The Amateurs
By ALAN COGAN
Illustrated by DIEHL
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The ultimate show demanded the ultimate in
showmanship—now if only Mr. Sims could measure up!
To Mr. Sims, it seemed as though they had walked along a hundredcorridors, and as he followed Mr. Hoode, he felt as though he weretaking the last walk to the gallows or the electric chair. When thedirector finally led him outside, Mr. Sims realized with a slighttwinge of fear that he hadn't really expected to see daylight again.
They were in the rich, rolling parkland at the rear of the palace andwalking across the immaculate turf where colored fountains frolickedand shimmered in the sun. Lilting music floated out from a dozen hiddensources. The two men sat down on a seat facing the palace with itstowering columns and vast marble steps.
"It's a very nice place," Mr. Sims commented, remembering that hehadn't said a word for at least five minutes.
"I suppose it's all right," Arthur Hoode agreed, his thin nostrilstwitching condescendingly. He was a small, sleek man with a habit ofemphasizing his words with airy gestures of his slim hands. "Thatsection of the palace is the part I consider most uninteresting. Afterall, there's nothing but row upon row of stuffy little rooms wherepeople come to die. And they take a long time doing it, too!"
Mr. Sims winced noticeably.
"You'll forgive me if I don't appear overly sanctimonious about death,"Mr. Hoode said, smiling. "It's just that the other directors andmyself decided we must take a realistic view of the situation. A placelike this could become pretty morbid, you know, and there's actuallyno reason why a guest's last hours here shouldn't be pleasant andsatisfying."
Pleasant and satisfying—the key words when you spoke of SunnylandsPalace, Mr. Sims thought grimly. Everyone used them—when not goingthere.
The words gave him a hollow, frightened feeling inside, perhaps becausethey made him remember the first time he had heard them used.
"It's a pleasant place and quite satisfying," Dr. Van Stoke had said."There's no need to think of it as some kind of torture camp."
"But why should I go there at all?" Mr. Sims had asked. "I don't wantto die. I'm only fifty-six and I've got nine more years left."
"Try and understand I'm doing you a good turn," the doctor had said."You've lived fifty-six good years; in your condition, the last ninewon't be so good. You'll have pains, attacks, you won't be able to doanything strenuous. You'll hate to live under those conditions."
"I could always give it a try," Mr. Sims had protested.
Dr. Van Stoke had frowned bleakly over the tops of his glasses. "I knowI'm a friend and family doctor," the frown had said, "but I'm alsoDistrict Referee under the Euthanasian Legislation and you are becominga burden to society. So don't make my job any more difficult."
He had signed his name at the bottom of the form.
And Mr. Sims had had a hollow, anxious feeling ever since.
"There's one thing I haven't found out yet," he said to Mr. Hoode. "Isit in order for me to ask how and when I can expect to die?"
"Certainly," Mr. Hoode said. "It's the reason I brought you here totalk. You see, anyone sent here under the Legislation is given acompletely free choice as to the manner of