"Fatal?"
"Yes, Clifford, fatal. I'm going to kill you."
The words seemed to have no effect. Not until Webb's powerful surgeon's hands closed about his neck did Clifford go rigid and begin his futile struggle.
Webb did not crush the larynx immediately. He squeezed down with slow, breath-robbing pressure, feeling for the windpipe under his thumbs. Clifford gasped, "'Sa long life, Webb ... don't ... commit suicide."
"It's a long life, but not for you, my stupid friend. Sure, they'll execute me. But you won't have her. Never again, do you hear?"
Clifford's eyes were closed now, and Webb knew that the roaring in his victim's ears would be blotting out all external sound. The knowledge infuriated him, and he screamed, "You fool, I pleaded with you. I took your insults and gave you every clue you needed—didn't you recognize my condition? You fool! You brilliant, blind fool!"
Clifford collapsed to his knees, and Webb let him go with one final, irrevocable wrench that certified his death.
Clifford's death and his own. The penalty for murder was still capital punishment, and in his own case Webb acknowledged the logic and necessity of such harsh consequences.
If there was one activity that immortal, 28th Century Man could no longer afford, it was the luxury of falling in love....