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diff --git a/29889.txt b/29889.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a4db51 --- /dev/null +++ b/29889.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1124 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Life Sentence, by James McConnell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Life Sentence + +Author: James McConnell + +Illustrator: Dick Francis + +Release Date: September 2, 2009 [EBook #29889] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE SENTENCE *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + Life + Sentence + + By JAMES McCONNELL + + Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS + + + _"Happy New Year!" she cried. But how often + should one hear it said in a single lifetime?_ + + +Outside, bells were ringing. "Happy New Year!" + +The mad sound of people crazed for the moment, shouting, echoed the +bells. + +"Happy New Year!" + +A sound of music, waxing, waning, now joined in wild symphony by the +voices, now left alone to counterpoint the noise of human +celebration.... + +For a while, Oliver Symmes heard the raucous music of the crowd. It +became a part of him, seemed to come from somewhere inside him, gave him +life. And then, as always, it passed on, leaving him empty. + +Shadows.... + +The door to his room opened and a young-looking woman, dressed in a +pleasant green uniform, came in and turned up the light. On her sleeve +she wore the badge of geriatrician, with the motto, "To Care for the +Aged." + +"Happy New Year, Mr. Symmes," she said, and went over to stand by the +window. In the mild light, the sheen of her hair attracted attention +away from the slight imperfections of her face. + +She watched the crowd outside, wishing she could be a part of it. There +seemed so little life inside the prison where the only function of +living was the awaiting of death. "To Care for the Aged." That meant to +like and love them as well as to take physical care of them. Only, +somehow, it seemed so hard to _really_ love them. + +She sighed and turned away from the window to look at one of the reasons +she could not be with the rest of the world that night. + + * * * * * + +He sat bunched up in his chair like a vegetable. She could have closed +one of her hands around both his arms together. Or his legs. Bones and +skin and a few little muscles left, and that was all. Skin tight, +drumlike, against the skull. Cheeks shrunk, lips slightly parted by the +contraction of the skin. Even the wrinkles he should have had were +erased by the shrinkage of the epidermis. Even in a strong light, the +faint wrinkle lines were barely visible. + +After a moment of looking at him, she put a smile back on her face and +repeated her greeting. + +"I said, 'Happy New Year,' Mr. Symmes." + +He raised his eyes to her for a moment, then slowly lowered them, +uncomprehendingly. + +"He looks just a little bit like a caricature," she said to herself, +feeling a little more tenderness toward him. "A cute little stick man +made of leaves and twigs and old bark and ..." + + * * * * * + +_Shadows._ For so long there had been shadows. And for a time the +fleeting passage of dreams and past memories had been a solace. But now +the shadows were withered and old, debilitated and desiccated. They had +been sucked dry of interest long ago. + +But still they flitted through his mind on crippled wings, flapping +about briefly in the now-narrowed shell of his consciousness, then +fading back among the cobwebs. Every once in a while, one of them would +return to exercise its wings. + +"Did she say, 'Happy New Year?'" he wondered. "New Year's?" + +And, at the thought of it, there came shadows out of the past.... + + * * * * * + +Young Oliver Symmes laughed. The girl laughed, too. She was good to hold +in one's arms, soft like a furry animal, yielding and plush of mouth. + +"I love you, Ollie," she said; the warmness of her body close against +his. + +He laughed again and wrapped her in his arms. He owned her now, owned +her smile, her love for him, her mind and her wonderful body. She +belonged to him, and the thrill of ownership was strong and exciting. + +"I'll always love you, Ollie. I'll love only you." She ran her fingers +in and out of his hair, caressing each strand as it went through her +fingers. "I love the strength of your arms, the firmness of your body." + +Again he laughed, surrendering all his consciousness to the warm magic +of her spell. + +"I love the shading of your hair and eyes, the smooth angularity of your +tallness, the red ecstasy of your mind." Her fingers slipped down the +back of his neck, playing little games with his flesh and hair. "I'll +always love you, Ollie." + +He kissed her savagely. + +During the daytime, there was his work at the anthropological +laboratories, the joy of poking among the cultures of the past. And at +night there was the joy of living with her, of sharing the tantalizing +stimulations of the culture of the present, the infinite varieties of +love mingling with passions. + +For months there was this happiness of the closeness of her. And then +she was gone from him, for the moment. He still owned her, but they were +physically apart and there was the hunger of loneliness in him. The +months his work kept them apart seemed like centuries, until, finally, +he could return. + + * * * * * + +He was walking through a happy, shouting crowd, walking back to her. It +was the eve of the new year, a time for beginnings, a time for looking +from the pleasures of the past to those waiting in the future. There was +a happy outcry inside him that matched the mood of the crowd. + +"Happy New Year!" + +Women stopped him on the street, asking for his affection. But he passed +them by, for she was waiting for him and he was hungry for the +possessive love of his slave. + +He went eagerly into the building where they lived. + + * * * * * + +The crowd was gone. A door was opening. The voice of his love, sudden, +full of naked surprise, bleated at him. And another voice, that of a man +standing behind her, croaked with hasty excuses and fear. + +A change of hungers--it seemed no more complex than that. + +He put his hand to his side and took out a piece of shaped metal, +pointing it at the man. A blast of light and the man was dead. He put +the weapon aside. + +Young Oliver Symmes walked toward the girl. She backed away from him, +pleading with words, eyes, body. He noticed for the first time the many +small imperfections of her face and figure. + +Cornered, she raised her arms to embrace him. He raised his arms to +answer the embrace, but his hands stopped and felt their way around the +whiteness of her neck. He pressed his hands together, thumbs tight +against each other. + +Minutes later, he dropped her to the floor and stood looking at her. He +had owned her and then destroyed her when his ownership was in dispute. + +He bent to kiss the lax lips. + + * * * * * + +Shadows. As a man grows older, the weight and size of his brain +decrease, leaving cavities in his mind. The years that pass are a +digger, a giant excavator, scooping the mass of past experience up in +the maw of dissipation. The slow, sure evacuation of the passing decades +leaves wing-room in a man's head for stirring memories. + +The withered man looked up again. The woman in the green uniform was +smiling at him through parted, almost twisted lips. + +"I suppose that this time of year is the worst for you, isn't it?" she +asked sympathetically. The first requirement of a good geriatrician was +sympathy and understanding. She determined to try harder to understand. + +The old man made no answer, only staring at her face. But his eyes were +blank--seeing, yet blind to all around him. She frowned for a moment as +she looked at him. The unnatural hairlessness of his body puzzled her, +making it difficult for her to understand him while the thought was in +her mind--that and the trouble she had getting through to him. + +She stared at him as if to pierce the blankness of his gaze. Behind his +eyes lay the emptiness of age, the open wound of stifled years. + +"I'll move you over to the window, Mr. Symmes," she told him in soothing +tones, her smile reappearing. "Then you can look out and see all the +people. Won't that be fun?" + +Picking up a box from the table, she adjusted a dial. The chair in which +he was sitting rose slightly from the floor and positioned itself in +front of the window. The woman walked to the wall beside him and +corrected the visual index of the glass to match the weakness of the old +man's eyes. + +"See, down there? Just look at them pushing about." + +A rabble of faces swam on the glass in front of him, faces of unfamiliar +people, all of them unknown and unknowable to him. + +Inside him the whisper of the wings mounted in pitch with a whining, +leathery sound. The images of dead faces came flying up, careening +across his mind, mingling and merging with the faces of the living. The +glass became an anomalous torrent of faces. + +Dead faces.... + + * * * * * + +Four walls around him, bare to the point of boredom. Through the barred +window, the throbbing throat of the crowd talked to him. His young body +took it in, his young mind accepted it, catalogued it and pushed it out +of consciousness. And for each individual voice there was an individual +face, staring up at his cell from the comparative safety of outside. +Young Oliver Symmes could not see the faces from where he sat, waiting, +but he could sense them. + +There came a feel of hands on his shoulder; his reverie was interrupted. +Arms under his raised him to his feet. A face smiled, almost kindly, in +understanding. + +"They're waiting for you, Mr. Symmes. It's time to go." + +More words. Walking from this place to that, mostly with a crowd of +people at his shoulders, pressing him in. Then a door ahead of him, +ornate in carving, a replica of the doors to the Roman Palace of Justice +many centuries before. Again his mind catalogued the impressions. + +Then, like the faces of the people outside his cell, the pictures of the +bas-relief faded away, melted and merged into a pelagic blackness. + +The doors opened and, with part of the crowd still at his side, he went +through. The people inside were standing; stick men, it seemed to him, +with painted balloons for faces. The sound of the rapping of a gavel +caught his ear. The people sat, and the trial began. + +"This court will admit to evidence only those events and artifacts which +are proved true and relevant to the alleged crime." + +An obsequious clearing of throats. A coughing now and then. + +"... And did you see the defendant, Oliver Symmes, enter the apartment +of the deceased on the night of the Thirty-first of December, two +thousand and ..." + +"I did. He was wearing a sort of orange tunic ..." + +Someone whispered in his ear. Oliver Symmes heard and shook his head. + +"... You are personally acquainted with the defendant?" + +"I am. We worked for United Anthropological Laboratories before he ..." + +"Objection." + +"Sustained." + +The blackness of the judge's robe puzzled him. A vestige, an +anachronism, handed down from centuries before. White was the color of +truth, not black. + +"You swear that you found the defendant standing over the body of the +deceased woman on the night of ..." + +"Not standing, sir. He was bending over, kissing ..." + +"Your witness." + + * * * * * + +Days of it, back and forth, testimony and more testimony. Evidence and +more evidence and the lack of it. Smiling lawyers, grimacing lawyers, +soothing lawyers and cackling lawyers. And witnesses. + +"You will please take the stand, Mr. Symmes." + +He walked to the chair and sat down. The courtroom leaned forward, the +stick men bowed toward him slightly, as in eager applause of the coming +most dramatic moment of a spectacle. + +"You will please tell the court in your own words ..." + +He mouthed the words. The whole story, the New Year's crowd, his hunger +for her, his arrival, the other man and his babbling, the woman and how +she looked, his feelings, his transfigured passions, and the deaths. He +told the story again and again until they seemed satisfied. + +"You understand, Mr. Symmes, that you have committed a most heinous +crime. You have killed two people in a passion that, while it used to be +forgiven by the circumstances, is no longer tolerated by this +government. You have killed, Mr. Symmes!" + +The face before him was intense. He looked at it, not understanding the +reason for the frozen look of malice and hatred. + +"She was mine. When she betrayed me, I killed her. Is that wrong?" + +The stick men snorted and poked each other in the ribs with derisive +elbows. + +There were more words and more questions. He looked at the face of the +judge and wondered, for a moment, if perhaps the color of the robe was +to match the apparent disposition of the man. + +And then came the silence, a time of sitting and waiting. He sensed the +wondering stares of the stick men, wide-eyed in apprehension, suspended +from the drabness of their own lives for the moment by the stark +visitation of tragedy in his. They gabbled among themselves and wagered +on the verdict. + +The man next to him leaned over and tapped him on the arm. Everyone +stood up and then, curiously, sat down again almost at once. He felt the +tension present in the courtroom, but was strangely relaxed himself. It +was peculiar that they were all so excited. + +"Your Honor, having duly considered the seriousness of the crime and the +evidence presented ..." + +The balloon faces on the stick men stretched in anticipation. + +"... taking full cognizance of the admitted passion on the part of the +defendant and the circumstances ..." + +The balloons were strained, contorted out of all proportion in their +eagerness. + +"... we find the defendant guilty of murder, making no recommendation +for consideration by the Court." + +The balloons exploded! + + * * * * * + +Deafening and more than deafening, the uproar of the voices was beyond +belief. He threw his hands up over his ears to shut out the noise. + +The gavel crashed again and again, striking the polished oak in deadly +cadence, stifling the voices. Over the stillness, one man spoke. He +recognized the black voice of the judge and took his hands from his ears +and put them in his lap. He was told to stand and he obeyed. + +"Oliver Symmes, there has been no taking of human lives in this nation +for many years, until your shockingly primitive crime. We had taken +pride in this record. Now you have broken it. We must not only punish +you adequately and appropriately, but we must also make of your +punishment a warning to anyone who would follow your irrational example. + +"Naturally, we no longer have either the apparatus to execute anyone or +an executioner. We do not believe that a stupidly unreasoning act should +incite us to equally unreasoning reprisal, for we would then be as +guilty of irrationality as you. + +"We must establish our own precedent, since there is no recent one and +the ancient punishments are not acceptable to us. Therefore, because we +are humane and reasoning persons, the Court orders that the defendant, +Oliver Symmes, be placed in the National Hospital for observation, study +and experimentation so that this crime may never again be repeated. He +is to be kept there under perpetual care until no possible human skill +or resource can further sustain life in his body." + +Someone jumped erect beside him, quivering with horror and indignation. +It was his lawyer. + +"Your Honor, we throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Court. No matter +what the crime of the defendant, this is a greater one. For this is a +crime not just against my client, but against all men. This sentence +robs all men of their most precious freedom--the right to die at their +appointed times. Nothing is more damaging to the basic dignity of the +human race than this most hideous ..." + +"... This Court recognizes only the four freedoms. The freedom of death +is not one of these. The sentence stands. The Court is adjourned." + +There were tears in the eyes of his lawyer, although young Oliver Symmes +did not quite comprehend, as yet, their meaning. Hands, rougher than +before, grasped his arms with strange firmness and led him off into ... + + * * * * * + +Shadows. They come in cycles, each prompted to activity by the one +preceding it. They flutter in unbelievable clusters, wheel in +untranslatable formations through the cerebric wasteland that is the +aged mind of Oliver Symmes. They have no meaning to him, save for a +furtive spark of recognition that intrudes upon him once in a while. + +The woman in the green uniform, standing to one side of the window, +smiled at him again. It was much simpler to care for him, she thought, +if only one conceived of him as being a sort of sweet little worn-out +teddy bear. Yes, that was what he was, a little teddy bear that had +gotten most of its stuffing lost and had shriveled and shrunk. And one +can easily love and pamper a teddy bear. + +"Can you see the crowd all right, Mr. Symmes? This is a good place to +watch from, isn't it?" + +Her words fell upon his ears, setting up vibrations and oscillations in +the basilar membranes. Nerve cells triggered impulses that sped along +neural pathways to the withered cortex, where they lost themselves in +the welter of atrophy and disintegration. They emerged into his +consciousness as part of a gestaltic confusion. + +"Isn't it exciting, watching from here?" she asked, showing enthusiasm +at the sight of the crowd below. "You should be enjoying this immensely, +you know. Not all the people here have windows to look out of like +this." There, now, that should make him feel a little better. + +His eyes, in their wandering, came to rest upon her uniform, so cool and +comforting in its greenness. A flicker of light gleamed from the +metallic insignia on her sleeve: "To Care for the Aged." Somewhere +inside him an association clicked, a brief fire of response to a past +event kindled into a short-lived flame, lighting the way through cobwebs +for another _shadow_.... + + * * * * * + +How many years he had been waiting for the opportunity, he did not know. +It seemed like decades, although it might have been only a handful of +months. And all the time he had waited, he could feel himself growing +older, could sense the syneresis, the slow solidifying of the life +elements within him. He sat quietly and grew old, thinking the chance +would never come. + +But it did come, when he had least expected it. + +It was a treat--his birthday. Because of it, they had given him actual +food for the first time in years: a cake, conspicuous in its barrenness +of candles; a glass of real vegetable juices; a dab of potato; an +indescribable green that might have been anything at all; and a little +steak. A succulent, savory-looking piece of genuine meat. + +The richness of the food would probably make him sick, so unaccustomed +to solid food was his digestive tract by now, but it would be worth the +pain. + +And it was then that he saw the knife. + +It lay there on the tray, its honed edge glittering in the light of the +sun. A sharp knife, capable of cutting steak--or flesh of any kind. + +"Well, how do you like your birthday present, Mr. Symmes?" + +He looked up quickly at the woman standing beside the tray. The yellow +pallor of her middle-aged skin matched the color of her uniform. She +wore the insignia of a geriatrics supervisor. + +He let a little smile flicker across his face. "Why, it's ... it's +wonderful. I never expected it at all. It's been so long, you know. So +very long." + +How could he get rid of her? If he tried anything with her watching, she +would stop him. And then he'd never get another chance. + +"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Symmes. Synthetic foods do get tiresome +after a while, don't they?" + +The idea came with suddenness and he responded to it quickly. + +"But where are my pink pills? I always take them at lunch." + +"You won't need them if you're eating real food." + +He whipped his voice into petulance. "Yes, I will! I don't care if it is +real food--I want my pills!" + +"I'll get them for you later. Go ahead and eat first." + +"I can't eat until I take my pink pills! You ought to know that! I won't +touch a thing until I get them! You've ruined my birthday party." + +The whims of the aging are without logic, so she went to get the pills, +leaving Oliver Symmes and the gleaming, sharp knife together, +unattended. + + * * * * * + +Where should he start? The heart? No, that would be too quick, too easy +to repair. Then where? + +He remembered his studies of the middle Japanese culture and the methods +of suicide practiced at that time. The intestines! So many of them to +cut and slash at, so much damage that might be done before death set in! +Maybe even the lungs! But he must hurry. + +Picking up the knife, he pointed it at his appendix. For a moment he +hesitated, and his eyes observed again the little feast laid out before +him. He thought briefly about pausing for just a while to taste the +little steak, to nibble briefly at the delectable-looking cake. He hated +to leave it untouched. It had been such a long time.... + +The sudden memory of time, and how much of it he had spent hoping for +this moment, snapped his attention back to the knife. Steeling his grip +on it, he pressed it in hard. + +His eyes bulged with the excruciating pain as he wrenched the knife from +right to left, twisting it wildly as he went, blindly slashing at his +vital organs with the hope that once and for all he could stop the long +and eternal waiting. + +His mouth filled with the taste of blood. He spat it out through +clenched teeth. It gushed down his chin, staining the cleanness of his +robe. His lips parted to scream. + +And then his eyes closed. + + * * * * * + +And opened again! He was staring at the ceiling, but the men and women +standing around him got in his way. + +Their lips were moving, their faces unperturbed. + +"That was a nasty thing for him to do." + +"They all do it, once or twice, until they learn." + +"Third time for him, isn't it?" + +"Yes, I believe so. First time he tried hanging himself. Second time he +was beating his head against the wall when we came and stopped him. +Bloody mess that one was." + +"Nothing to compare with this, of course." + +"Well, naturally." + +Oliver Symmes felt sick with fear of frustration. + +"Nice technique you showed, Doctor. He'd been dead at least an hour when +we started, hadn't he?" + +"Almost two," someone else said. "An amazing job." + +"Thank you. But it wasn't too difficult. Just a little patching here and +there." + +He felt his legs being shifted for him. + +"Be careful there, Nurse. Handle him gently. _Fragilitas Ossium_, you +know. Old bones break very easily." + +"Sorry, Doctor." + +"Not that we couldn't fix them up immediately if they did." + +"Naturally, Doctor." + +"I wish they'd try something different for a change." + +"The woman in the next room lost an eye last year, trying to reach the +prefrontals. Good as new now, of course." + +He wanted to vomit at the uselessness of it all. + +"By the way, what's he in for? Do you know?" + +"No, I'd have to look it up." + +"Probably newness." + +"Or taxes." + +"Or maybe even slander." + +"Is that on the prescribed antisocial list now?" + +"Oh, yes. It was passed just before the destructive criticism law." + +"Think he'll try this messy business again?" + +"They all do." + +"They do, don't they? Don't they ever learn it's no use?" + +"Eventually. Some are just harder to convince than others." + +The pain was gone. He closed his eyes and slipped off into darkness +again and into ... + + * * * * * + +Shadows. In slow and ponderous fashion they float across the sea of his +mind, like wandering bits of sargasso weed on the brackish water of a +dying ocean. Each one dreamed a thousand times too many, each separate +strand of memory-weed now nothing but a stereotyped shred of what might +have once been a part of life and of living. + +With the quietness of deserted ships they drift in procession past his +sphere of consciousness. Wait! There's one that seems familiar. He stops +the mental parade for a moment, not hearing the voice of his companion, +the woman in the green uniform. + +"It's getting late, Mr. Symmes." She turned from the window and glanced +at the wizenedness, the fragile remainder of the man, the almost empty +shell. It was a pity he wasn't able to play games with her like some of +the others. That made it so much easier. "Don't you think it's about +time you went to bed? Early to bed and early to rise, you know." + +That memory of a needle, pointed and gleaming. What was it? + +Oh, yes. Stick it in his arm, push the plunger, pull it out; and wait +for him to die. First one disease and then another, to each he happily +succumbed, in the interests of science, only to be resuscitated. Each +time a willing volunteer, an eager guinea pig, he had hoped for the ease +of death, praying that for once they'd wait too long, the germs would +prove too virulent, that something would go wrong. + +"There, now, you just lie back and get comfortable," she said, walking +over to the table. "But it has been fun, hasn't it? Watching the crowds, +I mean." She felt he must be much happier now, and the knowledge of it +gave her a sense of success. She was living up to her pledge, "To Care +for the Aged." + +Diabetes, tuberculosis, cancer of the stomach, tumor of the brain. He'd +had them all, and many others. They had swarmed to him through the +gouged skin-openings made by the gleaming needle. And each had brought +the freedom of blackness, of death, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for +a whole week. But always life returned again, and the waiting, waiting, +waiting. + +"I enjoy New Year's myself," the woman said, her hands caressing a dial. +Slowly, with gentle undulation, his chair rose from the floor and +cradled the aged tiredness that was Oliver Symmes to his bed. With +almost tender devotion, his body was mechanically shifted from the +portable chair to the freshly made bed. + + * * * * * + +One of his arms was caught for just a moment under the slight weight of +his body. There was a short, snapping sound, but Oliver Symmes took no +notice. His face remained impassive. Even pain had lost its meaning. + +"It's a pity we couldn't have been outside with the rest of them, +celebrating," she said, as she arranged the covers around him, not +noticing the arm herself. + +This was the part of her job she enjoyed most--tucking the nice little +man into bed. He did look sweet there, under the covers, didn't he? + +"Just imagine, Mr. Symmes, another year's gone by, and what have we +accomplished?" + +Her prattle seeped in and he became aware of it and what she was saying. +New Year? + +"What--what year--is this?" He spoke with great difficulty, from the +long disuse of vocal cords. It was hardly more than a whisper, but she +heard and was startled. + +"Why, Mr. Symmes, it's been so long since you've talked." She paused, +but realized that she had not answered his question. + +"It's '73, of course. Last year was '72, so tonight's the start of '73." + +'73? Had it been fifty years since he came here? Had it been just that +long? + +"What--" She leaned closer to him as he struggled for the word. +"What--century?" + +Her astonishment was gone. He was teasing her, like the woman on the +next level. These old ones were great for that! + +"Now, Mr. Symmes, everybody knows what century it is." She smiled at him +glowingly, thinking she had caught him at a prank. It was nice, she +thought, to have gotten through to him tonight, on the eve of the new +year. That meant that she was living up to her motto the way she ought +to be. + +She'd have to tell the supervisor about it. + +Oliver Symmes turned to face the ceiling, his mind full of dusty +whispers. What century was it? She hadn't answered. It might have been a +hundred and fifty years ago he came here, instead of just fifty. Or +possibly two hundred and fifty, or ... + +"Now, you be good, and sleep tight, and I'll see you in the morning." +Her hand passed over a glowing stud and the room light dimmed to a quiet +glow. Lying there in the bed, he did look like a teddy bear, a dear +little teddy bear. She was so happy. + +"Good night, Mr. Symmes." + +She closed the door. + + * * * * * + +Outside, bells were ringing. + +"Happy New Year." + +The ceiling stared back at him. + +The mad sound of people crazed for the moment, shouting, echoed the +bells. + +"Happy New Year!" + +He turned his head to one side. + +"Happy New Year!" + +And again ... and again ... and again. + + --JAMES McCONNELL + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ January 1953. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and + typographical errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Life Sentence, by James McConnell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE SENTENCE *** + +***** This file should be named 29889.txt or 29889.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/8/8/29889/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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