The news filtered through the great publishing companies, the fan clubs, the writers' guilds. Through the staffs of the few sci-fi pulps and fantasy magazines left. Through the minds of old readers who were once young and still couldn't escape his spell. Through the quiet summer haze settling over the American prairies. Through the deep canyons of crowded cities yearning to breathe free. In the African veldt. The news of his death would even make it to other worlds, delivered by space capsule, and one Earth day become part of Martian chronicles. The news would be related sadly, wistfully, with a...
Ray and Isaac Asimov, were a couple of my favorites growing up.
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