In An Automated Fashion

Veins

In a couple of million years (a pretty short time when you think about it), The New Dinosaurs will find some pretty excellent veins of aluminium ore on the sites of what The Middle Dinosaurs called “Landfill Sites”. Great towns will spring up around these most fruitful of veins, they’ll prosper, with all the New Dinosaur amenities, until the sources dry up and the towns begin to wither and die. There’ll be some real doldrums economically speaking before the service sector saves the day.

Aluminium will be shipped in while the residents write out receipts. It’s a pity there was no lightning back then, else they’d have had electric typewriters, Earth* willing.

*Steve, as they called her

“I wouldn’t… but I’m going to”

There’s none of what we (often quaintly) call rivalry among The New Dinosaurs; on the contrary, there’s a great communalism in their society, coupled inextricably with a pioneering spirit that would put our 18^th and 19^th Centuries to shame. It was quite by accident (with, of course, the requisite quotient of pure New Dinosaur Vigilance) that they (that’s they collectively) unlocked the secrets of Fusion. I shan’t bore you with detail, suffice it to say that it was most unfortunate, not to say ethically unwarranted, that the end came about; The New Dinosaurs cannot be blamed by any reasonable court of law. Natural curiosity can never be condemned, and it was and it was an unforeseeable happenstance that launched Steve into the Sun* while the rockets crept eventually into the orbit of the shoe factory where Mars used to be.

By this time aluminium could be synthesised quite easily and in an automated fashion.

*Croquet

Heritage On Toast

Why is it that typing is such a beautiful act?
Its because of the interaction of fingers with plastic.
Think of a swampy beach, with steam and mist and strange sounds from a bygone age, with hundreds of strange creatures that havn't walked these lands for millions of years, just think that it is they that once owned the earth. Then they get melted down, the result of eons and pressure, and pysics, and other dark things, they get turned into a mysterious black thick mana. It is history, the world as it was, all mixed into a dangerous soup that should be left deep down in the dark and the cold. Then we as men, barely more than any beast except we have aquired some skill with tools, then we pump this oil up into daylight to satisfy our tool fancies. Some is used to run our cars. Some makes carrier bags. Some is used for injection moulded keyboards. It seems only natural for us to at least pay homage to the profound heritage; so we type.

Discuss frugally.