through the wake of week’s end revelry. When faced with the whirlpool of an impossible dilemma, Asimov’s robots go mad and shut down but we might choose to Gordian knot it, smash into the street furniture, run whooping from the scene. Did hairy apes go lolloping into last night, shards of red plastic scattered behind them and the nightshift parking control officers mumbling and scratching at their chins?
