He let the pointer go, and it hung where he had left it. With two jointed claws he seized Weaver's hand and straightened it out to match the other, removing the pen. With a third claw he thrust a slender needle under the skin. Instantly the hand was as rigid as the rest of Weaver's body. Weaver felt as if the last door had been slammed, the telephone wires cut, the sod thrown on the coffin.
"This is the way we have decided," said Luke. "It is a shame, because perhaps these new ones will not be as funny as you, after all. But it is the way we have decided."
He took up the pantograph pointer again.
In the plaza, the aircar ground at the huge stone head, outlining the stern mouth, the resolute, bearded jaw. Helplessly, Weaver returned the stare of that remorseless, brooding face: the face of a conqueror.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction March 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.