Dean Evans

“ The Master Clock on the black desk in the office of Federal Executions made a quiet blipping sound. Immediately the lights lowered to Emote Neutral. Long, probing shadow fingers snaked here and there across the floor, and a silence that should have been restful—and wasn't—descended on the place.
Tony Radek leaned back in his chair and frowned. One-fifteen in the morning. At one-fifteen in the morning no man, no matter who, should be going to his Neg-Emote. Why not hang a man instead? ”

“ Tony Radek was getting old. He was a "safe" now. That meant he needn't worry about the war any longer. He was a nice, mild, peaceable gentleman who stayed at home and thought beautiful thoughts about the younger men out in space. A man his age didn't feel anger and hate and retribution and lust and treachery any more. He was just a little old fat guy. He was the Federal Executioner.
He frowned again and leaned forward and touched a nacre button on the desk top. That lit up the screen on his left. Not the Master Screen, which was the one on his right. ”

“ And everybody—you, me, the guy down the street who skins ships for a living—we all have to remember that. And yet some of us don't. Some of us go off on a tangent and try to sell out our country and then there's hell to pay. And if we're found guilty, we get the execution. The Neg-Emote."
The girl's lips began to tremble. She looked up. "Does it hurt, Tony? I mean...."
"Physically? No, of course not." A corner of his mouth curled. "We're humane nowadays, hadn't you heard? We just strap a man in a chair and press a button and down comes a metal hood over him. ”

“ Chuckling, he went back to the desk and jabbed a finger at the button over Supplies and Control.
"Hell-hips!" he rapped. "Where's all that well known and demonstrated efficiency I've had to rake out of my ears?"
The narrow face lit up the Master Screen once more. It looked bored now. "Mr. Radek, there was something?"
"Yeah. Something." Tony's voice dropped, got deadly soft. "How many weeks since you checked the cooler, boy? There aren't any ritual roses." ”

“ That face was working convulsively now, getting red like the ritual roses over in the cooler.
He snorted disgustedly, reached forward and touched the matswitch which threw the Master Screen into visi-lok. At once the screen darkened and all sound left the office.
That was more like it. Let old hell-hips up in Supplies and Control stew if he wanted, there wasn't anything in the Constitution—not even the old Constitution—that said a man had to sit and look at him.
"Central Direction to Radek!" a hard voice rapped out of the alternate speaker over in the corner.
Tony Radek jerked, spun around. ”

“ That's all I'm asking, guy. That's all I'm asking."
The silence in the cell was a thick thing. Tony could feel the sweat rolling down his back again. But a different kind of a sweat now—not a sweat for himself, a sweat for somebody else. Just one finger touch on that visi-lok matswitch would do it. Just one finger, and the small woman downstairs in Portal Waiting wouldn't know, would have one more instant of waiting, of hoping against hope. Of suspense. Of breathing in the air we all breathe in, of being alive, sentient ”

“ He looked into the Master Screen, but he remained frozen to the floor, hardly breathing. And then a very thin voice answered nervously:
"I—I believe that's correct, sir. I believe Executions does have the old-fashioned solenoid. It seems there hasn't been time to change it. I've been intending to...."
The voice was cut off. The hard eyes came back to Tony. "Decision!" the hard voice said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Exonerated, Radek! Carry on with Execution in Cell Two." The screen went blank.
Tony shuddered. A close one. A damned close one. That was the war for you. Even a man's breaths are counted. ”

“ Petition refused." The hood came down. The Master Screen up on the wall blazed into life.
Tony sat at his black desk with his hands folded, fingers laced. That's Executions for you. And this is war. There's a war on. Don't forget that. He looked down at his hands, sighed. Then he reached out and touched the Supplies and Control button.
"Hell-hips!" he growled.
He looked at the screen. It wasn't hell-hips. It was a blonde. Not a young blonde, a scarecrow blonde. An old wretched piece of living mechanism like himself.
"Where's Clacker?" he asked.
"Mr. Clacker is no longer with us, Mr. Radek." ”

“ The man's as good as new except he has no emotions any more. No emotions whatever except personal physical pain, such as he'd need in case somebody stepped on his toe or jabbed him with a pin. The State wants us to protect ourselves, you see. ”

“ How could I—"
"That will be all, Radek! Clear your desk. Prepare for judgment on final machines."
Tony swallowed. He didn't move because he couldn't move.
"Well, Radek?"
He fought his face clean, kept his hands rigid at his sides. Sweat was rolling down his back, but that was all right; Central Command couldn't be expected to see sweat roll down a man's back under his clothing, though a lot of people thought so. ”

“ I mean, if a man is found guilty, do they—?"
"The 'furious' roses, Mrs. Haley?" He smiled. "I see. You mean because they're so red. Yes, it's true. Ritual roses, we call them, but that's nothing. Nothing at all. A custom only. A symbol handed down. It means nothing." ”