"When will that be?" Chiun asked. Again the eagerness.

A notch formed on Smith's brow. "Soon," he promised. "There are just a few loose ends to tie up first."

"Very well," Chiun said. "I will be in my quarters awaiting his arrival. Emperor." With a nod of his head that barely disturbed his tufts of white hair, he spun from the two men. On shuffling feet he left the gym.

"He is a man of mystery," Smith commented.

With an introspective hum he went to retrieve his newspaper.

"Yeah," MacCleary said. As he trailed behind Smith, he put on his shirt and tucked it in. Every muscle ached. "If by 'mystery' you mean an A-number-one, rice-eating ass-kicker."

Smith didn't respond. He took his paper from the shelf. As he did, his eye was drawn to a below-the-fold headline.

There was a short article about an execution that was scheduled to take place at Trenton State Prison in New Jersey the following week. While it had made some news, it wasn't as big a story as it might have been even ten years earlier. The world had been turned so completely upside down these days that people were beginning to lose their capacity for either shock or outrage.

MacCleary caught Smith stealing a look at the article. Buttoning his last few shirt buttons, he read the headline over the CURE director's shoulder.

"Poor bastard," MacCleary muttered after a quiet moment.

"It is necessary," Smith insisted without emotion. But though he tried to mask it, there was a hint of remorse in his gray eyes. Paper in hand, Smith left the gym.

"It still stinks," MacCleary said to himself once he was alone. His voice was so soft it didn't even echo off the distant gymnasium walls.

With a sweep of his hand, he clicked off the lights. As he left the room, one thought played through his troubled mind: No one even knows why he's going to die.