Arthur Pringle was a man of forms. He liked margins, he liked checkboxes, and he liked the comforting predictability of a well-organized filing cabinet. This was why he was the only human the "Architects" allowed to remain in the Administrative Hub—a floating, sterile white cube where the fate of the solar system was being processed.

The Architects did not conquer; they filed. The Earth had been served with a "Notice of Zoning Reclassification." The solar system was being rezoned from "Biological Habitat" to "Industrial Energy Sector."

Arthur's job was to process the "Appeal for Exception" forms.

"Form 12-B, Section 4: Please list all unique biological contributions that justify the preservation of your species," Arthur read aloud, his voice echoing in the vast, silent hall.

He looked at the pile of forms on his desk. Millions of them. Some were written in blood, some in tears, some in the frantic scrawl of geniuses. One form, from a poet in Florence, argued that the existence of the "Mona Lisa" alone was worth a thousand planets. Another, from a physicist in Tokyo, provided a 400-page proof that human consciousness could eventually evolve into a form of energy that the Architects would find useful.

Arthur sighed. He knew the Architects' criteria. They didn't care about art, and they didn't care about potential. They cared about "Standardized Utility."

For three years, Arthur meticulously organized the appeals. He created cross-referenced indexes. He corrected the grammar. He ensured that every form was signed in triplicate. He believed that if the process were perfect, the result would be just.

"The review is complete," a voice announced. It was not a voice so much as a sudden realization in Arthur's mind.

"And?" Arthur asked, clutching a perfectly filed folder. "Did the appeals work? Was the 'Mona Lisa' argument accepted?"

"The appeals were processed," the voice replied. "However, the filing period ended four seconds ago. Due to a clerical error in the transmission of the final batch, the appeals were received after the deadline. Therefore, they are void."

Arthur stared at the blank white wall. "A clerical error? You are beings of pure mathematics! How can there be a clerical error?"

"The universe is vast," the voice answered calmly. "Even we occasionally misplace a decimal point."

Arthur looked down at his desk. The forms, the indexes, the perfectly aligned margins—they were all just paper. As the walls of the Hub began to dissolve into a blinding white light, Arthur realized the ultimate irony: he had spent the last three years of his life perfecting the paperwork for his own execution.

He reached for his stamp, found the "DENIED" ink pad, and with a final, trembling hand, stamped his own forehead. He laughed, a dry, hacking sound, as the void finally claimed the margins.

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