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of the bed. When he spoke, it was in an unhurried, full voice, in formal, well-accented Terranglish.
    "You're in an Earthservice Special Clinic, Alacrity. You suffered concussion, multiple contusions, and shock, along with various fractures, sprains, minor wounds, and blood loss, but all of that's been mended, or nearly so. It's fouiteen-thirty hours or so, local time, Alacrity. Do you mind if I use your first name, or would you prefer 'Guildsman' or 'Master Fitzhugh'?"
    "N-no. No. That's fine." Alacrity tried to rouse his thinking equipment and get a grip on things. His treatment and recovery indicated impressive medical resources, as good as any he could recall having seen. The kind available to the select few, or to no one at all, on most worlds.
    The man in black had anticipated most of his initial questions; Alacrity waited.
    His visitor went on, "I am Citizen Ash. Earth's executioner."
    Alacrity had heard about the man from offworlders who'd visited Terra and from the few Earthers who'd been willing to talk to him. And some mention of the office had been made in the meager guides and pamphlets issued by Earthservice.
    Trying not to show his shock, Alacrity remarked, "Very fitting name." Dust to dust. He was too numb to feel afraid.
    Ash nodded. "But it's also a type of tree once believed to be a wellspring of life."
    Alacrity wondered how many times Ash had pointed that out to people. He looked the executioner over. The man didn't appear to be the type to come into the room unprotected, even though the breakabout could see no weapons or defensive devices on him. Escape didn't strike Alacrity as likely.
    A discrepancy occurred to him. Why would the Earthservice spend so much time, effort, and technology on the recovery of an offworlder only to execute him? Perhaps it was another obscure Terran perversion.
    "I heard some of your psychprop babble: 'Earth has few capital crimes in these enlightened days.' "
    "Do us both a favor and stop showing off," Citizen Ash bade Alacrity as he sat on the foot of the bed.
    Terra had reduced its crime rate drastically over the centuries, by behavioral engineering and drastic punishments, enlightened alternatives and others not so enlightened—and by ruthless enforcement. Few serious crimes were committed on the Home world, and only a minuscule number of those were committed by people who could not or would not be dealt with in some fashion that Earthservice was willing to regard as rehabilitation—even if the process turned the perpetrator into a mildly retarded houseplant.
    But for those very few occasions when the law demanded death, Terran society met its obligation in the person of Citizen Ash. The executioner was virtually autonomous within Earthservice; he was responsible for final case review and actual carrying out of sentence. Headsman, hangman, pusher of the button, or whatever—Alacrity wasn't even sure how the man actually performed his office.
    But the breakabout did know that the position carried with it powers of investigator, detective, defense and prosecution, judge, jury, and appeals court, with extraordinary powers reserved to it alone.
    Even Alpha Bureaucrats showed respect for—and at times fear of—the courtly, courteous man. Ash had met his primary obligation many times during his long tenure.
    Suddenly Alacrity remembered the tall man's final scream as the force-probe had found him.
    "I didn't kill that man," the breakabout said softly, without undue drama; he assumed Ash had heard every variation on the not-guilty plea.
    The Terran made a fist, cocked out the knuckle of his index finger, and put the side of it to his pursed lips, staring into space for a moment. Alacrity waited.
    At length the other said, "It is a little over seventy-nine hours since the killing occurred, Alacrity; sentence was passed just over two hours ago. I would not be here if the case were an open-and-shut matter."
    Alacrity jackknifed upright in bed. Ash never even flinched; he