Three Achaean raiders sit in the plaza on top of a heaping plate of bureaucracy. Which hums to itself a tune about a kettle and a book. The first raider scratches his beard and throws himself onto the ground. The other two look on as he melts into a puddle and seeps through the cobblestones. A market stand falls onto the second Achaean raider, and the third is consumed by a large hat. The raiders slowly trickle down bureaucracy’s throat and are carefully indigested, then they are put into separate com part ments and are stored for the Neolithic Age. When it comes, though, it prefers to eat crème brûlée and pot pie.