Update semantics

src/epub/css/local.css

@@ -93,7 +93,7 @@ article > header [epub|type~="epigraph"]{
 }
 /* End epigraphs in headers */
 
-abbr.era{
+[epub|type~="se:era"]{
 	font-variant: all-small-caps;
 }
 
@@ -107,7 +107,7 @@ figure p{
 	text-indent: 0;
 }
 
-abbr.temperature{
+[epub|type~="se:temperature"]{
 	font-variant: all-small-caps;
 }
 

src/epub/text/bullet-with-his-name.xhtml

@@ -64,7 +64,7 @@
 						<b>Aqueous Fuel Catalyst</b>
 					</p>
 				</header>
-				<p>Dissociates <abbr class="compound">H<sub>2</sub>O</abbr> into hemi-quasi-stable H and O, furnishing a serviceable fuel-and-oxydizer mix for most motorcycles, automobiles, trucks, motorboats, airplanes, stationary motors, torque-twisters, translators, and rockets (exhaust velocity up to 6000 meters per second). Operates safely within and outside of all normal atmospheres. No special adaptor needed on oxygenizer-atmosphere motors.</p>
+				<p>Dissociates <abbr epub:type="se:compound">H<sub>2</sub>O</abbr> into hemi-quasi-stable H and O, furnishing a serviceable fuel-and-oxydizer mix for most motorcycles, automobiles, trucks, motorboats, airplanes, stationary motors, torque-twisters, translators, and rockets (exhaust velocity up to 6000 meters per second). Operates safely within and outside of all normal atmospheres. No special adaptor needed on oxygenizer-atmosphere motors.</p>
 				<p><em>Directions</em>: Place one pinch in fuel tank, fill with water. Add water as needed.</p>
 				<p>A-F Catalyst should generally be renewed when objective tests show fuel quality has deteriorated 50 percent.</p>
 				<p>

src/epub/text/no-great-magic.xhtml

@@ -285,7 +285,7 @@
 				<p>Naturally I’d had mind-wavery fits both times. Afterwards Sid had wagged a finger at me and explained that on those two nights we’d been giving performances for people who’d arranged a costume theater-party and been going to attend a masquerade ball, and ‘zounds, when would I learn to guard my half-patched pate?</p>
 				<p><i>I don’t know, I guess never</i>, I answered now, quick looking at a Giants pennant, a Korvette ad, a map of Central Park, my Willie Mays baseball and a Radio City tour ticket. That was eight items I’d looked at this trip without feeling any inward improvement. They weren’t reassuring me at all.</p>
 				<p>The blue fly came slowly buzzing down over my screen and I asked it, “What are you looking for? A spider?” when what should I hear coming back through the dressing room straight toward my sleeping closet but Miss Nefer’s footsteps. No one else walks that way.</p>
-				<p><i>She’s going to do something to you, Greta</i>, I thought. <i>She’s the maniac in the company. She’s the one who terrorized you with the boning knife in the shrubbery, or sicked the giant tarantula on you at the dark end of the subway platform, or whatever it was, and the others are covering up for. She’s going to smile the devil-smile and weave those white twig-fingers at you, all eight of them. And Birnam Wood’ll come to Dunsinane and you’ll be burnt at the stake by men in armor or drawn and quartered by eight-legged monkeys that talk or torn apart by wild centaurs or whirled through the roof to the moon without being dressed for it or sent burrowing into the past to stifle in Iowa 1948 or Egypt 4008 <abbr class="era">BC</abbr>. The screen won’t keep her out.</i></p>
+				<p><i>She’s going to do something to you, Greta</i>, I thought. <i>She’s the maniac in the company. She’s the one who terrorized you with the boning knife in the shrubbery, or sicked the giant tarantula on you at the dark end of the subway platform, or whatever it was, and the others are covering up for. She’s going to smile the devil-smile and weave those white twig-fingers at you, all eight of them. And Birnam Wood’ll come to Dunsinane and you’ll be burnt at the stake by men in armor or drawn and quartered by eight-legged monkeys that talk or torn apart by wild centaurs or whirled through the roof to the moon without being dressed for it or sent burrowing into the past to stifle in Iowa 1948 or Egypt 4008 <abbr epub:type="se:era">BC</abbr>. The screen won’t keep her out.</i></p>
 				<hr/>
 				<p>Then a head of hair pushed over the screen. But it was black-bound-with-silver, Brahma bless us, and a moment later Martin was giving me one of his rare smiles.</p>
 				<p>I said, “Marty, do something for me. Don’t ever use Miss Nefer’s footsteps again. Her voice, okay, if you have to. But not the footsteps. Don’t ask me why, just don’t.”</p>

src/epub/text/the-last-letter.xhtml

@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<article id="the-last-letter" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Last Letter</h2>
-			<p>On Tenthmonth 1, 2457 <abbr class="era">AD</abbr>, at exactly 9 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> Planetary Federation Time⁠—but with a permissible error of a millionth of a second either way⁠—in the fifth sublevel of NewNew York Robot Postal Station 68, Black Sorter gulped down ten thousand pieces of first-class mail.</p>
+			<p>On Tenthmonth 1, 2457 <abbr epub:type="se:era">AD</abbr>, at exactly 9 <abbr class="time">a.m.</abbr> Planetary Federation Time⁠—but with a permissible error of a millionth of a second either way⁠—in the fifth sublevel of NewNew York Robot Postal Station 68, Black Sorter gulped down ten thousand pieces of first-class mail.</p>
 			<p>This breakfast tidbit did not agree with the mail-sorting machine. It was as if a robust dog had been fed a large chunk of good red meat with a strychnine pill in it. Black Sorter’s innards went <em>whirr-klunk</em>, a blue electric glow enveloped him, and he began to shake as if he might break loose from the concrete.</p>
 			<p>He desperately spat back over his shoulder a single envelope, gave a great <em>huff</em> and blew out toward the sorting tubes a medium-size snowstorm consisting of the other nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of first-class mail chewed to confetti. Then, still convulsed, he snapped up a fresh ten thousand and proceeded to chomp and grind on them. Black Sorter was rugged.</p>
 			<p>The rejected envelope was tongued up by Red Subsorter, who growled deep in his throat, said a very bad word, and passed it to Yellow Rerouter, who passed it to Green Rerouter, who passed it to Brown Study, who passed it to Pink Wastebasket.</p>

src/epub/text/the-snowbank-orbit.xhtml

@@ -143,7 +143,7 @@
 				<p>Pain ignored, Grunfeld pushed himself forward out of his suit and pulled himself past the captain’s to the spaceshield.</p>
 				<p>The view stayed the same, though broadening out: stars above, a curve-edged velvet black plain below. They were orbiting.</p>
 				<p>A pulsing, color-changing glow from somewhere showed him twisted stumps of the radio lattices. There was no sign of the mirror at all. It must have been torn away, or vaporized completely, in the fiery turbulence of decel.</p>
-				<p>New maxs showed on the board: Cabin Temperature 214 <abbr class="temperature">F</abbr>, Skin Temperature 907 <abbr class="temperature">K</abbr>, Gravs 87.</p>
+				<p>New maxs showed on the board: Cabin Temperature 214 <abbr epub:type="se:temperature">F</abbr>, Skin Temperature 907 <abbr epub:type="se:temperature">K</abbr>, Gravs 87.</p>
 				<p>Then in the top of the spacefield, almost out of vision, Grunfeld saw the source of the pulsing glow: two sharp-ended ovals flickering brightly all colors against the pale starfields, like two dead fish phosphorescing.</p>
 				<p>“The torps got to ’em,” Croker said, pushed forward beside Grunfeld to the right.</p>
 				<hr/>

src/epub/text/time-in-the-round.xhtml

@@ -76,7 +76,7 @@
 			<p>“There’s the Theater,” Joggy announced.</p>
 			<p>“I <em>know</em>,” the Butcher said irritably.</p>
 			<p>But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Ramp to the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a god realized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods to the adults drifting up and down the ramp.</p>
-			<p>“My father remembers when there wasn’t a Time Theater,” Hal said softly as he scanned the façade’s glowing charts and maps. “Say, they’re viewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the <abbr class="era">BC</abbr>-<abbr class="era">AD</abbr> time scale. It should be interesting.”</p>
+			<p>“My father remembers when there wasn’t a Time Theater,” Hal said softly as he scanned the façade’s glowing charts and maps. “Say, they’re viewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the <abbr epub:type="se:era">BC</abbr>-<abbr epub:type="se:era">AD</abbr> time scale. It should be interesting.”</p>
 			<p>“Will it be about Napoleon?” the Butcher asked eagerly. “Or Hitler?” A redheaded adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hair had fallen down the middle of the Butcher’s forehead, and as he sat Joggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of the grim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era.</p>
 			<p>“Wrong millennium,” Hal said.</p>
 			<p>“Tamerlane then?” the Butcher pressed. “He killed cities and piled the skulls. Bloodbath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of the Navies.”</p>