This day is call'd the Feaſt of Criſpian: / He that out-liues this day, and comes ſafe home, / Will ſtand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, / And rowſe him at the Name of Criſpian.

I will put out feelers and see what I can find out about that.

Assuming that word of the death reached the Times's newsroom at all, it would have taken little more than one bleary-eyed night editor who had heard neither of Ventris nor of linear B for the obituary to have been consigned to the spike.

First it was the Obama Phone... (title)