Being an Asmovian.

So I’m either manic or in a good mood, but I’ve come up with the faint beginnings of a story I wish to tell.

It’s just a snippet, that’ll take you 30 seconds to read. But I’ll futz around with it and see if I can do anything with it in a few days. I know she’s a Historian. Now I’ve just got to put the foundation into utter peril, make her the lead. Give her some people to interact with and someone to fight and write until the story is told.

The three alms of the new world were these;

Let me live. Free energy to all.

Let me live well. Free food to all.

Let me have time to create. Automation for the people—instead of currency.

These words are etched into the herald of each statue of every colony within the influence of the second foundation, though most wouldn’t see them—as atom sized as they were against the materials various surfaces.

Those that practiced the rites of the foundation, however, made pilgrimage and paid homage to their founder’s likenesses whenever they were within dutiful distance of such things.

Meryl was one such practitioner—and as it had been for millennia, was bent head to knee at the figure’s bronze shoes. She appeared to be tying her shoe, but in fact—though her hands moved rhythmically within her robe, she made intricate signals towards the man that stood over her, in hopes he would bless her journey and what she had been set to do.

Her eyes opened as she returned from her kneeling position, and gathered her robes around her properly once again—letting them fall just so that they hanged imperceptibly above the dirt. She stared up at the large bronzed man, his hair gleaming in the artificial light of the park, which had been filled with trees long bred for air purification and surrounded the pathway she had come down. Even if the messages were hard to find for a normal person, those that built and placed the statues took no little effort to make sure that they were not visited often, or if lucky—at all, by those unknown to his teachings.

She stared at name etched into the metal name plate, and smiled.

It read Asimov.

Meryl turned and began to walk down the path. He watched her go, smiling—a kind look etched into his eyes.

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