One bright morning in late spring, whilst the nuclear ash was still falling over the majestic cities of the east, Keats and Chapman were sunning themselves out on the terrace with a pot of Earl Grey. The Sino-American War over Central Asia was largely over, and for gentlemen of the west it was a time of relief and contemplation. The Americans had relented to the will of the darkest minds in the forces, and the bombs falling on cities had been like raindrops splashing on a frozen pond. The winter had been a nuclear one.

“You know, I find it hard to believe that they’re ready to start rebuilding their cities so soon after the nukes,” remarked Chapman. “According to the papers, those Pashtuns are about ready to announce a new name for their capital.”

“Indeed, and I’ve got a wager with the landlord as to the name they’ll announce.” Chapman looked on, flummoxed. “Why, what else could they call it?” continued Keats, “New Kabul.”