"Another time, we had a group of old soldiers who wanted to die in battle," Mr. Hoode added. "We built them an old-fashioned concrete blockhouse, then gave them authentic uniforms, machine-guns, grenades and rifles, and had one group attacking and the other defending." "Did they actually volunteer for that?" Mr. Sims asked. "Of course, and I'll swear they enjoyed every minute of it. Right down to the last man. As a matter of fact, we're planning the same thing on a larger scale with a re-enactment of Custer's Last Stand to be held in 2013. One of the men in Research is working full time on that project. So far, we have a tentative list of 138 names. It'll be held in the park over there." He waved gaily in the direction of the quiet meadow which would one day become another Little Big Horn. Mr. Sims moved along the seat slightly, as though his companion had started to smell. It was as if, for the first time, he had noticed the glazed, visionary look in Mr. Hoode's eye. The director, he realized, would be capable of re-enacting Hiroshima if given the required number of volunteers. "I'll have to leave you, I'm afraid," said Mr. Hoode, standing up. "But if you'd like to think the matter over some more, I can offer you a fine selection of books to read about famous deaths, duels, acts of heroism and such throughout history." "It's an interesting notion," Mr. Sims said. "I'll think about it." * * * * * Mr. Sims tried to avoid the director all that day and all the following morning. He tried hard to convince himself that this was because he disliked the other's bloodthirsty tendencies, although he knew the truth was that his choice of departure was a cowardly one. Nevertheless, he argued with himself, it was his choice, his death, and his mind was made up. Besides, he felt lonely and this might be an opportunity to see the family again, even though they probably wouldn't like it. It was the director who finally located Mr. Sims. "Are you enjoying your stay here?" he asked heartily. Mr. Sims winced as though the cold hand of death itself had slapped him on the back. "Have you come to any decision yet?" Mr. Sims nodded. "Yes, I looked at the book last night and decided on Socrates. Just a simple cup of hemlock." A slight frown shadowed the director's features. Was it contempt, Mr. Sims wondered, or disappointment because he had failed in his attempts to make poisoning seem a socially inferior way of dying? Nothing glamorous about such a departure, he realized. No disdainful refusal of the blindfold when gazing bravely into the leveled muzzles of the firing squad. No bullfight, armed combat, duel or ferocious carnivores.