“Lady, look around. Do you see any fans here? No. Did you see -any- fans on the way here? No. In fact, you may have noticed that ads for fans are -conspicuously missing- from local adverts, and that, frankly, if anyone around here had even two or three fans, they could quickly parlay those into wealth of biblical proportions. Do we have any fans? No. Can you breathe in a vacuum? No. Are there any in the back? No. Is there one hidden somewhere for the owner’s direct relations? No. Have we any idea where fans might exist? Yes. Somewhere in a history now lost to dear experience and common memory. You may do as you please, my dear, there are no fans here. Nor anywhere you may range, for as far as you can think to travel. Fans, I daresay, are a distant memory. Neither blood nor money can buy what is not to be found. We like to think of fans the way people think of UFOs. They are a mythical spinning device associated with hypnotic light, loss of time, miracles, breezes and the otherwise sundrily impossible.”

— an anonymous informant