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strangling breath. He had gone too far. He had only wanted to paralyze the
man, revolt him, put him out of commission; but he was overdoing it; he jumped
forward and caught the Keeper as he fell, fainting.
Callously Tropile emptied the water pitcher over the man.
The Keeper sneezed and sat up groggily.
He focused his eyes on Tropile, and abruptly blushed.
Tropile said harshly: "I wish to see the new sun from the street."
The request was incredible! The Keeper could not possibly allow dangerous
liberties to a guest; that was not Citizenship, since the job of a Keeper was
to Keep. But Tropile's filthy mouth had unsettled Citizen Harmane.
He floundered, choking on the obscenities he had heard. He was torn between
two courses of action, both all but obligatory, both all but impossible.
Tropile was in detention regarding the Fifth Regulation. That was all there
was to it looked at from one point of view. Such persons were not to be
released from their quarters: the Keeper knew it, the world knew it, Tropile
knew it.
It was an obscenity almost greater than the lurid tales of perverted lust, for
Tropile had asked something which was impossible! No one ever asked anything
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that was impossible to grant for no one could ever refuse anything; that was
utterly graceless, unthinkable.
One could only attempt to compromise. The Keeper stammeringly said: "May I May
I
let you see the new sun from the corridor?" And even that was wretchedly
wrong; but he had to offer something. One always offered something. The Keeper
had never since babyhood given a flat "no" to anybody about anything. No
Citizen had. A flat "no" led to
hard feelings, strong words imaginably, even blows.
The only flat "no" conceivable was the enormous, terminal "no" of an amok.
Short of that
One offered. One split the difference. One was invariably filled with tepid
pleasure when, invariably, the offer was accepted, the difference was split,
both parties were satisfied.
"That will do for a start," Tropile snarled. "Open, man, open! Don't make me
wait."
The Keeper reeled and unlatched the door to the corridor.
"Now the street!"
"I can't!" burst in an anguished cry from the Keeper. He buried his face in
his hands and began to sob, hopelessly incapacitated.
"The street!" Tropile said remorselessly. He felt himself wrenchingly ill; he
was going against custom that had ruled his own life as surely as the
Keeper's.
But he was Wolf. "I
will be Wolf," he growled, and advanced upon the Keeper. "My wife," he said,
"I didn't finish telling you. Sometimes she used to put her arm around me and
just snuggle up and I remember one time she kissed my ear. Broad daylight. It
felt funny and warm, I can't describe it."
Whimpering, the Keeper flung the keys at Tropile and tottered brokenly away.
He was out of the action. Tropile himself was nearly as badly off; the
difference was that he continued to function. The words coming from him seared
like acid in his throat.
"They call me Wolf," he said aloud, reeling against the wall. "I will be one."
He unlocked the outer door and his wife was waiting, the things he had asked
her to bring in her arms.
Tropile said strangely to her: I am steel and fire. I am Wolf, full of the old
moxie.'
She wailed: "Glenn, are you sure I'm doing the right thing?" He laughed
unsteadily and led her by the arm through the deserted streets.
_______5_______
Citizen Germyn, as was his right by position and status as a connoisseur,
helped prepare
Citizen Boyne for his Donation. There was nothing much that needed to be done,
actually.
This made it an elaborate and lengthy task, according to the ethic of the
Citizens; it had to be protracted, each step was surrounded by fullest dress
of ritual.
It was done in the broad daylight of the new Sun, and as many of the three
hundred citizens of Wheeling as could manage it were in the courtyard of the
old Federal Building to watch.
The nature of the ceremony was this: A man who revealed himself Wolf, or who
finally crumbled under the demands of life and ran amok, could not be allowed
to live. He was haled before an audience of his equals and permitted with the
help of force, if that should be necessary, but preferably not to make the
Donation of Spinal Fluid. Execution was murder; and murder was not permitted
under the gentle code of Citizens. So this was not execution. The draining of
a man's spinal fluid did not kill him. It only insured that, after a time and
with much suffering, his internal chemistry would so arrange itself that he
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would die.
Once the Donation was made the problem was completely altered, of course;
suffering was agreed to be a bad thing in itself. So, to save the Donor from
the suffering that lay ahead, it
was the custom to have the oldest and gentlest Citizen on hand stand by with a
sharp-edged knife. When the Donation was complete, the Donor's head was lopped
off. It was done purely to avert suffering. Therefore that was not execution
either, but only the hastening of an inevitable end. The dozen or so Citizens
whose rank permitted them to assist then solemnly dissolved the spinal fluids
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