then
veered westward over the tinted glass rooftops of the spotless city.

Jacques stared glumly down at the city that had been so much a part of
his life, from the long-ago years of his training and youth to the
professional years of his most famous executions.

Farther to the west, out beyond the eternally green landscaping and the
precise, functional homes of the residential suburbs, Jacques saw the
crude stone parapets of the Chauvency judicial arena, surrounded by acre
after acre of colorful tents and pavilions.

His powerful, jutting nose wrinkled with disgust, but his eyes widened
at the number of tents. There must indeed be something unusual about
today's execution. He hadn't worked before that big a crowd for years.
The Federal Bureau of Internal Tranquility should be happy about this
one!

Jacques sighed, still struggling against the despondency that had been
within him since the vacation interlude with the brunette government
worker in Curacao had ended as unsatisfactorily as all the rest. Someday
it would be his body bleeding in the dust, smashed at last by the
soft-nosed bullets from Le Pistolet du Mort. Then the flowers and
adulation would go to the condemned man, and the Bureau would add his
name to the plaque at the base of the towering statue on the Washington
Mall. So be it. He had played a long roll of the dice, and the stakes
had been high. But if only once, just once before it ended....

The bell on his instrument panel told him that the servo-pilot in the
tower below had taken over for the landing. He sniffed with disgust
again, but this time the disgust was for himself. God, but he was in a
foul humor today! He released the controls and stared at his strong
hands, grimly admiring them. There was still speed as well as strength
in these fingers. His lips twisted into a thin smile, cold and
confident. Whoever he was to meet at joute a l'outrance, let him try to
match twenty years of training and skill!

His rocket cradled with scarcely a jar into the small landing space at
the north end of the arena, between the two replicas of 15th century
towers, reproduced so faithfully by 22nd century technicians. Jacques
squeezed his huge frame through the door of the small craft and looked
dourly around. A squire, in scarlet leggings and tunic, his long black
wig slightly askew, came running toward him and knelt three paces away,
as prescribed by the Judicial Code of Heraldry.

"Oh, sire!" he panted, "