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Rh and unconsciously watching the clerk book his commitment: “John Collins, Union County, July 19, 1897; Burglary and Assault to Commit Murder; five years and three years.”

The clerk was young and slender, clad in blue; his boyish lips curved in a vague smile. The book was thick, heavy, its large page ruled off by vertical lines of red and blue. The pen scratched and sputtered. The clerk stopped and replaced it with another, then went on writing, smiling vaguely into the book.

“Five years and three years.”

9009 dropped his eyes to the floor; it was concrete, hard, like stone. He raised his eyes to the window; it was steel-barred. Through the squares he saw a stretch of wall; on the top, cutting the sky in silhouette, a guard paced slowly, carrying his rifle in his hand, loosely, like a hunter.

“Five years and three years. Eight years,” thought 9009.

A sudden report, sharp and loud as a pistol-shot, made him jump. The clerk had slammed the book shut.