The meeting of the United Fogram Federation came to order as some of its younger members shuffled in, looking for a chair or a stool apart from the “grey beards”. Those who considered themselves True Fograms were divided; half rejected the notion of accepting younger members, even if they shared the same conservative bent, the other half freely welcomed and encouraged new members, happy to strengthen their ideals and attitudes and ensure their longevity. The argument had been continual for the last year, when the membership criteria broadened. The group was dying out, losing members, even so, the new push for fresh membership was not terribly effective. Few young people wanted to associate with older folk, even if they shared a common ethic.

“This meeting will now come to order,” was heard throughout the makeshift meeting room as a tankard of mead was hammered down upon the bar. The crowed ceased its milling about and quiet conversations and shifted their attention to the front of the pub, where their appointed leader, Mæster Styckfoot, stood, a tankard in each hand and mead glistening in his bushy beard. “Now that I've got yer attention, the pledge.”

Each person in the room held high whatever was in their right hand and in mostly unified voice intoned, “In times to come the old shall prevail. In distant past t'was the new that failed.” Those with drink took a hearty swig, pouring the rest onto the floor, a curious but old-fashioned custom, one befitting a fogram.

Mæster Styckfoot took a deep breath and bellowed, “Old business?”

“There is the matter of the new members,” pipped a rather withered curmudgeon.

“That matter has been settled, has it not Mister Grundlebelly? Last time, and the time before that, and the time before that . . . every meeting for a year now. New members are welcome as are the old,” responded Mæster Styckfoot. A quiet “Harumph” was heard from the general direction of Grundlebelly. “Any other old business?” After a period of silence he continued. “We are faced with a new and grave issue, and I think you know of what I speak.” At this a few quiet “hear, hears” speckled the crowd. “There is a new trend invading our little hamlet, and we will not allow it to come any further. We will not be allowing our children to cease their education just to till the earth! Our great-great-great-great grandfathers did not send their children to the fields to toil, why should we?” At this the crowd began to quietly mumble. “We will put a stop to this. If our children no longer tend to their studies, who will maintain our androids? If our children no longer learn in our tele-schools, who will progress the network? We have plenty of AI to monitor the equipment in the farmlands, and we should let them. Our children will do what children have done for centuries, go to school, learn, and when they are fully mature they will enter the work force.”

Amidst the quiet affirmations a lone voice was heard, “What would you have us do?”

Squinting to see who spoke, Mæster Styckfoot replied, “What fogram would say such a thing? We will do what we always do, we will do what our own fathers did. We will continue with our children's education, and we will tell our children to keep their children in school. The U.F.F. will maintain the ways of the past, no matter how 'old fashioned' they become.”

Again the voice spoke, “I have heard it was quite common, once upon a time, for children to work the field instead of attending school.”

At this Styckfoot slammed one of his tankards down, one time too many, splitting in two, and spilling its contents upon the bar. Looking at the handle he said, “Preposterous! A good fogram you might be, but first you need to get your facts straight. This meeting is adjourned,” and walked behind the bar to refill his other tankard.

The owner of that voice slipped quietly out of the pub and sighed. He had feared the group was too set in their ways to change, though he had hoped he could appeal to their penchant for the old-fashioned. “It seems nothing will change in this town,” the man said to himself. “On to the next.”