The button lit up on his ivory telephone's private line. Relief spread across his broad Swedish features. He snatched the telephone to his ear. "Johnson here," he said.

"Good to catch you there, Matt," came the familiar voice over the phone.

Where the hell did you think I'd be, Johnson thought. He said: "Good to hear from you, Governor. You don't know how good."

"I'm sorry, Matt. There isn't going to be a pardon. Not even a stay."

"Oh," Johnson said; his free hand crumpled the newspaper.

"I'm calling for a favor, Matt."

"Sure, Governor, sure," Johnson said. He pushed the newspaper from the edge of the desk toward the waste basket.

"In a few minutes, a Capuchin monk and his escort will be at the prison. He may be on his way to your office now. Let him talk to this what's-his-name, Williams, the one who's going to die. Let the other man witness the execution from the control panel."

"But there's very little visibility from the control panel," Johnson said.

"What the hell. Let him stay there anyhow."

"It's against regulations to allow..."

"Matt. C'mon. We're not kids anymore. Let him stay there." The Governor was no longer asking; he was telling. Johnson's eyes strayed toward the picture of his wife and children.

"And one more thing. This observer's from some kind of a private hospital. The State Department of Institutions has given them permission to have this Williams' body. Some kind of criminal-mind research, Doctor Frankenstein stuff. They'll have an ambulance there to pick it up. Leave word at the gate. They'll have written authorization from me."

Weariness settled over Warden Johnson.

"Okay, Governor. I'll see that it's done."

"Good, Matt. How're Mary and the kids?"

"Fine, Governor. Just fine."

"Well, give them my best. I'll be stopping down one of these days."