There Is No Depression: Protect and Survive New Zealand
- Thread starter Tsar of New Zealand
- Start date
You know, someone should nominate this timeline. I think it deserves a bit of appreciation.
Unfortunately, I can't nominate it personally, since I already have a different picko), but I'll second it eagerly if someone else gives his nomination.
Seconded
Oh. Oh, wow. Thanks, guys, means a lot.
Expect an update later today.
Cold Chisel filmed a music video in Kings Cross in February 1984. I should have remembered this earlier
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lelsyP9qL2I
Also features Split Enz "message to my girl" fading out on the radio at the start.
Ha! I had forgotten that song/video - great slice of life of King's Cross. Sort of looked like that in the late 90s too.
XVIII: BLACK CRUCIBLE
XVIII: BLACK CRUCIBLE
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats…
NORTH
..- -. .-. . .- .-.. / -.-. .. - -.-- --..-- / ..- -. -.. . .-. / - .... . / -... .-. --- .-- -. / ..-. --- --. / --- ..-. / .- / .-- .. -. - . .-. / -.. .- .-- -.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats…
NORTH
..- -. .-. . .- .-.. / -.-. .. - -.-- --..-- / ..- -. -.. . .-. / - .... . / -... .-. --- .-- -. / ..-. --- --. / --- ..-. / .- / .-- .. -. - . .-. / -.. .- .-- -.
State Highway 1
Auckland City
May 23, 1984
The truck had left Papakura not long before dawn, and last night’s rain had eased back to a slight drizzle. As the truck rumbled along the motorway, the houses to left and right stood in silent, brooding vigil as the day dawned dimly over Mount Wellington.
The other three men in the Range Rover – the Sergeant, the Captain, and the Technician – sat quietly as the Driver navigated down the empty motorway, the southbound lane on their right devoid now of even the abandoned cars which had peppered it in the chaos following X-Day. It made for an eerily tranquil scene: the broken glass had long since been cleared, the cars taken away for repairs or scrapping, the unkempt grass of the verges the only indication of something amiss.
As soon as they began coming into Penrose the illusion began to falter with the damage becoming more severe and widespread, the lack of windows and roofing increasingly apparent in the buildings alongside as they drew nearer to what the Brass were calling Ground Zero. The crew made a brief stop at the checkpoint next to the Power Board building off McNab, the bored-looking policeman checking their papers to ensure they had authorisation to enter the Outer Zone suddenly becoming animated once he saw their protective gear and the signatures lining the bottom of the paper. With an almost comical salute, the old man waved them through the roadblock towards the central zone.
Before long, as the motorway curved through Penrose and into Ellerslie, things began getting interesting in a hurry. Although the northbound lanes had been almost deserted on X-Day itself – nobody had been trying to get closer to the city, not in those terrifying hours – but between panicked refugees and three long months of wear and tear, a few vehicles had broken down or had prangs on this side, too. This was why the Driver had had to slow down to about 50, and why the others had plenty of time to gawk. Most buildings that the Technician saw were still standing, but the ones you could call habitable had become a noticeable minority, with loss of windows the least of their problems. Most of the trees were stripped of leaves and the cars in the southbound lanes still awaiting removal – and by now there were far more of those – were all missing their windows.
He tried not to notice the stains on some of the cars’ interiors.
There were still people living in the houses around here though, those too stubborn, stupid, or vital to have been evacuated since. Or possibly they’d returned, as a few baulks of timber outside a house on the left indicated, to begin reconstruction (which in and of itself implied membership of one or more of those three groups). Even those scanty signs of life petered out quickly, only a deserted golf course on their right providing an alien sea of green amidst the devastation. By now they had made it about five kilometres from where the motorway crossed the Mount Wellington Highway, and two out of every three buildings they could see were absolutely gutted, nothing but shells filled with a mess of ash and architecture.
There really isn’t, he realised as they slowed down and pulled up next to the train station in Greenlane to show their documentation at the last checkpoint before they pulled on their respirators to enter the Inner Zone, there really isn’t going to be anything left at all.
By the time the low bulk of Mount Hobson reared up the truck was picking its way along the road at about 30. Between the now-continuous lines of totalled cars on their right and the rubble-piles which had once been houses on either side of the motorway, only the most distinct geographic features and the Driver’s familiarity with the road gave any indication of location. To the Captain and the Sergeant, it all seemed more or less the same, with only a few of the stronger walls or the occasional tree trunk suggesting that these piles of wood and brick and concrete had once been homes full of light and noise and life.
Another few minutes passed, and the landscape became increasingly monotonous as they followed the green spray-painted markers which told them that the Viaduct up ahead was safe (enough). Over there, on the right if you knew what you were looking for, an immense pile of gleaming white stone lined up with a cross on the map, as on the left a burned-out forest of rebar and concrete and cars peppered the upper reaches of what had been Broadway. That was quickly followed by a burned-out arboreal forest, the stubbly regrowth stretching onwards towards Mount Eden.
The Technician was in shock as the Rover bounced along towards the caved-in shell of the prison. Only the concrete and Victorian masonry had been strong enough to survive this far in, and besides these half-submerged wrecks nothing else but acres of ruins stretching out under the cold grey sky. The vehicles lining the road were steel and aluminium carcasses. The tyres had melted into the asphalt.
Nothing left.
Nothing.
To the north, a few concrete ribcages stood dimly outlined against the horizon, but fuck all besides that. No time to muse, though; the motorway had collapsed in an almighty maelstrom of concrete and steel just past Symonds, and he had to look at a map to see if there was anywhere they might be able to off-road from towards their objective.
It took half an hour to confirm that it was hopeless. The right lane was too jammed with…all of that…to cross in the Rover, and if the view from atop the overbridge was anything to go by, the roads in Newmarket made even that mess look orderly. After another fifteen minutes, the Captain decided that there was nothing else for it: they were parking just north of the Viaduct and continuing on foot.
It took an hour, a long, agonising hour, to make what should have been a ten-minute walk. The four men picked their way across what the Technician swore had been a Catholic school, but was in practice indistinguishable from the rest of the rubble, taking exaggerated care not to snag their clothing or kit on anything or slip on the slick, uneven ground, nothing but their footfalls and the slow, steady clicking of the Geiger counter breaking the tense silence between the quiet earth and the heavy, ominous sky.
It was even harder to get down the streets to the Domain itself. The jagged steel of the cars threatened to tear through the baggy over-clothes of the four men which would hopefully help shield them from any residual radiation in the dust they might stir up – unlikely, in this damp, but still a necessary precaution; if the Geiger was to be believed there was barely anything worth worrying about, but orders were orders and, more to the point, nobody was comfortable with fallout. It wasn’t that any of them were worried about death – the Sergeant had been in Borneo, the Captain in Rhodesia, the Driver and Technician had been cobbers since Malaysia – but the prospect of a death they knew nothing about.
They kept it out of mind by busying themselves with the mission. They gingerly made their way down Park Road, a bare hundred metres, to the intersection with Carlton Gore, where a bus had been flung into the face of a building and now only a slightly larger than usual pile of rubble lay. Once they crossed the thoroughfare and clambered over a grassy knoll to the Domain’s vast green expanse, the four looked upon the imposing heap which was still recognisable as the War Museum, impressive in death like some immense white elephant.
They made their way to the blackened but otherwise intact Cenotaph, and as the Technician set up a tripod to begin taking photos and unpacked the packs of equipment the other three had been carrying – monitoring gear, mainly radiation and atmospheric bits and bobs from the boys at DSIR – the rest of the crew moved cautiously towards what had been the Museum’s entrance. It had been facing the bomb pretty much face-on and was, if one was to be generous, a blackened mess; that it was even this recognisable was amazing. The bold Old World face of the Museum had collapsed inwards on itself, before the pressure wave had caused the entire building to be crushed from within and without.
The three discussed climbing over the rubble, but quickly decided against it. Too many risks, and not enough rewards to warrant it – the orders left at least enough room for initiative to decide that. So they sat on what was left of the steps (solidly-built enough, like the building, to be recognisable) as the Technician fiddled with the equipment, gently checking and double-checking the components. They checked the Geiger and sat about, breath condensing on the insides of their heavy masks as they looked blankly, emptily, disbelievingly, upon the city and towards where Rangitoto crouched out in the Gulf. The temptation to take off the masks and feel the cool, wet air on their faces was palpable, but even more than their discipline (and it would be hard to find four more disciplined soldiers) the primal reluctance to breathe the air of this gigantic crypt kept the heavy, uncomfortable respirators right where they were. So they sat, and watched.
Before too long the Technician turned to them and gave his confirmation. After a brief moment’s contemplation, the Captain nodded.
“We’ll head back now, then. Still plenty of time.”
They made their way to the Rover, exiting the city as gingerly as they had entered it, yet with the haunted, harried hurry of one leaving a graveyard on a moonless night.
Once they were back in Papakura they were decontaminated, gave their reports, and returned to their quarters. It had been an absurdly simple mission for men of their qualifications. It had also been worse than anything they could ever have dreamt of.
.. / .... .- -.. / -. --- - / - .... --- ..- --. .... - / -.. . .- - .... / .... .- -.. / ..- -. -.. --- -. . / ... --- / -- .- -. -.--
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.
SOUTH
-... -.-- / - .... . / .-. .. ...- . .-. ... / --- ..-. / -... .- -... -.-- .-.. --- -. --..-- / - .... . .-. . / .-- . / ... .- - /-.. --- .-- -.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.
SOUTH
-... -.-- / - .... . / .-. .. ...- . .-. ... / --- ..-. / -... .- -... -.-- .-.. --- -. --..-- / - .... . .-. . / .-- . / ... .- - /-.. --- .-- -.
State Highway One
Outside Wellington City
May 23, 1984
The sun shone bleakly over the stark landscape of what had been Wellington, as a single truck, near-identical to one six hundred kilometres to the north, drove sedately along a deserted highway. The recovery crews had already been through once or twice, so by now everyone in the Rover was an old hand at this.
The truck splashed through a puddle of standing water, sending a spray up beside the window and no doubt scattering a few extra rads into the atmosphere. Nobody took much notice, in their heavy boots and thick layers of clothing (some of it even leaded; they weren’t going to let a single rad in if possible). There was, after all, a mission to be focusing on.
As they passed the last marker point before the cleared section of road ended, the number of deserted cars rose dramatically. Where possible – where they’d been able to spare the time and fuel and energy to do so – they’d been shoved to the side (or better yet, in the harbour), but by and large the cars were still sat in the lines where they’d been abandoned just gone three months ago, when the sky had split and the fire and wind had swept out from the valleys and even this far out, four or five miles away, the windows had imploded and people had staggered bleeding and screaming to the north, to safety and, in more than a few cases, to death.
The Soldier was eventually forced to detract from the plans, the four opting to dismount as the road became impassable even for the Rover – the railway line having ceased being a viable alternative where the empty hulk of a passenger train lay pinned under a collapsed section of motorway – and, retrieving their packs, make their way further south on foot.
As the hours passed – like those in Auckland, silent but for the buzzing click of the Geiger – the sun continued to rise over the Rimutakas, light filtering wetly through the clouds and casting jagged shadows on the concrete pillars which rose from the rubble like broken teeth in a gaping skull. Here and there, a skeletal arm or leg waved from beneath it.
They trudged on.
It was just gone ten by the time they’d finished picking their way along Aotea Quay and down Waterloo. The docks had been swept into the sea; only the white-and-yellow lines on the road pointed the way. In the near distance, a ruddy ruin slumped towards the risen sun, the corpse of the Railway Station having tried like those within it to escape the blast to the southwest. In the background, the skeletons of buildings stood stark and grey in the heavy air.
The quartet – Soldier, Builder, Architect, and Scientist –, picked their way gingerly around the well-turned field of debris, making their way to the greyish field which had been the corner where Waterloo met Bunny. Ninety days ago, the most important man in the country had been dragged unceremoniously down across this intersection by a large officer, bundled through the mad press of people rushing to escape the city, borne towards a waiting helicopter from behind the Moses’ staff of a truncheon. Now, the four stood breathless as they examined the view westwards, towards the desolate expanse of Tinakori Hill, the road underfoot by now a fossilised storm sea of melted and reforged asphalt.
As the men walked across the foreground of the Railway Station – or possibly it was the street, but under the rubble it was difficult to say, at least until they came upon the clear expanse of Featherston Street where the cars had been brushed carelessly to one side – they noticed the absence of the wooden elegance of the Law School. As the Prime Minister had mused, there was nothing left. Not even ashes marked its ruin; the kauri had spontaneously combusted in the brief moments before the blast wave tore it to shreds, sending a wave of splinters towards those still flowing north in the human tide. What little was left burned in the fires that raged afterwards, as burst gas mains and an exploding petrol station did plenty to relight whatever was snuffed out by the winds of the blast.
Parliament had held out well, even if the force which had knocked it was not from below, as had always been expected in this city. The windows were gone, several of the concrete pillars supporting the upper floors had been knocked out or crumbled under the swirling pressures of the nuclear maelstrom, and the copper roofing had been melted, warped, and blasted almost beyond recognition, sitting atop the hunched profile of the Beehive like a jauntily-positioned beret – but the structure was still recognisable. Old Parliament Buildings had fared less well, but the thick stonework had also held. From out here, one couldn’t tell that the insides had been torn to shreds where swirling vortices of heat and wind had howled, eviscerated to spill the guts of a century of bureaucracy and history onto Parliament Grounds to be burnt to cinders in the fires that followed.
The closer they ventured, walking in a daze across Lambton Quay, the more apparent the damage became. Not a single living thing had survived, not a tree nor blade of grass. With a dully surprised exclamation, one of them gestured with disbelief at the stub of the Cenotaph, the pillar jutting defiantly into the air where the rushing winds had whipped past it too quickly for the blast pressure to crush it like a toothpick (a myriad of examples of where a structure’s surface area had been too great to follow this miraculous exception were visible all around, in the hollow, gaping shells of office blocks which stood drunkenly in file along the asphalt canyon of Lambton). Evidently, noted the Architect amongst them, the blast had come down Bowen, which would indicate that the bomb had gone off somewhere up the valley. The Scientist was thinking much the same, a slide rule in his head totting up direction and distance and velocity.
Making their way carefully around the Cenotaph, they all saw how the bronze horseman atop it had been stressed into a crouch, the rider’s right hand, which had been outstretched to the heavens, gone.
As they made their way with increasing difficulty up Bowen Street, the Geiger’s crackle became increasingly lively. Still tolerably within the realms of safety provided they kept the sightseeing to a minimum. Now, the shredded bricks of the Turnbull Library littering their path, the skeletal buildings of the Ministry complex loomed up ahead.
And if that one, noted the Architect as the Builder pulled out an obscenely fluorescent set of small cones, if that ruin close by was indeed the Reserve Bank building, then the Treaty, and God knew what else, was inside the sealed vaults and safety-deposit boxes beneath it.
-.-- . .- --..-- / .-- . / .-- . .--. - --..-- / .-- .... . -. / .-- . / .-. . -- . -- -... . .-. . -.. / --.. .. --- -.
…and I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
…and I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
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Errolwi
Monthly Donor
Very good!
Minor query, "Exit 429"? Is that a reference used by engineers at the time? The distance-based motorway exit numbers are a much more recent invention in the public's view.
Note there are vaults under the Reserve Bank building in downtown Auckland.
Also 3 levels of 'stacks' under Auckland Central Library.
Minor query, "Exit 429"? Is that a reference used by engineers at the time? The distance-based motorway exit numbers are a much more recent invention in the public's view.
Note there are vaults under the Reserve Bank building in downtown Auckland.
Also 3 levels of 'stacks' under Auckland Central Library.
Forgive my yokel ignorance, I'll have to look into that
And Christchurch is aware, don't you worry - these are just the first feelers of salvage. Thank god I found out Civil Defence had radiation gear saved up from the nuclear ship visiting days; you'd best believe that'll come into play later.
Errolwi
Monthly Donor
Exit 429 Northbound currently splits to Symonds St, Wellesly St, and Port.
The Port connection definitely didn't exist then, Symonds St did, not sure on Wellesly.
The structure that takes the motorway over Newmarket is "The Newmarket Viaduct", a very impressive ferro-concrete structure when built (as was the nearby Grafton Bridge, decades earlier). In theory earthquake resistant, which makes it better than many structures when handling a sideways jolt.
However, my mate who worked at Civil Defense in the 90s expected all of Spaghetti Junction (Southern/Northern/North-Western motorway intersections) to be declared unsafe for vehicles post-earthquake (even if bits didn't collapse). The various structures were in the process of being improved at the time (and the Newmarket Viaduct has been replaced).
The Port connection definitely didn't exist then, Symonds St did, not sure on Wellesly.
The structure that takes the motorway over Newmarket is "The Newmarket Viaduct", a very impressive ferro-concrete structure when built (as was the nearby Grafton Bridge, decades earlier). In theory earthquake resistant, which makes it better than many structures when handling a sideways jolt.
However, my mate who worked at Civil Defense in the 90s expected all of Spaghetti Junction (Southern/Northern/North-Western motorway intersections) to be declared unsafe for vehicles post-earthquake (even if bits didn't collapse). The various structures were in the process of being improved at the time (and the Newmarket Viaduct has been replaced).
I figured the Viaduct would be safe enough for a Rover to make its way over, though I was operating under the assumption that Spaghetti Junction would collapse. Not as aware of the nitty-gritty as you seem to be, though; hell, my first time in Auckland was over Christmas, and I'm honestly still reeling from the concept of a motorway with four lanes each way!
(makes the Dunedin-Mosgiel strip look like a rutted donkey trail, I must say, and the less said about the Kilmog the better...)Infrastructure, as you've probably gathered, isn't my strong suit: I'm an MA, not an engineer. So long as all of this is plausible I'm quite happy - which is also why I'm glad of feedback like this, to make sure it is plausible.
Errolwi
Monthly Donor
You've done well, only the 'Exit 429' terminology threw me out of the story on first reading. Just refer to 'past Symonds St'? That exit was there when the motorway was built, and is an obvious over-bridge.
On closer reading, if you don't drive off the motorway at Market Rd (the 'interchange' hasn't changed configuration in the meantime), you wouldn't expect to be able to drive off until going the wrong way down the Gillies Ave on-ramp (which is a fair double-back). The viaduct is well above Broadway, you can't really see it from up there. Note that Broadway becomes Manukau Rd just south of the motorway (which is often non-obvious on Google Maps).
I'd suggest parking on the motorway, and walking down the northbound off ramp to Khyber Pass (takes you down to the Red Elephant), then Park Rd as you describe.
If the Museum steps are recognisable, I would have guessed that the Cenotaph would be a recognisable mound in front of them, in the middle of the paved consecrated ground. I assume it isn't solid stone, but it is different stone from the paving and the steps.
Any chance of readable scraps from the inscription above the Museum entrance?
https://www.flickr.com/photos/errolgc/albums/72157629507355070
https://www.flickr.com/photos/errolgc/albums/72157623810235835
On closer reading, if you don't drive off the motorway at Market Rd (the 'interchange' hasn't changed configuration in the meantime), you wouldn't expect to be able to drive off until going the wrong way down the Gillies Ave on-ramp (which is a fair double-back). The viaduct is well above Broadway, you can't really see it from up there. Note that Broadway becomes Manukau Rd just south of the motorway (which is often non-obvious on Google Maps).
I'd suggest parking on the motorway, and walking down the northbound off ramp to Khyber Pass (takes you down to the Red Elephant), then Park Rd as you describe.
If the Museum steps are recognisable, I would have guessed that the Cenotaph would be a recognisable mound in front of them, in the middle of the paved consecrated ground. I assume it isn't solid stone, but it is different stone from the paving and the steps.
Any chance of readable scraps from the inscription above the Museum entrance?
https://www.flickr.com/photos/errolgc/albums/72157629507355070
https://www.flickr.com/photos/errolgc/albums/72157623810235835
Made the edit, like you say it's the small things. Way I saw it, the crew parks just north of the Viaduct, more or less in between Auckland Grammar and St Peter's, and picks their way across the latter to reach Park. Pretty much all the streets are jam-packed with car hulks; easier to minimise both the amount of broken steel to risk going past and the total distance travelled. I imagine the NZSAS are economical with their time and effort like that.
If I let the Cenotaph in Wellington survive, I suppose the one in Auckland's got an even better chance. Edited. But man, this is gonna make me look like I'm trying to insert some kind of martial symbolism
One for the Death Of The Author types to pick apart, I suppose. As for the museum itself, no chance, I'm afraid. It faces dead north, so whatever didn't collapse inwards is too scorched or buried to be legible. One of the many architectural casualties of the war.
Good question. On one hand, Tahiti is a large island in a small Pacific territory. On the other, it likely had a French military presence in 1983. Probably had some nuclear element too, due to the testing facilities nearby.
It is also a bit easier to get to so far as missiles are concerned, compared to NZ. It is possible that the Soviets would devote a boat this way, especially if they are targeting NZ.
Edit - think that the boat that hit NZ was north of Vanuatu. So if it can hit NZ, then it can hit Tahiti.
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My headcanon was that, with no oil coming in any more, the island would see incredibly strict rationing as people began turning to whatever they could to feed themselves, before society eventually collapsed after the first month outside military outposts. I don't see small island states doing too well overall throughout all this, to be honest, though those south of the equator and west of the international date line will be the focus of ANZ aid in the near future.
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I would guess that some of the small island states will revert back to the state they were in before they had more contact with the outside world. Those in groups will probably do better because of potential inter-island trading, but the more isolated may be in for a nasty time.
Be interesting, well maybe that's not the right word, to speculate about what happens on Pitcairn? The rest of the world has troubles enough but just think how horrible it would be to live somewhere with institutionalised sex abuse and know that now there is no outside world that might come to the rescue.
Be interesting, well maybe that's not the right word, to speculate about what happens on Pitcairn? The rest of the world has troubles enough but just think how horrible it would be to live somewhere with institutionalised sex abuse and know that now there is no outside world that might come to the rescue.
Well, it depends. This is before Fiji began doing the Coup Volte-face, but I'd expect nastiness to break out between indigenous and Indo-Fijians without intervention, though the tribes should provide some stability. Tonga ought to hold together, and Samoa should chug along as a decentralised loose-knit state.
My real concern is transport: most of that is by small boat, but with no more oil imports and the Anzacs holding onto their diesel fuel, transport links may prove untenable across long stretches of water - of which the pacific has many.
Ironically, Pitcairn, with its tiny and insular population, might fare better than anyone else. Remember, they're comparatively self sufficient - the same cannot be said for the tourist isles. It'll still be like the village from the Wicker Man, isolated by a thousand miles of ocean.
Well if I know Palmer as well as I think I do, everyone is going to have a rather well written constitution and bill of rights act.
Aside from that, it'll be back to the old days of sending high level trade delegations around the world to sell sheep products and then more high level delegations to find how they'll pay for it.
Although I will say that at long last NZ will have an opportunity to become an industrial goods exporting powerhouse, thus vindicating decades of industrial policy and import substitution.
Wonder what happens to all the South Pacific textile industries? Or all the off shore markets for NZ tourists (they were apparently quite popular for things like watches or electronic goods).
Alright, shameless plug time: voting's opened for the Turtledoves; if you've any inclination whatsoever to vote for this TL (or any of the sterling competitors), link's right here: https://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=382275
After trawling through a hundred or two pages of readings, it's occurred to me that Masters will be rather intense. As a result, the pace of updates is going to throttle right back down as I try to preserve a modicum of sanity - though it helps that writing this TL is a productive enough form of procrastination that I can indulge in it without too much guilt. So I may have an update by Easter, but it's dependent upon me getting one of my habitual "hey, let's write a couple thousand words" moments at 1am (as is my wont).
In the meantime, feel free to bounce questions off me about the state of things ITTL. Keeps my mind on what's going on, if nothing else, and being asked what somesuch obscure historical figure was up to might lead me to interesting avenues for the future. Not that I'm asking my readers to do my job for me, but it's easier than finding a thousand monkeys and supplying them with a thousand typewriters
In the meantime, feel free to bounce questions off me about the state of things ITTL. Keeps my mind on what's going on, if nothing else, and being asked what somesuch obscure historical figure was up to might lead me to interesting avenues for the future. Not that I'm asking my readers to do my job for me, but it's easier than finding a thousand monkeys and supplying them with a thousand typewriters