R-13 was pale when he finished, and looking at no one (I did not expect such bashfulness of him) he descended and sat down. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second I saw right beside him somebody’s face⁠—a sharp, black triangle⁠—and instantly I lost it; my eyes, thousands of eyes, were directed upward toward the Machine. Then⁠—again the superhuman, cast-iron, gesture of the hand.

Swayed by an unknown wind the criminal moved; one step⁠ ⁠… one more,⁠ ⁠… then the last step in his life. His face was turned to the sky, his head thrown backward⁠—he was on his last.⁠—⁠ ⁠… Heavy, stony like fate, the Well-Doer went around the machine, put his enormous hand on the lever.⁠ ⁠… Not a whisper, not a breath around; all eyes were upon that hand.⁠ ⁠… What crushing, scorching power one must feel to be the tool, to be the resultant of hundreds of thousands of wills! How great his lot!