turn to the next page.

Narrator: Press this with the Reveal-O-Matic Hint Revealer, and a hint will be revealed.

Narrator: You'll need the Reveal-O-Matic Hint Revealer.

Narrator: Your Reveal-O-Matic seems to have exhausted its power supply. You'll have to contact the supplier for a replacement.

Narrator: Oh, great. Only half the answer showed. It must be a defective hint module.

Narrator: It smells like the remains of a flourishing civilization blasted to smithereens by an evil entity of immense power.

Narrator: The taste of the street brings to mind all those wonderful times as a child, that the local bully ground your face into the asphalt.

Zondra: No, Roger, you were right. You don't need to spare my feelings. It just wasn't meant to be. It's better this way.

Zondra: You've got a lot of nerve coming back here, Roger Wilco.

Zondra: This is the last woman you'll ever dump on, right girls?

Narrator: It looks to be a sealed, reinforced structure which houses dispatch communications and monitoring equipment.

Roger: Please help me, that other deal was a total misunderstanding. Anyway, as I said, I've misplaced the legs of my pants, and my boots seem to be missing as well.

Narrator: Radio Shock! A Dandy store.

Narrator: These guys mean business, all right, but they sure aren't Harvard graduates.

Narrator: It feels just like a store with hot dogs and pickles stuck to it.

Narrator: It smells like all the other 25 billion Radio Shocks all throughout the Greater Crab Nebula Metro Area.

Narrator: It's like licking a battery!

Narrator: The smell is an unidentifiable potpourri of the various items that hitched free rides on those shoes.

Narrator: Why, there're those incredibly decorative Perma-Shrubs! From Poly-Flora-Permutations Incorporated.

Narrator: There's a powerful eucalyptus odor coming from the plant.

Narrator: It's a cigar, but not much more than a butt.

Narrator: The robot has your typical mechanical aromas.

Narrator: Your sense of appropriate public behavior leaves a lot to be desired.

Narrator: The software selection seems to be pretty slim, except for the bargain bin near the entrance.

Narrator: This whole place smells musty and dusty, just like an old escape pod you used to own... er, ah, well, borrowed.

Narrator: The SalesBot's eyes seem to be having a hard time focusing on you.

Narrator: Be reasonable. What would you do with robot eyes, anyway?

Narrator: The SalesBot's ear just spins around and around!

Narrator: I know you're lonely, but licking a robot's ear...?

Narrator: Don't touch the robot's ear, you don't know where it's been!

Narrator: The SalesBot flashes you a grin.

Narrator: Ozone oozes from his frantically flashing lips.

Narrator: You should stay out of the mouths of others.

Roger: What do you mean, "Was quite beautiful"? What are you saying?

Narrator: Yes, it's synthetic hair all right!

Narrator: You can't taste the dunes, but your tongue gets a good stretching.

Narrator: All the best-dressed bipedal fashion slaves shop here at Socks. The dazzling decor is just eye-numbing enough to make the price tags hard to read.

Narrator: "Wow!" you think to yourself. This place is fancier than Frederick's of Uranus!

Narrator: The air is thick with the smell of synthetics.

Narrator: NO, Roger, the idea is to EARN money, not give it away.

Narrator: Maybe it would be unwise to order a bacon burger.

Narrator: Whew! This dude smells like a pig sty.

Narrator: Warning: The following sequence contains explicit arcade action, and is not recommended for die-hard adventure players, the arcade squeamish, or those with poor-to-nonexistent motor skills.

Narrator: It has an oily smell.

Narrator: The following sequence contains explicit arcade action, and is not recommended for die-hard adventure players, the arcade squeamish, or those with poor-to-nonexistent motor skills.

Narrator: It has an oily smell.

Narrator: Decided to wimp out, eh? Well... we decided not to give you the cash.

Narrator: Mmmm! Famous MonoSauce.

Narrator: Sucking on a bottle of ketchup doesn't seem to satisfy your hunger, no matter what the government thinks.

Narrator: Smells like a synthesized version of an ancient vegetable sauce.

Narrator: Mmmm! Famous MonoSauce #2!

Narrator: Sucking on a bottle of mustard doesn't seem to satisfy your hunger.

Narrator: It's a microwave!

Narrator: The microwave quit a long time ago.

Narrator: It smells dusty.

Narrator: Whatever would you want to use that for?

Narrator: Sniffing the cigar makes you lose what little appetite you had after smelling the air in this place.

Narrator: Mmm, lettuce! Real Old Lettuce.

Narrator: Smells like lettuce.

Narrator: Tastes like pickline slices.

Narrator: Smells like pickles.

Narrator: They almost taste fresh.

Narrator: Must be Perma-Buns. They have no smell.

Narrator: It tastes white.

Narrator: Tastes a little spicy.

Narrator: Smells a little spicy.

Narrator: A green, leafy vegetable.

Latex Babes: Right!

Narrator: It has no smell!

Narrator: An opening... appears ahead.

Narrator: You wisely decide to pay up this time.

Narrator: You start to talk to the clerk but realize there is nothing else in here that would be appropriate.

Narrator: This is your friendly Sales Clerk. He's automated and comes complete with a built-in attitude.

Bob Andrews: Hey, leave me alone! I've got programming to do.

Bob Andrews: Too small.

Bob Andrews: Bad color.

Bob Andrews: I already have 3 pairs of these.

Bob Andrews: There's nothing in my size!

Bob Andrews: Nope.

Help Guy: This toggles between spoken messages, printed messages, or both.

Help Guy: This toggles between spoken messages and printed messages.

Help Guy: This toggles between spoken messages and printed messages.

Hz. So Good SalesBot: These special sale items are available for a limited time only. Availability is limited to items in stock. As is, only. No returns. Some items may be demo models, scratched, dented, or just not in very good shape. No warranties expressed or implied apply to these items. No refund or exchange.

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "ReShrinkWrap 2000! Work for a large retail software chain? Like to take the products home and "diddle" with them? The ReShrinkWrap 2000 re-shrink-wraps any size software box. Is that game new or used? Only you'll know for sure. Keep the customers guessin'. Dealers only, please. 1,033 buckazoids."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Dodecaphonic AroundSound Processor. Ever notice how flat and unexciting normal stereophonic, quintophonic, and octophonic recordings are? With the Dodecaphonic, AroundSound Processor, your music will seem to come from twelve directions: In front of you, behind you, either side of you, four midpoints in between, from below you, from inside of you, and from the upstairs neighbors! 877 buckazoids. Discontinued."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "CD-GI-ROM TV. Move over, CD-ROM, CD-G, and CD-TV. CD-GDI-ROM TV does everything the others do and more. Besides accepting the formats mentioned above, CD-GI-ROM TV also plays high-quality LaserDisc movies, sure to become popular any century now. 842 buckazoids. Estimated date of delivery: Summer, 2735."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: Welcome to Radio Shock, a Dandy company!

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Faux component Swiss Army Entertainment Center. Styled to look like a real set of miniature components, this is a complete home entertainment center in one 4x6" box. Includes CD-ROM unit, turntable, dual-cassette with "Hyper WOW!" and "megaflutter," unfolding 84-inch digital multi-screen TV, corkscrew, and toothpick. 2,275 buckazoids. Back ordered, none currently available."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Cyber-depunker. If your offspring is turning out to be 'just another rotten cyberpunk,' then you need the Cyber-depunker. Works while your child sleeps to replace black-market implants, and removes antiproductive attitudes. May cause some motor impairment and memory loss, but isn't that a small price to pay? Battery operated. 580 buckazoids. Currently under U.C.C. investigation."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "PocketPal Connector. If you are a proud owner of our ever-popular PocketPal Portable Terminal, you have no doubt noticed that, without the proper connector, it is virtually useless! Fortunately, at this moment, our exclusive PocketPal Connector is on sale for just19.99 buckazoids. Get yours now, before the price goes up even further."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Epi-Chia. Now you can remove unsightly Chia growth from upper lip, legs, bikini area, and small clay figurines. Painless and electronic. Almost tickles, once you get used to it. Instantly cauterizes major blood vessels. Battery operated. 32-volt drycell not included. 32 buckazoids. Not available in the spiral arm."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Ice Man, pocket ice machine. This miracle of modern engineering fits in purse or pocketbook, and freezes 15 pounds of ice cubes per hour. Choose from ice slices, cubes, or crushed. Requires mini-hydrogen and oxygen canisters. Sold separately. Breaks the ice at parties. 300 buckazoids. Recalled by manufacturer."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Dandy RecipeBeamer. Imagine the situation: The ambassador from Kerona is coming for dinner, and all you have handy is a can of condensed Cream-of-Orat soup, and a box of nano-wafers. You punch the appropriate buttons on your RecipeBeamer, and instantly, we beam the perfect recipe to you! Over 10 trillion recipes collected from all over the universe, just to make meal planning easier. 455 buckazoids. Estimated date of uplink: November, 2803."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: Using your mouse or Tab key, simply point to the menu item of your choice and press Enter, or click the mouse button. Should you get confused, simply return to the top menu and begin anew. "Thank you for choosing us for all your electronic needs. We know you will find just what you are looking for, and if you don't, we're wrong, and you should look somewhere else."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Armatroid 2500. A remote control toy for all ages. The Armatroid 2500 is a mobile robotic arm that can swivel, turn, pick up light objects, tear wings off of flies, disembowel small mammals, and perform elective surgery. Teaches hand-eye coordination, elementary physics, and self-control. 35 buckazoids. Sold out."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Yo-Bot, the Ramboid Robot. Having Yo-Bot in the house is like having an extra playmate around. Armed to the teeth with bazookas, laser pistols, and an authentic live nuclear warhead! Responds to voice commands with an authoritative, 'Yo!'. 69 buckazoids. Discontinued."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "WhetherRadio. Hours of fun! Press the bar and get a burst of static. If you can figure out whether or not it's a radio, you're smarter than we are. Ability to pull in stations and reproduce sounds not included. 20 buckazoids. Due to delay in manufacturing, this item is not yet available."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: "Universal Remote Control. Control the entire universe with one remote control. Open garage doors on other planets. Turn off crucial life-support systems on passing spaceships. Terrify primitive cultures. Requires one AAA battery, not included. 1050 buckazoids. Sold out."

Hz. So Good SalesBot: Welcome to our Automated Catalog. Let us be your gateway to what's new an exciting in the world of 24'th century electronics, through the pages of our automated catalog. You will find gifts for the whole family. For dad, look in the Electronic Gadgets for our selection of stereo components. For mom, peek into the Electronic Mommy for a variety of labor-saving devices and marital aids. For sis and little brother, browse our Techno Tots toy department for the latest in electronic playboards.

Narrator: Hey, there really is a difference in taste between the bargain brands, and name brands!

Mayonnaise: Hi. I'm Mayonnaise. I'm cholesterol-laden and ready to clog an artery when given the chance.

Ketchup: Yeah, that's right. No smell. Better no smell than a bad one.

Perma-Bun: I'm a Perma-Bun. While I have absolutely no taste, I do have a shelf-life of 3 centuries.

Perma-Bun: I'm your Perma-Buns. Nothing goes outta here unless it's in me!

Perma-Bun: I smell like any other set of 299-year-old buns.

Lettuce: I'm Lettuce. Real Old Lettuce. I taste like an old leaf, OK?

Lettuce: I'm Lettuce. Real Old Lettuce. Lay me down on the burger. I like to go first.

Lettuce: Get yer nose off me! What do I look like, a nostril mat?

Narrator: They can't be real. No living thing can resist your charm.

Narrator: Nah, you've never had a taste for stripes.

Narrator: Aromatic metals, lubricants, and synthetic materials emanate from it's general vicinity.

Narrator: You ask her to dance, but get no response. Shot down again.

Narrator: Hey! Not bad, for a robotic mannequin.

Narrator: Despite your love for Syntho-Skin, you decide that wouldn't be gentlemanly.

Narrator: Closet Mannequin-Whiffer, eh?

Narrator: Although it's just a robotic mannequin, it's not intelligent enough to converse with even you.

Narrator: You like the shoes, but the stripes might make you look overweight.

Narrator: It can't be real! You know you're an irresistible babe magnet.

Narrator: Ouch! You almost got a sliver in your tongue.

Narrator: Dragging your tongue across the synthetic hair is almost as enjoyable as running it through a french fry slicer.

Narrator: Although just an animated mannequin, it's not intelligent enough to converse with even you.

Narrator: Keep your hands to yourself.

Narrator: This doesn't look like your favorite flavor mannequin.

Narrator: Smells robotic.

Narrator: Don't bother. You don't need dummies making you look stupid, too.

Narrator: You check out the clerk. Mmm... you've always had a think for women with antennae.

Narrator: Having already purchased the dress, you decide to stick with men's clothes from now on. Even though it was almost too, too enjoyable.

Narrator: It is darn tempting, but you realize that duty calls and this will have to wait. Maybe you could cruise back by when the game is over.

Narrator: It tastes like Tarn-X. Well, at least your tongue is tarnish-free!

Narrator: Mmm... the rich smell of robotic lubricants wafts through your smell-buds.

Narrator: It's a deep-pile wig.

Narrator: Nah, you'd rather not, you never know where it's been.

Narrator: Whew! From what type of beast was this rendered?

Narrator: You lick the wig and almost immediately cough-up a furball.

Narrator: The latest in swank fashion, displayed in a number of horrifying colors.

Narrator: While enjoying this banquet of fashion, you wonder what you might look like in one of these cute little frocks. Hey, what kind of thing is that for a studly guy like you to be thinking? Get a hold of yourself, fella!

Narrator: Ah... the smell of brand new, simulated fabric.

Big & Tall SalesBot: Thank you, so much, for shopping with us, sir. Do come back soon.

Big & Tall SalesBot: You haven't the money to pay for this?

Old Man: On it's back was the picture of a not-particularly-wholesome gentleman, but that's another story.

Old Man: My counterparts exhibited shameful behavior as they tore open the box to get at it's contents. I could not understand the commotion it generated. The data was uploaded into the supercomputer for analysis.

Old Man: As a result, a crippling virus spread through the machine like a bad social disease. All control of the computer was lost.

Old Man: All screens went blank, then these words were displayed by the monitors and uttered by the vocal outputs: "Wilco Must Pay!"

Old Man: From that day forth, the possessed computer waged war on the inhabitants of Xenon, using our own weapons against us. Some managed to escape to other planets.

Old Man: Those of us who remained stayed to fight the machines and robots under it's control. It was a bloody war. Those of us who were not killed were taken captive and... modified.

Old Man: These cyborgs infiltrated the loyal ranks of resistance. Routing out almost all of our hiding places, and exposing us to the mechanical menace. Some of these poor souls still wander the streets.

Old Man: As of this recording, we are down to only a handful of rebels. My health is deteriorating rapidly. To make matters worse, I've just learned that the computer has unraveled the mysteries of time travel.

Old Man: I've sent my two best men to attempt to steal this new technology. If you are not a machine, then perhaps they were successful. Please realize: You are Xenon's last hope.

Help Guy: Raises and lowers the level of graphic detail.

Help Guy: Select this icon, then select an inventory item you'd like a description of.

Help Guy: Select this icon to close this window.

Help Guy: This allows you to do something to an item.

Help Guy: This icon is for looking.

Sequel Policeman: Yeah. Yeah, right!

Help Guy: This window displays the current inventory item.

Help Guy: This icon brings up the inventory window.

Help Guy: This icon is for smelling.

Help Guy: This icon is for tasting.

Help Guy: This icon brings up the control panel.

Help Guy: This icon tells you about other icons.

Help Guy: Adjusts sound volume.

Help Guy: Adjusts the speed of the game's animation.

Help Guy: Saves your current game.

Help Guy: Restores a previously-saved game.

Help Guy: Restarts the game.

Help Guy: Exits the game.

Help Guy: Information about the game.

Help Guy: Exits this menu.

Monochrome Boy: What's this? 256 colors all for one little bitmapped wimp? What a waste of EGA, ha ha.

Monochrome Boy: Well, lookee here! If it ain't Mr. "Look-at-me-I'm-in-VGA"!

Narrator: Your first thought upon looking around is: "Hey, this store isn't so big and tall!" Then your brain kicks in. The store is crammed with racks of apparel for the discriminating gigantic obese alien.

Big & Tall SalesBot: I assume you will be wanting something in the generic space hero line?

Narrator: Very well, you give the moving walkway a warm kiss. Now you both feel special.

Narrator: Everyone knows that licking a SalesBot on the mouth is like plugging your tongue into a wall socket.

Narrator: This is the only form of actual life that you've seen here. It's clothes are tattered, and a grotesque metal contraption is clamped to it's head, which serves to hold the eyelids permanently open.

Narrator: He seems to be unaware of your existence, as though he is controlled by some other consciousness.

Narrator: Being downwind of the cyborg, you are very aware that it smells like a slice of luncheon meat that's been in the sun too long.

Narrator: Not with your tongue!

Narrator: You took a little too long. Now it's Slime Time!

Narrator: A green gel-type mass flows out of the vent, and down the conduit section.

Narrator: A blob of slime has gained an attraction for you. Is the green viscous congealed wad of bile-helper bent on your destruction? Or is it just a friendly puddle of scum looking for a new friend? Dare you find out?

Narrator: You bend down and scoop up some slime with both hands cupped.

Narrator: You're not close enough.

Narrator: You wave at the slime!

Narrator: This has no effect on the green slime.

Narrator: You have all that toxic spew that you wish to carry.

Narrator: Not quite yet. Wait until it's in the right position.

Narrator: Too late. You'd need longer arms to reach it from here.

Narrator: Either you, or the slime, would have to be in a different position for that. Try waiting until it stops moving.

Narrator: Get just a little bit closer.

Narrator: You are not quite close enough.

Narrator: The slime's already too far away. Perhaps it's a personal hygiene problem on your part.

Narrator: You are not in a good position for that.

Narrator: You can't do that from where you stand.

Narrator: Get closer!

Narrator: You're too far away to do that.

Narrator: That's not possible now.

Narrator: You taste a tiny bit of the green slime. Instantly, several recent fillings dissolve into a puddle of silver amalgam.

Narrator: What were you expecting? Lime Slime? You notice a burning sensation when you get a strong whiff.

Old Man: We made the mistake of tying it into the most important facets of our existence here on Xenon, including our weather control and defense systems.

Old Man: It seemed like a sound idea at the time, and all proceeded well for about 3 years.

Old Man: It was around then that a deep-space salvage operation recovered what appeared to be some sort of antiquated data-storage unit contained in a flimsy cardboard box, on which the words, "Leisure Suit Larry" were imprinted.

Narrator: Roger Wilco, Space Guy!

Narrator: You are in a crude, state-of-the-art sea cave.

Narrator: It's the slug's intake orifice. Looks pretty disgusting, don't you think?

Narrator: This slug has a very dexterous mouth.

Narrator: Sea water and slug slime slowly ooze down the fin of this hideous creature.

Narrator: It's slug slobber!

Narrator: Staring contests were never your thing.

Narrator: These things look like they have a life of their own.

Narrator: Feels like being licked by a large dog with incredibly bad breath.

Narrator: Looks like the internal pressure of the slug is starting to exceed it's external strength.

Narrator: Take cover! It looks like slimy slug guts are gonna fly.

Narrator: Meanwhile, back in Space Quest XII.

Narrator: You give the window a sniff, however, no odor is detected.

Narrator: Dragging your tongue along the window brings you to the realization that it hasn't been washed in a long, long time.

Narrator: You speak in the direction of the glass, but your syllables merely come careening back.

Narrator: It's a flashing light.

Narrator: You should know by now that you can't just take things without paying for them.

Narrator: This store is closed. A security door blocks the entrance.

Narrator: In the window, a robotic mannequin struts it's stuff.

Narrator: This is Socks, a high-class, high-priced dress shop.

Narrator: These steps lead down to the Skate-O-Rama.

Narrator: It smells like something someone would walk on.

Narrator: It tastes like something someone would walk on.

Narrator: This is a fine example of the wonders of fabricated flora.

Narrator: Fabricated flora has an equally artificial smell.

Narrator: You know that eating plastic plants places pressure on your plumbing. You learned that reading Janitorial Digest.

Narrator: They have a minty-fresh smell that keeps you refreshed.

Narrator: As you change your clothes, you think to yourself that even in drag you still have incredible animal magnetism... or is that just a lack of deodorant?

Narrator: Quickly changing your clothes, you emerge in your Space Guy wardrobe.

Narrator: Eh-heh, sulfur! This shopper smells as though it comes from a planet where the only showers are volcanic ones.

Narrator: No way! That would be assault with intent to emit battery.

Narrator: This beltway is great! No more tired, aching feet. No more walking just for the sake of going somewhere.

Narrator: More high-speed travel surface lies useless.

Narrator: This sealed, battered building is the last one standing in the southwestern area.

Narrator: You are at the southwestern boundary of this chunk of city.

Narrator: Now where am I?, you wonder aloud to nonexistent auditory organs. This place sure looks homey. Hey, wait, this looks just like Xenon.... It is Xenon! It's... it's... it's really a pile.

Narrator: Along with the changes induced by an armed conflict, the city looks different. More modern with a heavy dash of post-disaster seasoning. Casually glancing at the status line, you happen to notice that you're in Space Quest XII.

Narrator: What's happened? Who was that guy with the overdeveloped hair dryer? Why did you let yourself get talked into jumping into some strange, shimmering hole? Why are you talking to yourself? These incredibly intriguing questions will quickly be forgotten, with barely an electron stirred in that orb atop your shoulders.

Narrator: A twisted and broken expanse of cityscape stretches south from here, negating possible travel plans in that direction.

Narrator: The rubble is rough and jagged. No sense in risking injury this early in the adventure; we'll get to that in due time.

Narrator: The wreckage left by the destruction of the entire Xenon civilization tastes a little like some ancient ruins you once sampled.

Narrator: The snappy scent of freshly-chopped buildings fills the air.

Narrator: More rubble can be seen to the north.

Narrator: Even when you were younger, way back in Space Quest 1, you couldn't have pulled that off at this distance.

Narrator: The direction of the prevailing breezes prevent any hint of aroma.

Narrator: Decaying and destroyed buildings now house the apparently nonexistent population of Xenon.

Narrator: A real man would actually walk up to a building if he wanted to taste it.

Narrator: You'll have to be closer to the buildings to give them a really good smell.

Narrator: You lick a thick smear of filth off the street. Finding the taste unpleasant, you quickly swallow it. What a smart person you are!

Narrator: You inhale deeply, and detect the aroma of very old traffic.

Narrator: The prevailing noxious wind prevents this.

Narrator: You are in the southern area of a rare clearing in this destroyed cityscape. Your home, as you remember it, does not exist in this period of time. A huge boil of a structure clogs the horizon.

Narrator: You take the small, frayed, useless-looking length of rope.

Narrator: It's a lightweight, worn piece of rope.

Narrator: Smells like a frayed, old length of rope.

Narrator: You run the risk of tying your tongue in a frayed knot.

Narrator: The clearing ends here. Progress south is impossible over the jagged terrain.

Narrator: The rubble is too dangerous for you to mess around on.

Narrator: The rubble is too dangerous for you to mess with, except maybe for that knotted-looking thing.

Narrator: The faint aroma of burnt hemp teases playfully around your nostrils.

Big & Tall SalesBot: Pardon me, sir, you appear to be in dire need of my services.

Help Guy: This icon tells you about other icons.

Zondra: Well, girls, I feel like celebrating. Let's go shopping!

Zondra: Comfy, Mr. Wilco?

Narrator: You were warned not to try to break into the change machine, but did you listen?

Narrator: The word "laser" came to mind after each of the first six shots, but only after the seventh blast were you convinced.

Roger: I'd like a...

Roger Junior: When it seemed there was no hope, we thought of one last long-shot effort. That was to find the only person in history ever to defeat Vohaul. We had to go back in time to find that person. You. We got there just in time.

Narrator: There's the bar, just as you remember it.

Roger screaming.

Roger: Well, uh, this is kinda hard to explain.

Roger: Oh... thirty-eight.

Roger: I'm sorry. I lost my boots and the legs of my pants in a deadly fight with a giant sea slug which I won in the nick of time with my clever thinking and my, uh... cleverness.

Roger: I said that?

Help Guy: This allows you to select an item.

Roger Junior: This is my mother, and your wife. Her name was Beatrice. Beatrice Wankmeister. She was quite beautiful, wasn't she?

Roger Junior: I'm sorry. There are some things I-I wish I could tell you, but can't. I know that's not what you want to hear. Believe me, I just can't.

Roger Junior: You sure ask a lot of questions for a janitor.

Roger Junior: I must get back to the task of contacting all the surviving citizens of our planet. We have a huge task ahead of us. Rebuilding our city and our lives will not be easy, but we will do it.

Roger Junior: I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that! Please, I can't tell you anymore.

Narrator: The rubble is rough and jagged. No sense in risking injury this early in the adventure. We'll get to that later.

Roger Junior: Dad.

Roger Junior: I'm glad I got to see you, even if only for a few minutes. Xenon owes you a lot. Goodbye dad.

Roger Junior: Follow me. There are many things we need to talk about.

Roger Junior: You must be very confused.

Roger Junior: What do you mean, "not as good looking?" I'm ten times--wait, what am I saying? This is no way to start. Yes, what Vohaul said is true. I have many things to tell you, dad. I should start at the beginning.

Roger Junior: That included water, minerals, even the talent of our population. We enjoyed peace for so many years, we took it for granted.

Narrator: Hey, keep your hands off yourself! This is a family game.

Roger Junior: When the Vohaul virus was introduced and began to control the computer, a state of total chaos was created. We were unprepared for what followed as Vohaul turned our technology against us.

Roger: How do I get into these situations?

Old Man: The computer was designed to enhance our lives, but instead, ended up being the ruin of us all.

Monochrome Boy: What's the matter, monochrome not good enough for ya?

Narrator: From this vantage point, high above Xenon, you can truly appreciate the scope of the destruction. What a mess.

Narrator: You are in the Supercomputer's Landing Bay. Here you see the Sequel Police dispatch terminal.

Thoreen: With pleasure, Zondra.

Roger: Whoa! What was that?!

Sacks SalesBot: Hi ya, hon. I'm MaeBot, fashion consultant to the cosmos. What can we, oh, do with ya today?

Narrator: You attempt to smell the moving walkway and end up filing down your nose slightly.

Narrator: Good thing it's not below freezing, or you'd end up spending the whole game with your tongue stuck to the frozen metal.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Then he will be destroyed, once and for all. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Narrator: It tastes like sewage, vinyl, and tobacco.

Narrator: They're bolted down. Maybe you're not the first one to try stealing these decorative PermaShrubs.

Help Guy: This icon is for doing.

Narrator: There's nothing like coating your lungs with rubble dust to get your adventure off to a great start.

Narrator: I'll bet you wish you could.

Narrator: An SQ4 hint book.

Narrator: This is just a dumb terminal. It won't do anything by itself.

Narrator: You liberate the battery from the PocketPal!

Narrator: What do you want, a bone marrow sample? You've already cleaned the guy's pockets.

Mustard: Go ahead. Take a big lick of ol' Mr. Mustard. You'll be sorry.

Mustard: I'm your mustard. Squeeze me.

Mustard: Pungent, eh?

Mayonnaise: Don't bother. I'm really quite bland.

Mayonnaise: Some people think I taste oily. I don't think so. Do you?

Narrator: The smell of synthetics permeates the air.

Narrator: This is the store's dressing room.

Narrator: A good whiff confirms the suspicion that others have indeed changed clothing here. If only they changed socks.

Narrator: There's nothing here you'd want to lay the ol' buds on.

Narrator: The bargain shelves are loaded with all types of great things nobody would want.

Narrator: The well-dressed alien will want to be seen in this lovely ensemble, perfect for those nights out at the solar ballet.

Narrator: This looks like a pressure-suit for something with upper-body appendages.

Narrator: This suit is a replacement shell for some sort of exoskeletal wanderer. And hey, check out those boots.

Narrator: This one looks like it might have been designed for ceremonial functions.

Narrator: It's the Bean Counter 200 Revenue Collection Device.

Narrator: If you had it in your possession, that might be possible.

Narrator: The reduced-cost shelf is stocked full of wonderful junk--ah, eh, er, eh, merchandise.

Narrator: I'm sure the clerk would almost be glad to help you.

Narrator: Want more fiber in your diet?

Narrator: Smells like a pipe.

Narrator: You start to mess with the register, but quickly cease when you notice a sign which reads: Warning. Unauthorized users will be killed on sight.

Narrator: The heady scent of currency emanates from the revenue collection device.

Narrator: The dull taste of cold metal leaves you wanting for more.

Narrator: Small fixtures emit rays of visible light, greatly aiding the sighted shopper.

Narrator: You smell that famous-but-unidentifiable Monolith Burger secret sauce.

Narrator: It's your pachyderm of an ex-boss.

Narrator: He doesn't smell spring fresh, that's for sure.

Narrator: Not with your taste buds.

Narrator: Why, it's a cigar butt!

Narrator: This plant was provided courtesy of Shapeir Florists.

Narrator: Monolith Burger: The only fast-food chain to survive the infamous food wars.

Narrator: Wow! It smells just like a giant, juicy, delicious Monolith Slug Burger Combo.

Narrator: It feels like a real burger place.

Narrator: This is the interior of a battle-scarred tank. A piece of unstable ordinance rests in the corner.

Narrator: Boy, isn't it just like a Sequel Police cyborg to guard the main entrances and exits?

Narrator: I'm sure the Latex Babes appreciate your sacrifice. Too bad you can't experience just how appreciative they are.

Narrator: Just as you fade from the living organism club, you think in amazement, So that's what my spleen looks like!

Narrator: This is a manual keypad. The voice-activated model won't be out until SQ XIV, or so.

Narrator: You look out at the city you were born in, decades ago. You're sure glad you weren't there when this devastation happened; you might have gotten hurt. On the bright side, you won't have to pay those delinquent traffic tickets.

Narrator: That's your head, Roger. Now use it for something!

Xenon Supercomputer: Program "Vohaul" uploaded to main computer.

Narrator: Scratching your head doesn't make it work any better, it only loosens unsightly dandruff.

Narrator: It's some sort of monitor... probably used to monitor something-or-other.

Narrator: This appears to be the display for the keypad below it.

Narrator: The small access panel is inaccessible.

Narrator: It's a large compartment that's probably full of instruction manuals, code books, time maps, and the like. Too bad it's also locked.

Narrator: The large compartment doesn't actually open.

Narrator: A standard time pod headrest. Not very comfortable, but the regular operators have metal heads, so it's not a concern... for them.

Narrator: The time pod's headrest is non-adjustable. Apparently, the Sequel Police are all the same height.

Narrator: Those are unshielded quark power cables. No telling what they're doing to your DNA's genetic structures right now.

Narrator: You don't want to touch those. You might mutate your fingers!

Narrator: This is the time-space coordinate entry unit.

Narrator: It's part of the time-space coordinate entry unit.

Narrator: That button opens the canopy.

Narrator: Placing your proboscis closer to the switch would result in severe quark burns from the unshielded cables... but it might also rid you of those unsightly nose hairs.

Narrator: Licking switches is never a good idea unless you're into that kind of buzz that causes you to lose all control of your muscle system. This could result in the loss of control of all bodily functions.

Narrator: You're sitting inside a time machine, remember?

Narrator: The time pod's interior feels smooth and cool to the touch.

Narrator: Not only does the time pod look like a used tennis shoe, from the inside, it smells like one too.

Narrator: Peering through the port, you see an unusual land. It's wind-carved pinnacles and buttes bring back memories of the planet Kerona, where this whole adventure mess started.

Narrator: This looks like some type of arcade where people mindlessly go adrenal via the latest and not-so-late mind-boggling shoot-'em-ups and maze games.

Narrator: The hare, anticipating your clumsy attempt to catch it in the open, bare handed, won't come anywhere near you.

Narrator: It's too cool to talk to you.

Narrator: And finally, finally...

Narrator: It would serve no purpose.

Narrator: [singing] Blue frogs on my shoulder makes me happy!

Narrator: The large pedestal standing in the center of this chamber seems to be some sort of huge I/O unit for the Supercomputer.

Narrator: It smells like a desperate, sweaty maintenance engineer has been walking around here.

Narrator: The propellers thrust the small sub deeper and deeper into the dark tunnel.

Narrator: This is the shuttle's landing gear.

Narrator: You climb up into the landing gear housing. How clever you are.

Narrator: This is a fueling unit for the patrol shuttle.

Narrator: This is a maintenance unit for the shuttle. It's of no interest.

Narrator: You're not sure what it is, but you bet it would look cool spewing through the propellers.

Narrator: Hundreds of pipes and beams litter the view here.

Narrator: You look briefly, careful not to attract any attention.

Narrator: Thanks to your janitorial ingenuity, the door lock is now destroyed, and you may enter and leave at will.

Narrator: Your innate sense of curiosity makes you wish you knew the way to open this thing.

Narrator: There is no reason to do that again.

Narrator: Uh-oh!

Narrator: None of the codes you punch in seem to have any effect on the door.

Narrator: Well, there's not much left of the lock now.

Narrator: This tunnel extends out over pipes and beams, and toward the center of the structure.

Narrator: The laser beams glow in the smoky air.

Narrator: You see what look like beam emitters, but no beams.

Narrator: You cast the old stogie to the ground.

Narrator: Thin cigar smoke fills the long tunnel, making the laser beams visible.

Narrator: This long tunnel contains three circular steel portals. Each containing nozzle-like projections.

Narrator: The programming screen's format looks familiar.

Narrator: Apparently, the programming screen is not equipped with a voice-recognition system.

Narrator: Probably represents some tertiary function of the Supercomputer Brain. Certainly nothing important.

Narrator: You've seen this mystic rune somewhere else.

Narrator: Yeah, this looks like toilet material.

Narrator: Looks rather like a security droid of some sort.

Narrator: You swish the rubble around in your mouth a bit, but the flavor is to subtle to identify.

Narrator: A battered and boarded storefront shows the wear and tear a little war can have on it.

Narrator: The Andromedan symbol for life.

Narrator: The exit bar.

Narrator: This grate has crud, gunk, and sludge built up around the edges. You can see through the grate, but can't make anything out.

Narrator: The cool, rank smell of a sewer wafts up from underground.

Narrator: Hot lights glare in your face, making you very uncomfortable.

Narrator: This is a submarine.

Narrator: What have I stepped into this time? you think to yourself, as the Latex Babes' submarine makes it's way through the eerie blackness.

Narrator: This is a sea cave.

Narrator: This is not a good time for vessel sniffing.

Narrator: It's a nifty entry/exit device.

Narrator: Hmm... you wonder if she has a boyfriend.

Narrator: You'd better not, she looks like she knows how to use that gun.

Narrator: Talking isn't getting you anywhere with her.

Narrator: Use it, and lose it, buddy.

Narrator: What a babe!

Narrator: That isn't a good idea. She seems to hate you for some unknown reason.

Narrator: Your efforts at conversation are rewarded with a hateful glare.

Narrator: It looks like they have quite a fortress here.

Narrator: There is the faint odor of perfume mixed with the salty sea air.

Narrator: One of the many massive support pillars in the fortress.

Narrator: Boy, you don't know what you did to make her mad, but you sure hope you get a chance to smooth things over.

Narrator: "Compassion" and "warmth" are not words that come to mind when looking at this person.

Narrator: The guard looks on coldly.

Narrator: You see what looks like highly-pressurized oxygen tanks.

Narrator: This isn't your garden-variety slug!

Narrator: Red eyes glare back at you.

Narrator: You see what seem to be pressurized oxygen tanks.

Narrator: This place is like a brick shiphouse.

Narrator: Yup, it's that nasty slug tongue again. Scary to think of what he could do with that thing, isn't it?

Narrator: Cringe. Would that be too daring?

Narrator: ACME Laser Nodes, for all your torture needs.

Narrator: It's a Man Trap restraint system.

Narrator: It's a slimy slug tongue.

Narrator: This switch activates a laser.

Narrator: A mysterious shadow quickly moves from your view.

Narrator: You get the feeling you're not alone here.

Narrator: There's a sweet, fruity odor coming from the building.

Xenon Supercomputer: No program in main computer.

Xenon Supercomputer: Downloading program to beam.

Xenon Supercomputer: No program on disk.

Xenon Supercomputer: Program uploaded to main computer.

Sequel Policeman: He had just aided Wilco in escaping.

Xenon Supercomputer: There is no program in beam.

Xenon Supercomputer: Program "Roger Jr." uploaded to main computer.

Ms. Astro Chicken machine: Congratulations in achieving the coveted rank of Corn Wheezer. You have won the Pullet Surprise!

MasterBurger 2000: Press me to see the instructions for the MasterBurger 2000.

Catsup: Squeeze me, for a plop of catsup. Woop-woop-woop-woop-woop-woop-woop-woop-woop!

Roger Junior: I was born 19 years ago, on Xenon. It's always been my home. The Xenon of today--at least, up until recently--had made great strides in managing our planet's resources.

Big-eyed Crowd Dude: I just told ya! The Two Geeks from Andromeda are in there signing copies of their latest release!

Mayonnaise: Don't look now, I'm dressing!

Rocket Bartender: Hey, aren't you the guy who broke my slot machine? You owe me some money!

Sequel Policeman: We have confirmation of his position, master.

Sequel Policeman: Are you Roger Wilco?

Sequel Policeman: Please come with me.

Thoreen: I've always wanted to see a man> shave with one of these... but I guess you'll do.

Thoreen: Now you'll know the meaning of the word "pain".

Thoreen: Ahh! It's a sea slug! Run, girls!

Sequel Policeman: This is the rebel scum we captured in the Space Quest 4 time sector.

Zondra: Shut up! Your whimpering sickens me.

Sequel Policeman: The readout on his time gun indicates that Wilco was successfully transported into this time sector, as you feared.

Narrator: You give the time pod a long glance. It's not the most attractive vehicle you've ever seen. It resembles an overgrown titanium tennis shoe. A gold-tinted glass shield seals the top.

Latex Babes: Yeah!

Latex Babes: Our hero!

Latex Babes: Sale!

Roger Junior: When the Vohaul virus was introduced, and began to control the computer, a state of total chaos was created. We were unprepared for what followed as Vohaul turned our technology against us.

Roger: "Iceman, pocket ice machine. This miracle of modern engineering fits in purse or pocketbook, and freezes 15 pounds of ice cubes per hour. Choose from ice slices, cubes, or crushed. Requires mini-hydrogen and oxygen canisters (sold separately). Breaks the ice at parties. 300 buckazoids. Recalled by manufacturer."

Narrator: Some rather drab-looking individuals are hogging the bar. This guy's too ugly to describe.

Narrator: Some rather drab-looking individuals are hogging the bar. This guy's the ugliest of all.

Narrator: There is a stage here with two guys singing.

Narrator: You notice the shadow cast on the wall by the inaccessible grate above.

Narrator: A variety of pipes, coolant, and otherwise pass in, through, and around the room.

Narrator: You see a book of matches on the bar countertop.

Narrator: The bartender, due to the lack of resolution, is a plain man. Nearly devoid of features.

Narrator: You see a man behind the bar serving drinks.

Narrator: You have no time for a drink.

Narrator: You step over to talk to the bartender. As you do, you attract the attention of the crude fellows at the bar.

Narrator: You don't want to get into that mess again.

Narrator: A truly groovy band cranks out tired old tunes.

Narrator: You see two guys singing.

Narrator: The band members have nothing of interest.

Narrator: They don't have time to talk right now.

Narrator: Fortunately, they play much better than they smell.

Narrator: They are not interested in that.

Narrator: You don't have enough to afford their services.

Narrator: From your position in the bar, you can only see sky through the window.

Narrator: It's an incremental elevation adjustment device.

Narrator: As much as we enjoy seeing you get in trouble, we must warn you that this type of behavior is universally considered either rude, or amorous, which could get you either killed... or married.

Narrator: These guys are scary-looking. It wouldn't be a good idea to mess with them.

Narrator: You'd best stay out of sight of this guy.

Narrator: Don't throw the bunny at the Sequel Policeman; he may have a hare trigger!

Narrator: He's going to shoot you, not write you a ticket.

Narrator: This guy--or is it a gal?--doesn't look like anybody or anything you've ever seen before.

Narrator: The being, unable to understand your language, acts as though it doesn't see you.

Narrator: Taking in a whiff of air, you instantly notice it has three feet.

Narrator: This guy looks like the Living Torso. He probably works for an intergalactic freak show.

Narrator: It doesn't have the slightest notion as to what you might be saying.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Wilco will surrender to us once he has learned we have captured his son.

Monolith Burger Manager: This is so easy (snort), a human could probably do it. Burger comes out of the oven. Drop on your lettuce (snort), your pickle (snort), squeeze on your mayo (snort), squirt on your mustard (snort), on goes the ketchup (snort), top it off with your sesame seed bun. You make 'em my way, and if you mess up enough times, you're outta here! (snort) Got it?

Narrator: They work as well as they look.

Narrator: Yes, it's the PocketPal! From the people who brought you the Couch Potato Universal Remote Control.

Narrator: The blip indicates a security droid.

Narrator: Maybe if you wait a while, the nice droid will come around to where you are, and talk to you. Mua-ha-ha-ha.

Narrator: It seems to have stopped as if it were... waiting... for something.

Narrator: You are here.

Narrator: You talk to yourself... but you don't hear you.

Narrator: It's a hologram of your future wife.

Narrator: Her golden hair blows in the breeze, and you wonder, How could you get so lucky?

Narrator: It's a hologram of your future wife.

Narrator: You gaze at the image of the beautiful woman, and look forward to the day that you finally meet her.

Narrator: This must be the Yugo of spaceships. You wonder why anyone would bother to lock it.

Narrator: This ship is not for sale.

Narrator: At the bottom of this excavation is a small craft almost totally buried in dirt. You remember barely making it back out when the engine died.

Narrator: There it is: Good old dirt!

Narrator: Tastes like dirt.

Narrator: Smells like dirt.

Narrator: You've obviously found the location of Tiny's Used Spaceships. Lucky you!

Narrator: This is the tail of a ship parked for business at the Ulence Flats Bar.

Narrator: This building is quite small. Maybe this is why it's called "Tiny's".

Narrator: The sign suggests that this place might be a bar.

Narrator: As you check out the sandbikes, you wonder what kind of cheeseball would own one.

Roger: You had to go back in time to get me? Why wasn't I available in this time? What happened to me? I don't understand.

Roger: Hey, if you're my son, who's your mother, my wife? Where is she? Who is she?

Roger: I don't believe all this! I'm so confused.

Roger: That's not a very small price to pay.

Roger: What's new with this catalog?

Roger: I can cook.

Roger: Aw, cripes!

Narrator: Where to?

Narrator: It was the I Love Lunacy show. You must have briefly tuned into the electronic entrails of some long-lost civilization.

Narrator: This is an exhaust turbine.

Narrator: It tastes like Tarn-X. Well, at least your tongue is tarnish-free.

Narrator: It's paper-wrapped gum!

Narrator: These symbols look vaguely familiar. Now, where have you seen them?

Narrator: This lumpy paper-wrapped wad looks mighty interesting.

Narrator: A piece of unstable ordinance!

Narrator: As our story begins, we find the Aluminum Mallard parked outside a seedy spaceport bar.

Narrator: We join Roger is he relates one of his greatly exaggerated tales of adventure. The aliens are only too happy to listen... as long as Roger is buying.

Roger: "Real Rustic Faux Component Swiss Army Micro-Entertainment Center. Styled to look like a real set of miniature components, this is a complete home entertainment center in one four-by-six-inch box. Includes CD-ROM unit, turntable, dual-cassette with "Hyper WOW!" and "megaflutter," unfolding 84-inch digital color-projection multi-screen TV, corkscrew, and toothpick. 2,275 buckazoids. Back ordered. None currently available."

Narrator: It looks like a cross between a praying mantis and Richard Nixon.

Narrator: Must be a duck-billed platypus.

Narrator: It tastes like all the other sidewalks you've ever tasted... weirdo!

Narrator: We rejoin our friend and semi-hero Roger Wilco as he rockets back toward his home planet Xenon, which he hasn't seen since Space Quest 2. Having successfully rescued those two ingrates from Andromeda, he decides a pit-stop on Magmetheus is in order.

Narrator: The smell of devastation is everywhere.

Narrator: It smells like old money, and new rust.

Narrator: OK, you get your last licks on the bank.

Narrator: The rubble is rough and jagged. No sense in risking injury this early in the adventure. We'll get to that later.

Narrator: A hazardous accumulation of unstructured structures blocks safe passage to the north.

Narrator: It doesn't taste half bad, considering what it smells like.

Narrator: It tastes okay, but you generally prefer your rubble extra chunky.

Narrator: It smells exactly like the hull of a useless, burnt-out battle vehicle.

Narrator: It looks like a surface suited for foot travel.

Narrator: You play with the buttons, but the machine does not respond.

Narrator: It smells mostly of dust and dirt.

Narrator: The rich aroma of hovercar exhaust fills your sinuses.

Narrator: The old Bank of Xenon building held up fairly well. Too bad, they turned Roger down for a loan once.

Narrator: You are in the northwest corner of the rubble-choked streets of Xenon.

Narrator: The clearing ends here. Jagged chunks of debris clog the north.

Narrator: The PocketPal screen displays a wealth of almost useful information.

Narrator: It's the PocketPal's Power button.

Narrator: Hmm... the keys are just painted on.

Narrator: What looks like fluid is actually a mixture of toxic atmospheric solids.

Narrator: It smells just as good as it looks.

Narrator: It tastes just as good as it smells.

Narrator: The grate is anchored securely by bolts with corroded heads.

Narrator: It smells great.

Narrator: It tastes great.

Narrator: It seems to have everything you'd look for in a street, with the exception of mobile creatures or vehicles.

Narrator: The street stinks. Somebody must've been driving on it.

Narrator: It's very pleasant-looking.

Narrator: It tastes like all the other sidewalks you've ever tasted.

Narrator: The sidewalk stinks. Somebody must've been walking on it.

Narrator: A hazardous accumulation of destructured structures blocks safe passage north.

Narrator: Ahh, a button. Perhaps I'll give it a press.

Narrator: The desk is not exactly executive-caliber.

Narrator: Nothing happens.

Narrator: You take the jar into custody.

Narrator: There's a hatch here. Your janitorial background helps you recognize it as a sewer accessway. Your stomach churns just considering the wonderful things one can find in a sewer.

Narrator: You realize that this is the only way out, so you decide to leave it open.

Narrator: There's an open hatch set into a cylindrical structure here. You recognize it as the entrance to the sewer system.

Narrator: You peer into the darker area beyond the hatch frame, and see nothing particularly revolting.

Narrator: It smells mysterious. You have the urge to play "Name That Gas."

Narrator: It's an empty jar with a lid. Neither of which does anything entertaining.

Narrator: You've reached the Sewer Maintenance Office. Apparently, this office has been long-abandoned. Your janitorial instincts urge you to sweep up and do a little dusting, but you suppress those urges and concentrate on the task at hand.

Narrator: The smell down here isn't as bad as you thought.

Narrator: It's just an average, old-fashioned desk blotter.

Narrator: The strange little pedestal has wires running between it and the wall.

Narrator: Nothing you can do to it here will be of benefit.

Narrator: This heavy-gauge wire disappears into the wall.

Narrator: They won't come loose.

Narrator: It's the zero-g Skate-O-Rama! Here, the gravity generators have no effect, providing an ideal and unique entertainment opportunity for the entire family.

Narrator: The Skate-O-Rama is illuminated by a nearby sun. This way, you can enjoy zero-g skating while tuning up your tan.

Narrator: These steps lead up to the rest of the Galaxy Galleria mall.

Roger: Geez!

Roger: Gee, thanks! What a swell boss!

Roger: Hello, I was hoping to make a purchase.

Roger: Dang!

Roger: Mom!

Roger: Hey, what are you doin'?

Roger: Let me go, bi--witch!

Roger: Well, now wait a minute. Let's talk about this.

Roger Junior: The population was quickly decimated. Some of us stayed and tried to fight, some where captured, and some fled the planet.

Help Guy: This icon is for walking.

Roger: Um... we're right.

Roger: I think I'll wear it home.

Roger: I'd still like to buy that dress. I'm terribly sorry about that little misunderstanding.

Roger: I'm not sure... I think I'll just look around for a bit.

Roger: What's goin' on in there?

Roger: Uh... yeah.

Roger: Thanks for saving me. I thought I was a goner!

Roger: Mmm... Wild Berry!

Roger: Um... I'm, uh... I'm not sure, but she's built about like me.

Roger: Wow.

Roger: Wow.

Roger: Great.

Roger: Hey! That's a gilled Thwarkian lambotraus! I haven't seen one of those in years!

Narrator: Must be a duck billed planetpuss.

Narrator: It looks like a cross between a praying mantis and Richard Nixon.

Roger: Hey, I wanna know, what the--

Roger: Ugh, (gulp) now that was a bitter section. I don't think I wanna lick the road around here anymore.

Roger: Help! A giant branch has penetrated my vital organs and I can't get up!

Roger: Hello!

Roger: Yuck! Seriously gross!

Roger: Let's boogie, girls!

Roger: Was that me?

Zondra: Said you couldn't be tied down.

Zondra: Activate the door.

Narrator: You really don't want to touch the slime-laden pipes.

Narrator: The pipes have the tangy taste of 100% real steel basted with slime and roasted to a delicate crunch.

Narrator: The corrosive effect of the slimy pipes reduces your tongue to a stump. Now, you truly are tasteless.

Narrator: This must be the entrance to this building.

Narrator: Boy, that was close!

Narrator: This rough area tastes strangely like blood. Oh, that is blood. You've shredded your tongue. Your mother should've warned you about licking strange areas.

Narrator: It smells like cotton candy, roses, and fresh roasted peanuts. Yeah, right.

Narrator: The stench lingering in the sewer reminds you of your clothes hamper.

Narrator: Your tongue won't reach up there!

Narrator: Your nose isn't long enough to reach the vent.

Narrator: You can't quite reach the vent!

Narrator: You see some dripping, oozing stuff.

Narrator: There's nothing you could do with the dripping liquid.

Narrator: You don't need to do that.

Narrator: You don't really want to do that.

Narrator: It smells just like you thought it would.

Narrator: Don't lick it. Who knows where it's been last?

Narrator: A Sequel Policeman! Better keep a low profile.

Narrator: Meanwhile, on another part of the planet.

Narrator: Oh, no! The Sequel Police.

Narrator: You hear an electronic hum approaching from ahead of you.

Narrator: You hear an electronic hum approaching from behind you.

Narrator: You hear an electronic hum approaching from your left.

Narrator: You hear an electronic hum approaching from your right.

Narrator: It's a security droid!

Narrator: You can't reach it from this level.

Narrator: Slot A: Insert terminal plug here.

Narrator: The PocketPal doesn't plug in directly. Maybe you need some kind of adapter.

Narrator: You turn the power on, but nothing happens.

Narrator: The adapter plug doesn't seem to fit into Slot A of the interface.

Narrator: There's some writing on the wall above the stairs. Perhaps it says, "Watch your step."

Narrator: Some rather drab-looking individuals are hogging the bar. This guy's really ugly.

Narrator: The readout displays some interesting symbols similar to those on the keypad. You wonder if these might bear some significance.

Roger: I sure know how to bust a move!

Roger: Nice waltz!

Roger: I want a job.

Roger: Gee, thanks!

(Roger coughs and sputters)

Roger: Oooh, this doesn't taste good. Yuck!

Roger: Boy, that was close! Hey, how come their bikes can go through the forcefield?

Roger: The Ulence Flats bar... my, this place brings back some memories... not!

Roger: Youch!

Roger: Aw, cripes! I hate it when that happens.

Sacks SalesBot: Are you sure you got the right store, hon?

Roger Junior: Once more, I have to ask you to enter the time rip. It will return you to Magmetheus, in the Space Quest IV era. Please go now. It's time.

Roger: Were Vohaul's words true? Are you really my son? You do look a little like me, though not as good looking.

Sacks SalesBot: Listen, hon, I got work to do here. You run along now. Maybe you can bring back your girl sometime. Bye now.

Xenon Supercomputer: Roger Jr. already loaded.

Sacks SalesBot: Trying to weasel out of paying, huh?

Sacks SalesBot: Cut the chit-chat and hand over the cash.

Sacks SalesBot: It really is nice weather, but then this is an artificial, computer-controlled climate. Now, how 'bout some cash?

Roger: "ReShrinkWrap 2000. Work for a large retail software chain?" No. "Like to take the products home and 'diddle' with them?" Not especially. "The ReShrinkWrap 2000 re-shrink-wraps any size software box. Is that game new or used? Only you'll know for sure. Keeps the customers guessing. Dealers only, please. 1,033 buckazoids."

Sacks SalesBot: Listen, you twerp, the dress is 60 buckazoids. Now hand over the cash, or the dress.

Sacks SalesBot: Stop wasting my time. You sickos are all the same. Now, pay up.

Software Excess Clerk: That'll be 5 buckazoids.

Sacks SalesBot: Hi ya, hon. I'm MaeBot, fashion consultant to the cosmos. What can we, oh, do with ya today?

Sacks SalesBot: Oh, I don't think we're right about that.

Narrator: It's you! Roger Wilco, Space Guy!

Sacks SalesBot: OK... what size does she take?

Sacks SalesBot: Very lovely, honey; it's made for ya. Would you like us to wrap it up, or would that special someone prefer ya to wear it home?

Sacks SalesBot: Is she? A likely story. Good thing for you I can keep a secret, sweetie.

Roger-in-drag: Yes, I want a job.

Roger-in-drag: (gasps) Why, you male, sexist pig!

Narrator: This is the interior of a battle-scarred tank.

Narrator: Surprisingly, no one has taken this small, innocuous-looking piece of unstable ordinance.

Narrator: OK, you now have the unstable ordinance. Remember: It was your idea. Good luck.

Narrator: Oh, no! Sequel Police!

Narrator: The young shuttle pilot, his seat suddenly humidified by your surprise entry, fires his pulse ray.

Narrator: The shot just misses you and then bounces off the reflective surfaces of the cabin, eventually managing to fatally perforate you. Just as you fade from the living organism club, you think, in amazement, So that's what my spleen looks like!

Narrator: This is the landing gear compartment flap.

Narrator: This is a landing gear assembly. It currently supports the ship.

Narrator: You're starting to show your age.

Narrator: You examine your puny piece of rope and realize it wouldn't be strong enough to hold this puppy to the ground.

Narrator: You can't budge this!

Narrator: A once-prosperous bank building stands partially wrecked, and sealed shut.

Narrator: You see a rubble barrier to the north.

Narrator: The relatively undamaged building shows no entrances.

Narrator: In the distance, not-so-fortunate buildings barely stand in ruin.

Narrator: The dust kicked up by the retros, the heavy stench of burning fuel, and the sharp smell of electricity make for a unique olfactory extravaganza.

Narrator: You stand centrally-located in perhaps the only debris-clear area on the surface of this city. This was a busy intersection of commerce when times were happier, and life... well... just existed. An odd structure looms in the distance.

Narrator: You look at the finely-sculpted ship. It looks to have been designed for atmospheric operation. Probably used solely for patrol excursions.

Narrator: Your pockets aren't big enough.

Narrator: This seems to be a relatively spacious landing gear compartment. Wonder how cramped it gets in there when the gear is stowed.

Narrator: You sear your tongue on the hot metal. Apparently, it's only safe to touch the now-exposed area beneath the landing gear housing flap.

Narrator: The glove box is empty.

Narrator: You don't want to put that in there. You might need it later.

Narrator: This is where those militia-types enter and exit the shuttle.

Narrator: I think we're looking at your basic surface transportation intersection.

Narrator: It doesn't exactly smell "April-fresh."

Narrator: It's not as big a taste sensation as other parts of the city.

Narrator: I would think that something identifiable as unstable ordinance would be low on your list of fun and healthy things to carry.

Narrator: Serious damage to important body parts pretty much screws up any future plans you might have had for living. Bummer.

Narrator: Pickled cucumber slices!

Narrator: Tastes like pickle slices.

Narrator: The top half of a hamburger bun!

Narrator: You lick the plant. Suddenly, your sinuses clear up.

Narrator: It tastes wet. Otherwise, it's tasteless.

Narrator: Don't bother. The fake plants are bolted down because of people like you.

Narrator: You were nearly thrown off the edge of the platform. Be more careful!

Narrator: The large structure in the background captures your curiosity.

Narrator: You scrape some coating from the surface of the belt. Now, there's probably toejam from all corners of the universe wedged up under your fingernail.

Narrator: It smells like trouble! What's going on in there?

Narrator: There seems to be some light pouring through a row of three openings, high up in the face of the distant structure.

Narrator: You are at the northern boundary of a clearing in the midst of a battle-scarred city. An ominous-looking building is the only thing in sight which might contain life.

Narrator: The rubble is rough and jagged. Your species wasn't designed to traverse this kind of terrain.

Narrator: You talk to yourself, but are stumped for a reply.

Narrator: As is often the case in road design, many features were left out to make it a hazard-free experience.

Narrator: You are at the northeastern boundary of a clearing in the midst of a battle-scarred city. The massive, wart-like complex in the background is the only thing in sight which appears to contain life.

Narrator: The structural warpage--and the enormous, gaping hole--indicate a violent end for those corroding battle machine.

Narrator: Lightning strikes the large, wart-shaped behemoth. It's distance away is great enough to demonstrate the travel-time difference between light and sound.

Narrator: It needs salt.

Narrator: A very wise choice. Carefully placing the unstable ordinance back inside the tank, you decide some things are better left alone.

Narrator: The huge building supports miraculously still stand.

Narrator: You look out at the city you were born in, decades ago. You're sure glad you weren't there when this devastation happened; you might have gotten hurt. On the bright side, you won't have to pay those delinquent traffic tickets.

Roger: Ahh... the smell of brand new, simulated fabric.

Narrator: A battered and boarded purple building stands silently now.

Narrator: Another of Xenon's ruined structures awaits the final, slow assault of nature.

Narrator: The building is inaccessible.

Narrator: It smells like hundreds of sweaty public servants once populated this building.

Narrator: It tastes about like you'd expect it to taste, given how it smells.

Narrator: It's a safe bet the tank had something to do with the end of traffic on this thoroughfare.

Narrator: The pavement has lost that wonderful wet tar smell you loved so much as a kid.

Narrator: OK, you scrape some taste buds off onto the street.

Narrator: One thing this society can say is that no citizen lives on the streets. In fact, nothing seems to live anywhere. This place is definitely DOA

Narrator: Don't you feel dumb standing out in plain sight while trying to trick something into your snare?

Narrator: Those sure are some finely-honed reactions you've got there. Perhaps you're still suffering from "time lag."

Narrator: It is the brain's control panel.

Narrator: It is the disk drive slot.

Narrator: The strange orbs crackle and sizzle with raw energy.

Narrator: It smells like something that wasn't designed for noses.

Narrator: Hey, those talon-things hurt! You didn't much care for the landing, either.

Narrator: You frisk the skewered Sequel Policeman, and turn up a paper-wrapped wad of used chewing gum.

Narrator: My my, rather than the Sequel Policeman penetrating the inner sanctum of the nest, the reverse obviously occurred.

Narrator: Seriously, do you actually think this guy has time to talk to you? He's too busy being dead.

Narrator: Right now, the Sequel Policeman has no distinct smell. But give him a few days, and he'll be quite aromatic. Not to mention, plumped up like a Ballpark Frank.

Narrator: Take it from someone who knows sick, licking corpses is going way beyond simple dementia. Get a grip, pal!

Narrator: You notice a small breach in the side of the nest.

Narrator: Yeah, right!

Narrator: The inedible portions of the pterodactyl's previous meals lie scattered about the nest.

Narrator: This is the submarine in which the Latex Babes brought you here.

Narrator: The huge nest is constructed with sticks and assorted being parts gathered from this bleak planet. It is then cemented in place by a generous helping of pterodactyl saliva. Yech-bleh-puh!

Narrator: Your hair's the last thing on your mind right now (even though it's on top of your head).

Narrator: You see a huge nest in the distance below you.

Narrator: Wow! This bird could use some skin lotion on those talons.

Narrator: You look pretty pathetic hanging under the pterodactyl.

Narrator: Wow, what an incredible view!

Narrator: All around you stretch the stony outcroppings of the Estros buttes. A slender spire of angry, red rock arches it's way upward, poking searchingly into the sky, and plunging down into the beautiful canyons of Estros. What lovely scenery.

Narrator: Your high-tech, but butt-ugly pod stands ready to ride the wild plains of time!

Narrator: You can't do that!

Narrator: Sedimentary layers of rock form a stairway which winds it's way down below.

Narrator: Looking out across the expanse, you see a natural bridge of rock.

Narrator: The smells of stressed carbon fiber, cooling engines, and ozone fill the air.

Narrator: Tasting the cooling time pod would not be a good idea.

Narrator: The shale-like shelves provide a stairway to... the unknown.

Narrator: You've seen a lot of plateaus and sloping hills before, but this one's a beaut! The entire horizon undulates in enticing peaks and curves and crevasses for which Estros is famous.

Narrator: You're surrounded by spires of sand and rock. The ravages of wind, water, and time have exposed strata in the butte, which serve as steps to other areas. Far below, the waters of Estros beckon to you.

Narrator: It's the silent-but-deadly aroma of Ulence Flats.

Narrator: Above the dunes, you smell an overcast, purple sky.

Narrator: As you look around at the towering rocks, immense formations carved over millions of years, you can't help but be overwhelmed by a sense of your own insignificance.

Narrator: You see a stairway of wind-eroded rock winding it's way down to the water below.

Narrator: The skull would love to converse with you if it still bore the soft, fleshy matter which once made it a functional head.

Narrator: I don't know what that is, but I see the need for a bunion pad or two. Maybe some pumice would help.

Narrator: The hot sun and the butte's seductive curves are strangely exciting. You reach the plateau phase, which continues to the west, while the rocky layers climax in a makeshift staircase. In the distance, you can see the beautiful, tranquil Sea of Estros.

Narrator: She looks like she might be familiar to you, someday. However, the gun in her hand looks like it could limit the chance of any lasting relationship in the future... or the past.

Narrator: Hey, would you like your chest cavity to host her spear?

Narrator: The time for talk on your part appears to have passed. Speak now, and forever hold your pieces.

Narrator: You can bet she smells better than you. Better just speculate on this one, or you'll be snorting spear.

Narrator: Best to keep your taste buds kept away right now, buckwheat.

Narrator: This one seems committed to finding out just how good you'd look on a spit.

Narrator: Hey, are you trying to find out how you'd look with convenient handles protruding from each side of your less-than-studly self?

Narrator: This would be an excellent time to keep your nostrils to yourself.

Narrator: Gee, maybe you should walk right on up to her and give it a try... not!

Narrator: Her spear gun is pointed in a direction that eliminates any need for second thought.

Narrator: Do it... and die.

Narrator: She looks completely uninterested in conversing with the likes of you.

Narrator: Techno-smell emanates from it.

Narrator: The submarine has a sporty look to it. Distinctly hydrodynamic, compared to those fine vessels you've traveled aboard recently.

Narrator: The air smells damp and oppressive, like a wet nun.

Narrator: It's not a good time to slap the ol' buds on barnacles.

Narrator: That hatch looks like the perfect place to have an entry/exit device.

Narrator: Hmm... freshly lubricated.

Narrator: Bubbles are churned out by the slow-moving props.

Narrator: Here at the base of the buttes lies the legendary Sea of Estros. The shimmering, crystal-clear water is calm and inviting, giving no hint of the currents that could suck you under fast enough to pull your skin off, and leave your insides standing on the shore. We could show you that, but it would be in bad taste.

Narrator: A spotlight illuminates the floor of the cave as the sub makes it's way through the eerie darkness.

Narrator: You hope these women soon realize that they must have the wrong guy.

Big & Tall SalesBot: We've got just the thing for the likes of you.

Narrator: Say, there's an odd-looking specimen.

Narrator: You have a jar of green acid.

Xenon Supercomputer: Error: The disk is write-protected.

(Sequel Policeman speaking foreign language)

Narrator: Talking to a kid in the middle of an arcade game is almost as interesting as talking to the wall. Give it up!

Narrator: Walking up to a young, active creature like this one sniffing it, could be considered unusual behavior.

Narrator: The change machine looks like a time machine more than a time machine looks like a time machine... for a change.

Narrator: You're not close enough to the change machine to touch it.

Narrator: A real lady wouldn't try to break a change machine.

Narrator: Banging on the change machine will only activate it's self-defense mechanism.

Narrator: The dead fish in the sushi bar machine appear to have been dead far longer than they were fish. The sushi bar was not one of Buckazoid Bill's greatest ideas.

Narrator: It smells like expensive cologne, leather, and tobacco.

Narrator: Rocking the sushi bar machine is impossible. It's bolted to the floor.

Narrator: In all the known universe, the lowly buckazoid is the lowest denomination of all. You can't even buy a dead fish with it.

Narrator: It smells like old, dead fish.

Narrator: As you look around the arcade, you see that some of your old favorites are still working: Monaco Princess Stunt Drivin', Choke and Croak, Ghetto Blaster, and Dweeb Hunter. The air is filled with smoke, sweat, and ozone, reminding you of your favorite cologne, "Night in Programming."

Narrator: Touching anything in here might be dangerous to your health.

Narrator: You clumsily insert the battery into the furry bunny's hollow trunk.

Narrator: Geez! This guy could be a whole basketball team!

Narrator: You suddenly remember an off-color tall joke, but as you begin to open your mouth, your will to live overcomes your juvenile impulse (in other words, you wisely keep your trap shut).

Narrator: He smells a little like vermicelli.

Narrator: What, and moisten his new size 15 extra-tall jumpsuit?

Narrator: This place sells body-covers for the big, tall, and otherwise hard-to-fit alien.

Narrator: The sign reads, "Big and Tall."

Narrator: Forget it. You'll only get hurt.

Zondra: You'll be sorrier than you look, we'll see to that.

Narrator: The mall has that high-rent, low occupancy smell, like any office building in downtown Los Angeles.

Narrator: It's against the third law of mall security to be caught licking mall components.

Narrator: That's not a very clean habit.

Narrator: The suits are locked inside glass cases. Besides, none of them would fit you... unless, of course, you had 12 arms.

Roger: Well... I gotta run, my hog pod's double parked. Hey, it's been swell talkin' to ya.

Narrator: Do that, and your anal retentive host might have a stroke.

Narrator: You change your clothes, not forgetting the items in your pocket. You never know when you'll need them.

Narrator: You gather in the various fragrances offered by the menage of useless items stored here. You learn only that you don't want to do it again.

Narrator: You scoop up the slimy secretion. Better get away now, before it scoops you up.

Narrator: The pipes running along the sides of this conduit are coated in inert slime.

Mysterious Guy: Mr. Karl sent me. I want to know about the sheep.

Xenon Supercomputer: Insert disk.

Xenon Supercomputer: The beam already contains program.

Mayo: Squeeze me for a plop of mayonnaise, you knucklehead!

Mustard #2: Squeeze me for a plop of mustard.

Thoreen: Sit down.

Narrator: It doesn't smell great, but it smells better than you.

Narrator: It's a nice outfit, but you're not sure you have the midriff for it.

Thoreen: Let me introduce you to a friend of mine.

Thoreen: This is EpiRip 357, the most powerful hand hair remover in the universe, and it's capable of shaving your legs clean off.

Sequel Policeman: This is Buford. You there, Delphoid? I found Wilco, repeat, I found Wilco!

Sequel Policeman: Let's split up. I'll check out Wilco's time pod. Our sensors picked up some movement near there.

Sequel Policeman: Yeah, Wilco's around here, somewhere. I'll search the vicinity.

Roger and Roger Junior talking at the same time.

Roger and Roger Junior talking at the same time.

Roger: "PocketPal Connector. If you are a proud owner of our ever-popular PocketPal Portable Terminal, you have no doubt noticed that, without the proper connector, it is virtually useless!"

Software Excess Clerk: Have you seen the newest time travel simulator? Neither have I! Ha-ha-ha-ha-HA-ha! I'm sure we're getting some in soon.

Roger: ... see, there was this deadly root monster, a ferocious swamp creature, and a Labion Terror Beast to contend with. Then, I had to outsmart another of Vohaul's gorillas and steal the shuttle, so I could penetrate the asteroid fortress and pull the plug on that corpulent creep once and for all. Yeah, all in a day's work for a guy like me. Anyway, I aborted the launch and jetted out of there in an escape pod. I crawled into the sleep chamber, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in a trash freighter! Yeah, things didn't look too good, but I blasted out of the freighter in an old jalopy I resurrected from the rubble. What I didn't know was I was being tailed by Arnoid The Annihilator, that one-man collection agency from Hell. He nearly had me at a tourist trap on Phleebhut, but at the last minute, I wiped him out. After that grueling experience, I thought I'd take it easy for a while. That's when I got the distress call from the Two Guys from Andromeda. You ever seen those guys? Geez, what a couple of geeks! Anyway, before I knew it, I was face-to-face with the most ruthless band of outlaws in the galaxy: The Pirates of Pestulon. I was lucky to get out of there with my skin, not to mention those two ingrates I dropped off on Earth. Why I risked my neck for those bozos, I'll never know. Yeah, I think I'm overdue for a vacation. I'm not even gonna think about anything brave or heroic for at least... ah, six months. I'll be kickin' back on some sandy beach, soakin' up X-rays. Heck, maybe I'll even check out RobertaLand.

Sequel Policeman: I shall pursue the Wilco unit. Stay and guard the area.

Help Guy: This toggles between spoken messages, printed messages, or both.

Sequel Policeman: This is Delphoid. You there, Buford? I found Wilco, repeat, I found Wilco!

Sequel Policeman: I am in pursuit of Wilco.

Sequel Policeman: He is hiding in a store.

Sequel Policeman: I will, first, search Monolith Burger.

Narrator: During the descent to this cosmic canteen, he is unaware of the interest that has been generated, regarding his fate.

Narrator: The horrid-smelling smoke emanating from it's tip would indicate that the cigar is already lit.

Sacks SalesBot: I'm sure this will suit that "special someone's" needs. It's all the rage.

Sacks SalesBot: And, honey, if your "special someone" needs a wig, this one should look pretty good on you.

Narrator: The walls protect shoppers from wayward skaters.

Narrator: The rest of the Galaxy Galleria awaits the unwary and poorly-informed traveler.

Narrator: The dome is made from hyper-compressed titanium oxide silicates... or is that transparent cardboard?

Narrator: The strange light pulses toward the center structure.

Narrator: This maze of cables, ducts, pipes, and glowing panels gives the super-brain computer a sense of being alive.

Narrator: You'd better not, something might answer.

Narrator: The programming chamber looks like a museum of bio-mechanical Hell.

Narrator: It's either an electronic eye, or a lightbulb. You're not sure which.

Narrator: It looks like a light of some kind.

Narrator: You get the feeling you're being watched.

Narrator: The heavy, iron door looks impenetrable.

Narrator: The light looks fluorescent.

Narrator: The chamber's interior is filled with hoses, tubes, and wires, and one computer terminal.

Narrator: You see a small keypad.

Zondra: After leaving me the way you did? You male scum!

Narrator: You expect to see George Jetson come flying out of the glass tube!

Narrator: You look quickly, careful not to attract any attention. As you can see, they are carrying weapons.

Narrator: This is the Sequel Police dispatch monitor. At the moment, nothing is being displayed.

Narrator: You are unable to do anything with that, now.

Narrator: You are understandable curious as to the purpose of the large, red sphere. I'm sorry, but I just don't know, myself.

Narrator: The view beyond the railing reveals the mass of pipes and beams.

Narrator: This is small panel which provides access to the innards of the time pod. If you have a 3P2-234QR Access Panel Wrench, that is.

Narrator: It feels remarkably similar to a walled structure.

Narrator: It has no noticeable aroma.

Narrator: It tastes like nothing you'd ever want to put your tongue on again.

Narrator: A sidewalk anyone would be proud to own.

Narrator: This section of the sidewalk still smells fresh, after hundreds of years.

Narrator: Time and space bend under the fibrillations of the time-rip transfluxers. Your adrenaline (and stomach) reel with the hyperbolic hyperbole.

Narrator: You talk to yourself.

Narrator: A bargain bin containing discount software.

Narrator: Ahh, yeah!

Narrator: From the folks who brought you Astro Chicken: When it comes to stimulating chickens, Chuck Egger is the expert, and now you're him! Design the chicken of your choice (over 40 options including Lips, No Lips, and Laying Frequency), and take your creation for a wild ride over real barnyard scenery, based on an authentic flight model of a chicken! You're in for a peck of fun now!

Narrator: Even if you were to lasso a Sequel Policeman, what would you do with him?

Narrator: Try as you might, the gum just gets stuck to your fingers.

Narrator: He's going to shoot you, not write you a ticket!

Narrator: Gooey, greasy little fingers, and various appendages, have left a coating that smells like a cross between cotton candy and dead gerbils.

Narrator: Yuck! You had to taste it. Well, it tastes more like dead gerbils than like cotton candy.

Narrator: Back off, it's not your turn.

Narrator: The sign says Ms. Astro Chicken. How strange that nobody is playing it.

Narrator: Whoa! This game's circuits have melted into a mass of molten silicon. But the fireworks were pretty.

Narrator: You give the time pod a long glance. It resembles an overgrown, titanium tennis shoe.

Narrator: It smells scorched.

Narrator: It tastes scorched. Oxidized materials now coat your tongue.

Narrator: It's one of Vohaul's Sequel Policemen.

Narrator: No way! That would be assault with intent to emit battery!

Narrator: The Ms. Astro Chicken machine looks as though it's taken it's last buckazoid.

Narrator: You seem to be fresh out of buckazoids!

Narrator: Your best score on Cap'n Zappo was 251. This kid has 15,290,912!

Narrator: The Ghetto Blaster game is completely socially irredeemable, gratuitously violent, and without a doubt, the most popular arcade game ever.

Narrator: Boy, you'd think after all these years, they'd come up with something more sophisticated than frogs jumping from log to log.

Narrator: This Slime Flyer machine has seen better days.

Narrator: It's some sort of video art form. Looks like a computer-generated fractal simulation of a washing machine.

Narrator: That's too high for you to reach.

Narrator: That's too high for you to smell.

Narrator: That's too high for you to taste.

Narrator: It's some sort of video art form. Looks like a hand throwing a pizza.

Narrator: This game, Dweeb Hunter, reminds you too much of your present predicament... and guess who the dweeb is...

Narrator: Gazing at the wastebasket, your impulse, nay, your very instinct, nay, the very fibers of your being scream out for you to pick up that garbage. But you're too busy!

Narrator: You resist those inbred custodial tendencies to collect garbage. You have much more important garbage to attend to.

Narrator: You're quite startled to hear the wastebasket respond.

Narrator: Give your nose a break. It's a garbage can!

Narrator: You'd better not throw that away. It'll probably come in handy later. I know it doesn't seem likely, but trust me on this one.

Narrator: OK, you taste great, and find it less filling.

Narrator: The grate is anchored securely by bolts with mildly corroded heads.

Narrator: Watch out for that first step!

Narrator: There's a tunnel leading into the middle of the structure.

Narrator: You can't actually see those; you just think you can.

Narrator: "Ent"? Must be a secret code. Perhaps it means "self-destruct," or maybe "change return."

Narrator: The powerful quad-quark drives rev to life.

Narrator: Nothing happens. You're already there, Roger.

Narrator: Nothing much happens. That must not have been a valid code. Try again.

Narrator: It's a button with a strange symbol on it. You vaguely remember these symbols from your fifth grade Time Theory class with crazy Mrs. Drimple.

Narrator: You don't know what it says, but you're sure it's not flattering.

Narrator: This is just one of over 2.5 million Monolith Burger franchises scattered around the known universes.

Narrator: You lick the mannequin and find that it doesn't please your palate.

Narrator: Although just a mannequin, it's not intelligent enough to converse with even you.

Narrator: The skin color and cape make a statement; the kind taken in police stations.

Narrator: Wow, genuine Zinthian leather.

Narrator: Whoa, baby! Where've ya been? Eau de Water Buffalo went out of style epics ago.

Narrator: Sorry, no brain.

Narrator: These wigs are the latest fashion, if you have a conehead or like the Purple Haze look.

Narrator: Yep, it's synthetic hair.

Narrator: If your tongue were that long... well... you can guess the rest.

Narrator: No smell.

Narrator: It's the dressing room door.

Narrator: These are some darn attractive wigs. Just the thing if you want a head like an axe, or you want to capture that Ed Grimley look.

Narrator: Dragging your tongue across the fine strands of synthetic hair is almost as enjoyable as running it through a french fry slicer.

Narrator: It tastes like it smells.

Narrator: This door seems to be closed. A security door blocks the entrance.

Narrator: It's locked down tight. You can't open it.

Narrator: It smells like the kind of place where unwashed teenagers stand around smoking, sweating, or performing other unmentionable teenage acts.

Narrator: In all the known universe, the buckazoid is the lowest denomination of all. You can't get change for it.

Narrator: These lights are hypnotic. Maybe they're some of those subliminal optic stimulators you've read about. As you gaze into their glare, you become very hungry for sushi.

Narrator: Why, it's Buckazoid Bill's Arcade and Sushi Bar!

Narrator: There's a fresh, woodsy, artificial scent coming from the plant.

Narrator: The aroma is a tasteful melange of pine and potpourri.

Narrator: Have some taste, Roger. These are phony mall plants.

Narrator: That would be most unwise.

Narrator: Seeing as how these guys are trying to kill you, your best line of defense would be a straight one out of here.

Narrator: You'd best stay out of sight of this guy.

Narrator: You'd better not. You might need that later.

Narrator: The taste of devastation is everywhere.

Narrator: You are at the left edge of this area. More debris chokes off the west.

Narrator: The Sequel Police are closely monitored by Vohaul. Bribing them would be out of the question.

Narrator: This must be the back of the bar. Some fading graffiti adorns the wall.

Narrator: Back here, the bar smells like everything they didn't want stinking up the front.

Narrator: An interesting mix of flavors: Stale Keronian ale, regurgitated Keronian ale, and Keronian ale that's otherwise been used and disposed of.

Narrator: You see the Droids-B-Us store in the distance.

Narrator: We're glad you could play Space Quest IV! As usual, you've been a real pantload.

Narrator: Smoking is bad for your health.

Narrator: It looks like shoplifting is taken seriously around here.

Narrator: Next time, don't dilly-dally, dude.

Narrator: We hope you'll get yourself together, and rejoin us. Isn't this a blast?

Narrator: The formatting sequence times out, the computer brain does it's thing, and you suddenly realize you've lost the game because you weren't there to see it.

Narrator: Your musculature spasms for the last time, as for the forcefield shock causes you to give up the ghost.

Narrator: Oh well, just think proudly of your accomplishment. On second thought, just think. It even happens to important people.

Narrator: Why did you just stand there? Well, I guess you just enjoy a laser buzz once and a while.

Narrator: Now you knew he was coming, didn't you?

Narrator: That's just great. Now Vohaul's on the loose again, disguised as your son! You lose three out of two.

Narrator: Zero-G skating might be perfect for you, since you've got a zero IQ

Narrator: As the green slime dissolves the flesh from your bones, you think, Hey, this stuff consumes 47 times it's weight in acid!

Narrator: Hint: Hitting a moving target is more difficult than hitting a stationary lump.

Narrator: Were you looking for trouble? Maybe you thought you could beat them senseless with your pink bunny rabbit.

Narrator: This is Roger. This is Roger on Ortega. Any questions?

Narrator: Zap, zap! You're dead!

Narrator: Well, maybe. It's worth a try.

Narrator: As you leave the laser tunnel, you hear a metallic voice announce that the formatting program is beginning. Erasing all data in the Supercomputer, and dashing all hopes of regaining your son.

Narrator: For a fleeting moment, you are impressed with the droid's accuracy.

Narrator: Now, this is a pain that'll linger. All the Ben Gay in Florida won't relieve this stiffness.

Narrator: That was a long first step!

Narrator: While you were busy staring blankly at your PocketPal screen, a droid snuck up behind you, tapped you on the shoulder... Zap! You're it!

Narrator: It's not over until the fat lady Orat spits. Well, it's over. All over. All over everything.

Narrator: Boy, these guys pop up in the most inconvenient places. They seem to have this area secured. Your extra-crispy parts sure provide no threat.

Narrator: Desperately, you try to push the button, but the restraints are just too tight.

Narrator: You step out looking good-as-new.

Narrator: Shiny, stainless steel instruments cover the surgical tray. Some of them look vaguely familiar as veterinary instruments.

Narrator: They're well-affixed.

Narrator: The manhole cover is getting heavy.

Narrator: You slide down the slimy ladder as the manhole cover slams back into place.

Narrator: The manhole cover is simply an incredibly heavy slab of metal, trying to tamp you back into the tube.

Narrator: The sleek patrol transport occupies the area presently.

Narrator: If you can do anything with the ship, you certainly can't do it from here.

Narrator: There's that green building again.

Narrator: That white building sits over yonder. You start to become properly oriented regarding your position.

Narrator: The dank and slimy conduit calls to you.

Narrator: Your head is unusually well-suited to serve as a manhole cover coaster.

Narrator: The only thing you can do to avoid flattening your head any further is get in, or get out.

Narrator: You have a low-level view of the street from your manhole perch.

Narrator: There's a small vent set into the side of the sewer tunnel. Unfortunately, it looks way to narrow for a space janitor--even a skinny one--to squeeze inside.

Narrator: This hatch, locked from the other side, was your portal to this area.

Narrator: This hatch opens from the other side, only.

Narrator: Nobody can hear you through the thick door.

Narrator: Oh, no! The door has shut, and there's no way back. What are you going to do now?

Narrator: A sturdy, metal ladder is attached to the wall here. At the top of the ladder, there appears to be something resembling the underside of a manhole cover.

Narrator: Not now!

Narrator: Even standing on your tip-toes, you'd never be able to reach that with your tongue.

Narrator: This must be Vohaul's chamber, where his dirtiest of deeds are set into motion. You can sense that this place is alive with raw energy.

Narrator: You don't really want to go down there again.

Narrator: Dang!

Narrator: It's Roger Junior!

Narrator: It's a disk drive.

Narrator: It's a disk drive unit.

Narrator: The ladder leads down to the floor far below.

Narrator: The orbs crackle and sizzle with raw energy.

Narrator: The orbs just seem to hover in mid-air.

Narrator: This is the top half of an odd I/O unit. It also provides lighting for the area.

Sacks SalesBot: Oh, let me guess: You want something for someone very special. Someone who'd die to get the latest in high galactic fashion.

Big & Tall SalesBot: Ah, it's you again.

Help Guy: This toggles between spoken messages, printed messages, or both.

Narrator: It is darn tempting, but you realize that duty calls and this will have to wait. Maybe you can cruise back by when the game is over.

Big & Tall SalesBot: It's you again? Stop wasting my time!

Big & Tall SalesBot: How dare you try to leave without paying!

Big & Tall SalesBot: I see. Well... all right. Let me get your measurements.

Big & Tall SalesBot: I'm dearly sorry, miss, this is a male clothing store.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Well, what have we here?

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: That is no longer a concern.

Sacks SalesBot: I don't want to have to throw you out, but if you don't hand over the cash, I'll have no choice.

Sacks SalesBot: We don't haggle over prices here, hon. Either pay up, or put the dress back.

Sacks SalesBot: Thanks for shoppin' at Sacks.

Sacks SalesBot: Just what we thought. That will be 60 buckazoids, sicko.

Sacks SalesBot: Oh, it's you again. What do you want?

Sacks SalesBot: Well, okay. But don't try that again. If you have to be weird, fine, but we don't appreciate shoplifters, dear.

Sacks SalesBot: Let us know if we can help.

Sacks SalesBot: Hi ya, hon. I'm MaeBot, fashion consultant to the cosmos. What can we do with ya today?

Sacks SalesBot: I think you're cute, too, but looks won't pay for those designer duds.

Software Excess Clerk: Thank you!

Software Excess Clerk: I wouldn't try that if I was you.

Software Excess Clerk: Excuse me, ma'am. Would you like to pay for that?

Narrator: You inhale the smell of the column, and file it away in your brain under "useful information."

Software Excess Clerk: Excuse me, sir. Would you like to pay for that?

Software Excess Clerk: Ah. I see you've made a selection from our box of slop--er, bargain bin.

Sequel Policeman: Affirmative.

Software Excess Clerk: I'm sure you'll be satisfied with your selection.

Software Excess Clerk: Didn't find anything you like, huh?

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Hello, Roger Wilco. Surprised to see an old friend? You have no idea how special this moment is for me. This is no chance encounter, I can assure you.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: I have just one loose end to tie up before I begin my reign as the supreme being of all that exists.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: I do not like to lose! You were a blemish on what would otherwise be a perfect record of domination, terror, and invincibility. Besides, I'm still a bit miffed about that asteroid deal in Space Quest 2.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Anyway, to relieve the pain of my humiliation, and prevent you from being a pain in my... future, you must die. It's been nice seeing you one last time. Men, do the dirty deed.

Vohaul-as-Vohaul: Off to Magmetheus with you, then. It is time for Wilco to meet the fate which I have crafted for him.

Roger Junior: You go left and split 'em up! Mr. Wilco, follow me and do exactly as I say. Let's move!

Roger Junior: Listen, I can't explain it all to you now. They got a bean on our coordinates. We've got to move fast.

Monolith Burger Manager: You're fired! My janitor could do a better job than you could.

Roger Junior: We got to do this fast. Shield your eyes!

Monolith Burger Manager: You would, huh? Well, this is the greatest opportunity you've ever had, kid. Benefits up the wazoo, and if you stick with me a half-hour or so, I'll make ya my Assistant Manager. Now, how would ya like that?

Big-eyed Crowd Dude: The Two Geeks from Andromeda are in there signing copies of their latest release.

Monolith Burger Manager: No shirt, no shoes, no service!

Monolith Burger Manager: Oh, you again. What do you want?

Monolith Burger Manager: Would ya like to apply for a job?

Monolith Burger Manager: Yeah?

Monolith Burger Manager: I'm tired of firin' ya. Now scram!

Monolith Burger Manager: You would, huh? Well, this is the greatest op--eh... you've heard the pitch before. Just don't screw up, or I'll land ya on yer ear again. Got it?

Monolith Burger Manager: We're out of it! We're out of everything, including employees.

Monolith Burger Manager: If ya need to know how to run the assembly line, read the sign. Just click it with the mouse or press R.

Narrator: It smells a little like Julinar, the enchanted plant-woman from Quest for Glory 2!

Narrator: It tastes like another cheap plug for another Sierra product.

Narrator: The bolted-down grate won't budge.

Narrator: A battered and boarded storefront shows the wear-and-tear a little war can inflict.

Narrator: The building is closed up with welded metal panels.

Narrator: A large void indicates the absence of any dense matter.

Narrator: As is so often the case with voids, there is nothing to smell.

Narrator: As is so often the case with voids, there is nothing to taste.

Narrator: The fluid-looking gas lying in the corner is actual crystallized toxic runoff.

Narrator: There's nothing like fresh air and sunshine to make a sidewalk taste great.

Narrator: It's probably the most nauseating thing to smell in the whole family of smells.

Narrator: It looks as though another unfortunate adventurer is suffering a similar fate.

Narrator: Huge supports miraculously do just that to these huge buildings.

Narrator: You're probably getting bored with these street descriptions. So, in an effort to decrease the message tedium to some degree, I won't go into some long description about the grates or the sizable void to the east. Happy adventuring!

Narrator: The artificial taste of the Xenon road makes you long for the all-natural flavor of unpaved country lanes.

Narrator: You are at the eastern boundary of a clearing in this ruined city. Passage to the east is impossible, due to a great void in the landscape.

Narrator: You smell the sidewalk... and it smells back!

Narrator: You give the sidewalk a lick, and accidentally step on a crack. Somewhere, your mother screams out in agony, her spinal cord snapped cleanly in half. Of course, she probably deserved it for the way she through out those magazines she found in your room that time back in junior high. Those things cost you a lot of good lunch money.

Narrator: After being away for so long, you'd forgotten how rancid the streets of Xenon smell.

Narrator: You were nearly thrown off the edge of the platform! Be more careful!

Narrator: The interior of the air-car sports many broken gauges and instruments, as well as a glove box.

Narrator: It is a closed glove box.

Narrator: The place is a mess. Dangerous terrain prevents travel to the south.

Narrator: It looks like a genuine PocketPal Portable Terminal.

Narrator: A quick inspection reveals nothing of interest, other than a glove box.

Narrator: The zesty tang of nitroglycerin fills the air around the ship.

Narrator: It tastes like ship.

Narrator: It's definitely the most nauseating thing to taste in the whole non-liquid liquid family of tastes.

Narrator: The rubble is too hazardous to attempt passage over.

Narrator: It smells a little like pebbles and a little like the rubbles.

Narrator: It tastes like a cement milkshake, only crunchy.

Narrator: From here, you can't really smell the Droids-B-Us building.

Narrator: You'll have to get closer if you want to lick the Droids-B-Us building.

Narrator: Licking a time pod that's just emerged from the chronostream is like sticking your tongue in a curling iron.

Narrator: This model is programmed to interact with the customers with it's touchscreen chest-monitor.

Narrator: The friendly SalesBot smiles at you and thanks you for licking his chest-monitor clean.

Narrator: It smells dusty, like old electronics.

Narrator: PocketPal Connector Plug.

Narrator: One of several varieties of PocketPal Connector Plugs.

Narrator: You obviously don't resemble a blonde woman. What a surprise.

Narrator: Fat chance! Your account has been exhausted.

Narrator: You are now richer by the amount shown on your screen.

Narrator: There is no reply.

Narrator: A few items are on display in the window.

Narrator: Wow! An Autobucks Teller Machine!

Narrator: Your arms won't reach that far.

Narrator: It smells more like fresh buckazoids than the other leading brand of ATM.

Narrator: It tastes more like fresh buckazoids than the other leading brand of ATM.

Narrator: The ruined buildings smell of death and destruction.

Narrator: Creases from tank treads, craters from incoming ordinance, and gouges from fallen debris are the only deviations in an otherwise smooth surface.

Narrator: You never noticed how much adventure game players tend to smell like potato chips, beer, and money.

Narrator: With the way this crowd smells, you'd want to lick them!

Narrator: It's the Software Excess store: "If it's soft, we're aware!"

Narrator: The software store smells of turnovers: High employee turnovers and low product turnovers.

Narrator: If you think the store leaves a bad taste in your mouth now, wait 'til you see the prices!

Narrator: This plant was provided courtesy of Shapeir Florists.

Narrator: Probably some kind of customer detection system.

Narrator: The clerk is keeping his eye on you.

Narrator: You should pick something out before you give money to the clerk.

Narrator: You have already paid the clerk.

Narrator: Ah! The distinctive aroma of Centauri Moon #5.

Narrator: It's an Autobucks Teller Machine card.

Narrator: The clerk was right; only boring applications soft ware remains.

Narrator: Memories race through your mind. You know you've seen this place in your distant past. The low-resolution features look exactly like a place you once visited called Ulence Flats.

Narrator: This view provides a flashback to a recent adventure. It looks real hot out there. Hot enough for Thermo-Weave Underwear.

Narrator: You find yourself in a nest perched high above the irregular surface of this butte-laden planet.

Narrator: Why would you want to wreck the nice bike?

Narrator: This long-legged beauty stands silently, waiting for it's jet-faced owner to return.

Narrator: It looks like it came from the Planet of the Warts. This ship must be the Plantar's deluxe model, with authentic mosaic upholstery.

Narrator: She said she was busy.

Narrator: Would stripes look good on me? you wonder. Those boots are... attractive.

Narrator: You give the time pod a long glance. It resembles an overgrown, titanium tennis shoe. A tinted glass shield seals the top.

Narrator: It smells like a time pod broiling in the Ulence sun.

Narrator: This closely resembles the left side of Droids-B-Us.

Narrator: It smells like an old lawsuit coming back to haunt the Two Guys from Andromeda.

Narrator: Taste tempting stucco, and what a nice sanding job it does on your tongue!

Narrator: It's got the dry, musty smell of a store that's filed for Chapter 11.

Narrator: The poor taste of the building is only matched by the poor taste of the architect.

Narrator: The gate is down, the store is closed.

Narrator: For all of your droid-related needs, see us... when we're open.

Narrator: The sign indicates that this establishment is not open for business.

Narrator: The old bar is still here. The smell of Keronian ale stinks up the place. The aroma leads you to remember vividly your previous visit here. You break out in a cold sweat.

Narrator: Your attempt to get the matches failed.

Narrator: You pick up the book of matches.

Narrator: You speak to the bartender. He looks up at you and says, "Hey, aren't you the guy who broke my slot machine? You owe me some money!"

Narrator: You explain that you are really very busy and must be going.

Narrator: You see the bar's floor.

Narrator: This looks like the bar in Space Quest 1.

Narrator: This is the patrol shuttle you hitched a ride on.

Narrator: For some reason, there is a gathering here.

Narrator: No one can hear you from over here!

Narrator: Following closely on the heels of his hit Tic-Tac-Toe Construction Set, Phil Fudge does it again! Using a simple point-and-click interface, you construct the checkerboard of your dreams! Fill in an eight-by-eight grid with squares of your choice--red or black--in any arrangement, as long as it's alternating. Don't like it? Erase it and start all over again. Requires MCGA, CGA, VGA, PGA, or Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-GA.

Narrator: The latest bomb from master storyteller Mori Brianarty, BOOM!, is a post-holocaust adventure set in post-holocaust America after the holocaust. Neutron bombs have eradicated all life, leaving only you to wander through the wreckage. No other characters, no conflict, no puzzles, no chance of dying, and no interface make this the easiest-to-finish game yet! Just boot it up and watch it explode!

Narrator: The Two Guys from Andromeda's latest sci-fi comedy, Space Quest IV, will give you hours of frustration, unless you have this hint book. Want to know how to get the dog into the hanging basket? Want to find out how to attach the melon? Buy this hint book, and it all becomes obvious. You'll hit your head and say, "Boy, how stupid could I have been? A moron could've figured this out! I must be a real dimwit! A pathetic nimnul! A wretched, idiotic excuse for a human being not to have figured out these simple puzzles in the first place!" Try it and see!

Narrator: It's the newest in the wacky Himey Lipschitz series! Himey, son of a wealthy New York furrier has gone wild with dad's frequent flyer vouchers again. Can you track Himey down and bring him home to meet the girl mom's picked out for him? Hold on to your yarmulke! Yes, Himey Lipschitz strikes again! 640K, Ronald MT-32, and 3.5 circumcision required.

Narrator: Presenting the latest in the award-winning King's Quest series. From the still-active mind of aging Roberta Williams the Third, the latest in the award-winning Roberta Williams series: What happens when Old Man Graham and his family are kicked out of Daventry Condo Association? You'll meet the fabulous Bernoulli Brothers, Professor CD-Romburg, and, of course, Rumplestiltskin! Over 12 gigabytes in length.

Narrator: It's here at last! With a combination of SAI--Simulated Artificial Intelligence--and VRAI--Virtually-Real Artificial Intelligence--we at MaxThis! Software have created a simulated simulator experience that's unlike anything you've ever simulated playing before. With SimSim, you can create a simulated environment in which you can create any simulated environment you want!

Narrator: Formerly titled "Hero's Flyer," this is the flight simulator you've been waiting for! Tired of flight simulators that load and run? Still looking for a sim that really crashes? Featuring a stunning, 3D-filled polygon, Stunt Flyer will have you going through the roof the moment you get it home.

Narrator: Head for the hills, it's coming! And this time, it's hungry! It Came For Dessert is a thrilling action-adventure in which a mob of pushy, overweight relatives invade your kitchen. Armed with only a Jell-O mold and a pastry bag, you must repel the invaders! Always keeping an eye on your blood-sugar level, it's the merriest mix-up since Enemaware's fabulous Defender of the Crown Rib Roast!

Narrator: Imagine a character so offensive, so sexually inept, and so lame-brained that you just can't wait to step into his shoes. That's Dacron Danny, first in the Sahara Off-Ramp's new educational series of true life adventures from the team of Hal Lowe Can You Go! Learn how others see you! Dacron Danny, your computer guide to your inner self.

12512> Narrator: The price for this one is displayed on your screen.

Narrator: You don't have that much money.

Narrator: BlowBy foot thrusters boost the skaters along nicely.

Narrator: This escalator carries weary, destitute shoppers back to their vehicles in the parking garage below.

Narrator: This escalator carries excited, wealthy shoppers up from the parking garage below.

Narrator: You plug the mobile power cylinder into the laptop.

Narrator: You attach the plug to the PocketPal.

Narrator: There's probably not much in this robot's head.

Narrator: Smells like he put too much Lube-Ina-Tube on this morning.

Narrator: Hey, leave the head alone!

Narrator: A featureless, dirty, white structure fills space to the east.

Narrator: Geez! You wonder what pachyderm-scented grease-loaf contributed this used cigar to the decor.

Narrator: You don't know this cigar's history, but you'd better not try it.

Narrator: This geek seems to have gotten in your way.

Narrator: You pick up the ATM card.

Narrator: You retrieve the cigar butt.

Narrator: Wasn't much fun, was it?

Narrator: It's a zero-G Skate-O-Rama! The skaters look to be having fun.

Narrator: Decorative-yet-annoying barriers separate the beltways.

Narrator: They're just islands between the beltways.

Narrator: These convenient beltways move shoppers around the mall, allowing them to save energy to spend more money.

Narrator: Real ladies don't go zero-G swimming in a dress!

Narrator: Zero-G skaters look to be having fun, but don't get in their way! They enjoy playing Spin The Dweeb with anyone who wanders into their airspace.

Roger: Ahh... the smell of brand new, simulated fabric.

Roger: Oh! Real plastic!

Software Excess Clerk: Sorry, but the crowd completely cleaned out my stock of Sierra software. The only thing that's left is boring home-and-business application software, along with a few inferior games. But, feel free to look around anyway!

Software Excess Clerk: So, are you looking for a good database? We've got one coming in next week.

Software Excess Clerk: If you're here to return something, forget it. We have a strict no-returns policy. I'd like to help ya out, guy, but... you know how corporations are.

Radio Shock SalesBot: Welcome to the Radio Shock Automated Catalog. Let us be your gateway to what's new and exciting in the world of 24'th Century electronics, through the pages of our automatic catalog.

Sequel Policeman: Let's split up. I'll check out Wilco's time pod.

Narrator: This is your brain. Had this been a real brain, you would've known how to use it.

Ketchup: I'm the best little condiment you've ever tasted. You know I am, really. I'm not kidding, I am!

Ad blocker interference detected!


Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.