“I want you to certify the death papers,” Carol said, walking toward the elevator. “For poor old Maury—” “But why now?” There was more; he knew it. She said nothing; both of them were silent on the trip down to the clinic, to the freeze locker in which the rigid body lay—he glanced under the wrapper briefly, then emerged from the locker to sign the forms which Carol had laid out, five copies in all, neatly typed and ready to be sent up by vidline to the bureaucrats on the surface. Then, from the buttoned front of her white smock, Carol brought forth a tiny electronic instrument which he
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