Caryl Chessman sniffs the air and leads the parade

The circumstances of his death are particulars he does not possess memory of; rather, the feeling of his experience, being irradiated in that strangely damp (for it was most certainly not arid) chamber, had been seared into his transported katra, as Dr. McCoy's ragestruck gaze bored into him, but the live vision itself is, was, an artifice that had only transmitted itself in vague impressions across the happenstance bonds he'd formed over years with both of the men who'd watched him lingering, malingering, there.

A terrible, intolerable smell. The smell of death.

He felt, most keenly, of a Vulcan, aging.