Thirty-three five.
He went to the window and pressed the button that would open it against the mechanical will of the automatic health-guard equipment. It slid open and he breathed the cool, moist air that smelled of wet earth and grass and the odor of the lana tree flowers; flowers that were closed against the rain and would not open until the sun came out.
The City was quiet in the gray of the morning. He could see one pedestrian and three moving vehicles in the entire visible portion of the City. The City, like the flowers of the lana trees, would not open into life until the storm was over and the sun was shining again.
Thirty-three nine.
The City, like the flowers of the lana trees. The beauty and perfection of them both was the result of fifty thousand years of breeding to bring about that perfection. The City, like the flowers of the lana trees....
But flowers were without purpose; were only—vegetation.
And what was the purpose of the City?
He did not know. He was the Supreme Executive of Tharnar, and he did not know.
Thirty-three ten.
He went back to his desk and switched on the three-dimensional projection of the scene that would be taking place in the courtyard behind the prison.