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 hundred corridors, and as he followed Mr. Hoode, he felt as though he were taking the last walk to the gallows or the electric chair. When the director finally led him outside, Mr. Sims realized with a slight twinge 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 and walking across the immaculate turf where colored fountains frolicked and shimmered in the sun. Lilting music floated out from a dozen hidden sources. The two men sat down on a seat facing the palace with its towering columns and vast marble steps. "It's a very nice place," Mr. Sims commented, remembering that he hadn't said a word for at least five minutes. "I suppose it's all right," Arthur Hoode agreed, his thin nostrils twitching condescendingly. He was a small, sleek man with a habit of emphasizing his words with airy gestures of his slim hands. "That section of the palace is the part I consider most uninteresting. After all, there's nothing but row upon row of stuffy little rooms where people 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 and myself decided we must take a realistic view of the situation. A place like this could become pretty morbid, you know, and there's actually no reason why a guest's last hours here shouldn't be pleasant and satisfying." * * * * * Pleasant and satisfying--the key words when you spoke of Sunnylands Palace, Mr. Sims thought grimly. Everyone used them--when not going there. The words gave him a hollow, frightened feeling inside, perhaps because they 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 want to 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 nine won't be so good. You'll have pains, attacks, you won't be able to do anything strenuous. You'll hate to live under those conditions." "I could always give it a try," Mr. Sims had protested.