I had a dream this morning in which I was wandering an unidentified convention, though it had to be a Worldcon somewhere due to the size of the crowds. I passed a room in which people were glued to a marathon of episodes from the Swamp Thing TV show, and then came upon the con suite, which contained lots of neon and included its own pizza oven.

I began to snap pictures of the attendees there. Most of them where unfamiliar faces, but I was being a completist about it. When I went to photograph at the table at which Connie Willis sat, I heard a disconcerting popping sound, and looked at my camera, only to see that the flash was sticking out like the bouncing head from a sprung jack-in-the-box. Oh, great, I thought, the con is just beginning, and here I am without a working camera.

Then, from out of nowhere, who should pop up but Bob Howe, who proceeds to pull out many small tools (it looks to me as if he travels with a lock-picking kit), examine the camera, and tell me exactly what to do to fix it.

What I’d like to know is—just when and why did my subconscious decide that was its symbol of competency?