"It is the time for the first Donation," he announced. "Which of you—"
"Him," said Tropile quickly, pointing.
Boyne opened his eyes calmly and nodded. He got to his feet, made a formal leavetaking bow to Tropile, and followed the Keeper toward his Donation and his death. As they were going out, Tropile coughed a would-you-please-grant-me-a-favor cough.
The Keeper paused. "What is it, Wolf?"
Tropile showed him the empty water pitcher—empty, all right; he had emptied it out the window.
"My apologies," the Keeper said, flustered, and hurried Boyne along. He came back almost at once to fill the pitcher, even though he should be there to watch Boyne's ceremonial Donation.
Tropile stood looking at the Keeper, his sub-adrenals beginning to pound like the rolling boil of Well-aged Water. The Keeper was at a disadvantage. He had been neglectful of his charge—a broken stool, no water in the pitcher. And a Citizen, brought up in a Citizen's maze of consideration and tact, could not help but be humiliated, seeking to make amends.
Tropile pressed his advantage home. "Wait," he said to the Keeper. "I'd like to talk to you."
The Keeper hesitated, torn. "The Donation—"
"Damn the Donation," Tropile said calmly. "After all, what is it but sticking a pipe into a man's backbone and sucking out the juice that keeps him alive? It's killing, that's all."